A Reflection on the First Bees of the Season

one of the first bees I've seen this season--several buzzing around peach blooms

For the past few years I have been stalking bees and other pollinators in my gardens, first in Louisiana and now in Arizona. Taking photos of pollinators has opened up a whole new world to me, a world that we usually pass with little thought. I have identified creatures that I didn't even know existed and have watched dramas unfold in flowers. Paying attention to bees, wasps, moths, butterflies, and other pollinators has also made me more aware of the importance of sharing this world responsibly. It's an awareness that's gaining ground with a lot of people, including some corporations. 

The breakfast cereal Cheerios recently highlighted the plight of bees, some species of which are disappearing from our landscapes in record numbers, in a campaign the company called #BringBacktheBees. Every package of Honey Nut Cheerios provided information that encouraged customers to go online to order free packages of wildflower seeds (over 1.5 billion seeds, according to the Cheerios website). In addition, General Mills left a blank space on its packaging where the cereal's mascot Buzz the Bee usually appeared. The ad certainly had an important message, but like a lot of advertising, it over-simplified the problems of reduced habitat and threatened and endangered species. Some of the flower seeds included in the packets are native to some areas in the United States, but not others. This might not be a problem, necessarily, but the flowers might not be ones that native bees of an area usually pollinate.

The other issue is that while honeybees have had some serious problems in hive die-off and those problems have transferred to feral populations of honeybees, it's the native bees that are most seriously endangered. Honeybees are exotic to this country, introduced from Europe by white settlers. Because honeybees are used commercially in agriculture, from those bees transferred from farm to farm to pollinate fruit trees to those bred for honey production, European honeybees will always have moneyed support to fund research when a serious issue arises. Native bees and other pollinators, however, are extremely important in pollinating native plants, and these pollinators are often overlooked in popular Save-the-Bees campaigns. 

According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, pollinators face threats from habitat loss and degradation as well as over-use of pesticides:

As native vegetation is replaced by roadways, manicured lawns, crops and non-native gardens, pollinators lose the food and nesting sites that are necessary for their survival.  Migratory pollinators face special challenges.  If the distance between the suitable habitat patches along their migration route is too great, smaller, weaker individuals may die during their journey.

According to research, native bees do a tremendous amount of work pollinating fruit and vegetables, with honeybees supplementing that pollination. In the words of one researcher, "honeybees can't do it alone." Native bees are most efficient in pollinating watermelons, tomatoes, blueberries, and squash, among other fruits. I have witnessed squash bees pollinating our squash plants here in Arizona. 

bee in squash flower (I took this photo in our garden in 2016)

And every year I listen for the arrival of bumblebees in our tomato patch. They seem less prolific than other bees. Yesterday while trying to take photos of bees visiting the blooms on one of our peach trees (blooms which will probably be hurt by freezing temperatures expected this week), I heard and then saw one lonely bumblebee buzzing around the blooms at the top of the tree. 

This was the best photo I could get of the first bumblebee I have seen this season.
Bombus huntii?

I have never understood the urge to create large, uniform swathes of green lawn and roadsides, and knowing what I know now about the degradation of pollinator habitats, I am even more adverse to those boring expanses of green, often made even more desolate by pesticides. In Louisiana, I let a large patch of daisy fleabane grow in a corner of our yard and was rewarded with being able to view and photograph the hundreds of pollinators that visited that patch. 

Here in Arizona, I am encouraging patches of native flowers as well as allowing dandelions to grow in the small grassy lawn that a previous owner planted in front of our house.

dandelions in our lawn

Yesterday I counted four different species of bees pollinating the peach blossoms in one tree (with the coming freeze, at least the bees got some pollen; we're not likely to get peaches.) Each species had a different buzzy hum. The natural world is full of music, if we only stop to listen.

bee landing on a dandelion in our front yard

bee landed and at work gathering pollen

deep in pollen

Distraction #1, the beautiful natural world: How to Keep from being Depressed by Today's News

Fall color in the White Mountains

This morning I got on the Internet as I do every morning to read the latest news. As too often, the news is troubling. I've learned that as his campaign collapses, Donald Trump reveals himself to be a poor loser: he's commanding his followers to watch their local polls for "certain" people who may commit voter fraud. This, despite that in-person voter fraud is practically non-existent. Our voting process seems more likely to be hacked by Russians, who seem to want Donald Trump to win the election.  I also read that the Trump campaign got a cousin of one of the women who has accused Trump of sexual assault to release a statement accusing the woman of lying "just for attention." This is what happens when women speak openly of sexual assault: they are immediately attacked, not infrequently by friends and relatives who refuse to believe the personal experience for any number of reasons. (#WhyWomenDontReport) And it seems that Donald Trump is looking to set up a television network that will likely be an outlet for his many conspiracy theories as well as for the alt-right crowd, led by Steve Bannon and Breitbart.com. 

And that's a short list of the news that threatened to throw shade on my day.

What do I do when crappy news or unhappy circumstances beckon the black dog? Well, here I begin a series of posts on what brings me joy when circumstances don't.

• Looking at the big picture, which is a lot bigger than we once thought

Here in Apache County, Arizona, the Milky Way is still visible, and to do my part in reducing light pollution, I try to keep our outdoor lights off unless we're planning to return home after dark. In July, we set up a telescope and got a good look at the rings of Saturn. But then I turned my binoculars to the Milky Way and was blown away by the millions of stars that are totally invisible in most parts of the country. It turns out that there are even more galaxies in the "observable" universe than we thought: "Hubble Reveals Observable Universe Contains 10 Times More Galaxies Than Previously Thought." Nothing makes one's worries seem more inconsequential than to put them in perspective of a galaxy or a universe. I like to think that there are other worlds out there where sentient inhabitants are doing a better job at being stewards of their worlds and each other than we are.

If the night sky is overcast, the moon too bright, or the lights of the area too bright, one can always go to the NASA website to look at images taken by the Hubble telescope:  https://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/hubble/multimedia/index.html

• Paying attention to my own backyard

Immersing oneself in the details can also help distract one from all the worries in the world.  While living in Abita Springs, Louisiana, I began paying attention to all the tiny creatures that lived in or visited my yard and gardens. There are worlds almost unknown to us a step or two from our back doors, with dramas enacted every day. I have watched tiny predators stalk their prey, and I have identified insects I did not know existed until I started prowling around my yard with a camera. Our yard here in Arizona has plenty to interest me, too. Birds come to the feeders and the birdbath I created out of a stump and a large, shallow bowl I purchased at a thrift store. Occasionally, a skunk will wander nocturnally through the yard, and deer will jump the fence, leaving hoof prints in the muddy ground or bare bark on trees they have rubbed against. Rabbits burrow nests in our greenhouse and under roots of trees. Pollinators visit the flowers, and I am learning to identify bees and wildflowers here in my Arizona yard. 

• Enjoying the changing seasons 

Yesterday Tom and I drove through the mountains while running errands and took a short detour on a national forest road just to look at the aspens in their fall color. A deer crossed the washboard road ahead of us and into a glen covered in golden aspen leaves. We stopped a little later to take photos of a landscape which will be covered in snow in a couple of months. 

Last weekend we hiked a forest trail where we thought we would have a good chance of hearing elk bugling. We were not disappointed. 

Elk cows follow the large-racked male that we got just a glimpse of through the trees.

Since we moved here in March of 2015, we've taken advantage of the beautiful natural areas, hiking on forest trails, along rivers, or up to the top of cinder cones.  Beautiful wildflowers bloom here in the monsoon season, as a hike along the South Fork of the Little Colorado River last summer demonstrated.

Wild bergamot and goldenrod along the South Fork Trail of the Little Colorado River

Coneflowers along the South Fork Trail of the Little Colorado River

more flowers along the South Fork Trail of the Little Colorado River

Nothing lifts the spirits, I think, than being out in nature on a beautiful day--and research seems to prove it. In one study at Stanford University, "volunteers who walked briefly through a lush, green portion of the Stanford campus were more attentive and happier than volunteers who strolled for the same amount of time near heavy traffic." Other studies have shown that walking in green areas can have a measured neurological and physiological effect on people. 

And those days when the weather is not conducive to a walk in the woods, writing about those walks and looking at the beautiful photos I've taken on those walks are pretty good substitutes.

The Drama of Pollinators

When we last lived in Louisiana , I began to pay attention to pollinators, taking photos of what tiny creatures inhabited or visited my mountain mint or aster patch. I really enjoyed stalking bees and butterflies in my garden, and the pollinators were prolific. Here in Arizona, I have noticed fewer pollinators, maybe because I have been paying more attention to planting than to those visiting the plants, as the yard and gardens of the place we bought had been neglected. But soon after we moved into our home--before I got busy with picking up trash, re-purposing what was left behind by the previous owners, and weeding the flower beds and garden area that had been abandoned--I took some photos of pollinators that visited the surviving plants of a gardener two owners back, someone who had lovingly planted daisies, echinacea, daylilies, hollyhocks, roses, Russian sage, lamb's ear, garlic chives. 

The following are photos I took last year, not long after we moved into our new home at 7200 feet above sea level near the White Mountains of Arizona. This year I have been too busy cleaning up the yard and garden, experimenting with what will grow in a climate that gets about 10 inches of rain annually (as compared to the annual average of 60 inches of rain in Louisiana, where we lived 35 ft. above sea level) to pay as much attention to the visitors to my plants. Next year, with a new camera and macro lens, perhaps I'll have more time to return to watching the pollinators I have come to love.

It's easy, though, to overlook the tiny creatures that visit flowers, but when the flowers of our vegetables and fruit fail to produce, we start paying attention. We need these little creatures. And so I am hoping that some pollinator will find attractive the flowers of the Armenian cucumber plants that I planted in our Arizona garden this year. 

This crab spider and fly faced off on a daisy (July 2015, Apache County, AZ)

The encounter didn't end well.

And a bee encounter with a crab spider doesn't end well, either.

I haven't forgotten the wonder and drama of the lives of pollinators.

The Melancholy Loveliness of Late-Fall Gardening

iridescent green bee on wild mint

Yesterday we heard the song of the white-throated sparrow for the first time this fall. The sparrow winters in the south and breeds in the north. The first time I heard its call was in a coniferous forest of northern Minnesota; its song was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard, coming as it did, waveringly, through trees that had not yet become familiar to this daughter of southern pines and Gulf Coastal grasses. Its melody conveyed a hint of cool Arctic air, spicy scent of balsam fir, and a sense of melancholy. I never forgot it. Now, here in southeastern Louisiana, I look forward to this memory of Minnesota made flesh in the flash of a winged shadow in the bushy edges of our yard and in the song that intimates to me presences loved and lost.

The white-throated sparrow arrived with unusually early cold weather. Temperatures dipped to 32°F where we live and broke record lows in towns nearby; the average low for this time of year is 53°F. Fearing frost, I had spent the previous afternoon cutting lemongrass leaves to dry for tea--a task I had promised to do for my daughter who is living in Wyoming--gathering what I thought might be my final bouquet of zinnias for the year, making room for cold sensitive plants in our sunroom, and covering the plants I could not bring inside. We had no frost, however, so the lemongrass still lives for another harvest or two, but our sunroom remains filled with the plants of semi-tropical climates: a pink-flowering bougainvillea, poinsettias, ginger, a red-flowering geranium, a Buddha's hand citrus, and a couple of reed palms.

Our gardens, the larger vegetable garden and the smaller flower and herb beds around our yard, are full of late-fall blooms and ready-to-eat tender greens. In late summer, I cleared away the crusty remains of the zinnias of summer to make way for re-seeded plants, which are shorter and more attenuated than their summer parents but covered with flowers. They began blooming in time for the early fall arrival of gulf fritillaries, painted ladies, yellow sulphurs, and a few swallowtails. In the northeastern corner of our yard, I had allowed native fall aster to spread and grow throughout the summer and have been rewarded not only by a profusion of blooms in plants that can be head-high, but also by the hundreds of bees that busily collect pollen as the shadows of a nearby bamboo hedge retreat during the day. The bees are so besotted with this wild bouquet that they have almost abandoned my cultivated blooms.

partial view of the fall aster patch on an October morning

Paying closer attention to pollinators as I have the past two years, I have noted what plants seem to attract the most bees and other pollinators. The fall asters have attracted several different kinds of bees and wasps, while in a nearby patch of tiny wild mint, I can always spy an iridescent green bee or two flitting from one minuscule bloom to another. These little bees are difficult to photograph, as they seem very wary and fly very quickly in a zigzag pattern. I have noted several sizes of bumblebees; some very large bumbly-type bees love the big yellow luffa flowers. One morning I ventured into the aster patch while it was still in shade, and I discovered dozens of very tiny bumblebees hanging from the blooms and branches where they had over-nighted and were waiting for the sun to warm their wings so they could begin their daily work.

another view of a wary green bee

tiny bee on a fall aster bloom

closer look at the wild mint, to illustrate its size in relation to my fingers

Some wasps are pollinators, too.

black bee-like fly

a hornet-like pollinator

We are already enjoying salads of mesclun and tender mustards from the larger garden and also from the herb beds where I planted seeds of dill, arugula, and mixed greens in late September. The last few weeks have been dry, so I had to water the tender sprouts as they emerged. The habanero peppers, ghost peppers, and green peppers are still bearing, and the luffa fruit are huge. We are a little worried, however, that the luffa will not develop into the dry, spongy product one associates with bath time. The fruits are still green and soft. My gourd crop has been disappointing; too many gourds dropped from the vines and rotted in the hot humid weather of southeastern Louisiana.

a luffa fruit

foreground, arugula, mixed greens among the remains of summer's basil; background, flowering Mexican tarragon

Although temperatures are warmer today, we will have cooler weather again, and pollinators will die or hibernate, some maybe venturing out occasionally during milder winter weather. This morning I heard the song of the white-throated sparrow again as I watched the sun rise above the pines. It will keep me company through the late-fall and winter as leaves fall and flowers fade.

one harvested row of this year's sweet potatoes

second harvested row of this year's sweet potatoes

The August Garden: Chaos

The late summer garden is producing lots of peppers: ghost peppers, habaneros, bells, etc.

A two-week absence from the August garden leads to chaos--knee-high weeds, rotting fruit, gourd vines escaping their trellis, empty bird-feeders, grass in the lawn almost high enough to be baled, and wilting plants that need water despite all those previous weeks of rain. We had traveled west to help our daughter move into her new temporary home, leaving instructions for care of the cat and for just a few potted plants I was especially keen to have survive our absence. A couple of days after returning home, I first set about mowing the lawn, a big job with a push mower, and then I started clearing out the weeds and dead plants in my herb and flower beds. The vegetable garden is a mess, with only peppers bearing prolifically, with a few cherry tomatoes still ripening on the neglected vines. The two rows of sweet potatoes had spread their vines over two or three more rows, and that pesky weed Phyllanthus urinaria (A.K.A., chamberbitter, gripeweed), which can take over a bare spot of ground in short order, poked above the vegetables like umbrellas in a summer shower, the undersides of their leaves heavy with seed.

The second task was to water my herb and flower beds nearer the house. It seemed that the area had a dry spell while we were gone. Of course, as soon as I watered, we got rain, first an afternoon sprinkle, and then days of showers.

August is a hateful month to me. I have never liked the heat of these late summer and early fall months in the South. As sweat poured down my face, I was longing for that cooler climate we left behind in Wyoming and Colorado. National news had also heated up while we were unloading our daughter's belongings from our car and taking hikes in our spare time. The heat of August, I'm convinced, brings out the worst in people.

The back yard in August, from a distance quite nice

A little closer look: zinnias brown with some kind of leaf spot or leaf wilt

I removed dead zinnias and basil from this bed, and am waiting to see what reseeds and how it will grow through the fall.

Within a week after we had returned home, these sprawling Maximillian sunflowers were past their bloom, and I removed them to provide more light and nutrients for the swamp sunflowers.

Butterflies continue to visit the garden.

April: At Least There's Gardening

daisy flea-bane in my corner meadow

It's legislative season in Louisiana, and because I attended a series of book-reading discussions at a Unitarian Universalist church at the beginning of 2013, I find myself this year attending committee meetings of the Louisiana House in Baton Rouge. One little decision, and I became enmeshed in politics, dedicated to promoting an issue of social justice and discovering that the system is recalcitrant to change and the folks in charge stuck in the 1950s. I have written letters, sent e-mails, tweeted blunt political views (in less than 140 characters), attended workshops, rallied on the steps of the state capitol, and created another blog for the social justice group that developed from those book-reading sessions.

I have to remind myself that I was once a poet, a reader of novels, a journal keeper and letter writer. These days, I consume online media and follow people on Twitter. My Facebook feed is now dominated by news sites.

But at least there's gardening to ground me, to remind me that while bureaucracies grind on ever so slowly and political systems resist real change, the seasons cycle and magically regenerate.

spring rain on my backyard herb and flower beds

It's been a wet and cool spring here in south Louisiana. Tom the federal worker planted tomatoes he had sprouted and then had to cover each of them with Dixie paper cups two nights ago when temperatures dipped into the mid-thirties. He said there was frost on the windows of his Ford Ranger, but, fortunately, everything in my flower and herb beds was spared. The aloe veras that I took such pains to cover during every freeze or frost this past winter are now blooming, and even basil seeds have sprouted--though slowly. Zinnia seeds are also coming up. Maximillian sunflowers that I planted last year have re-sprouted or re-seeded, our Knockout roses and amaryllis are blooming, the azaleas are past bloom, and pots on our patio are full of violas and nasturtiums.

aloe veras flowering above a cousin's ceramic art

I have left unmowed a northeast corner of the yard, and it has become a meadow of daisy flea-bane, spiderwort, quaking grass, and clover. The composite flowers, only 1/2 to 3/4 inches in diameter, attract bees, wasps, and flies. Honeybees especially like the clover flowers. I mowed a couple of trails through the patch that I walk just about every day, observing other visitors there. The honeybee, with its little legs bulging with pollen, wonders not a whit about what passes as leadership in Baton Rouge. The tiny red spider cares only for its next meal, and sits attuned to the vibrating web it has strung between several stalks of grass.

Yes, I believe in citizen involvement and in doing what one can to make the world a better, more equitable place, but in these first few months of 2014, I have learned again how difficult it is to achieve that goal. So I find comfort in my garden, in remembering we are destined to be gardens, whether we are pushing up carefully tended turf or daisy flea-bane in a corner meadow.

corner meadow with quaking grass, clover, daisy flea-bane

We found this turtle in a lot next door; a day or two later, I found either the same one or another one in my meadow patch.

Large bee fly with its proboscis buried in a wood geranium growing in my meadow patch. Read about it here: http://www.fs.fed.us/wildflowers/pollinators/pollinator-of-the-month/bee_flies.shtml. This was a tiny guy. Those flowers are about 1/4 inch in diameter.

metallic green bee on daisy flea-bane

wasp on daisy flea-bane

honeybee resting on daisy flea-bane

small-headed fly on daisy flea bane--Read about small headed flies here: http://bugguide.net/node/view/7016

another, more ordinarily-shaped fly, on daisy flea-bane

My corner meadow surprises me with four-leaf clovers and many other riches of the plant and animal world.