Tiny crab spider

This very young crab spider was lurking deep within the marguerite foliage. As adults these spiders are commonly found cryptically colored within flowers, where they pounce on unsuspecting bees, wasps, flies etc.

Often spiderlings display the same hunting behaviors as the adult spiders, but obviously they must find appropriately sized prey. Maybe young crab spiders avoid hunting in flowers because the most likely prey visiting them are too powerfully winged for the small spiders to subdue.

Fallen fairy

A green lacewing meets its demise in an abandoned web laced with malamute hairs.

The first warm day after a soaking spring rain

On the first warm day after a soaking spring rain, a girl's thoughts turn to taxes. It's hard to imagine anything more interesting than bugs, but circling through the self-referential worksheets in the 1040 booklet comes close. Especially with only a few short weeks left before the filing deadline.

But undermining my attention to deductions was termites. We're always thinking of termites more or less, given that we live in an old wood frame house in southern California; but on such a day as yesterday, the conditions were perfect and it's typical for the sexual or alate (meaning winged) termites to fly. I know this well, and buried not so deep under everything I had to do that day was the thought termites would swarm.

Still. I was trying to keep to my work schedule, and they were playing compelling music on K-Mozart that morning. But over the Vivaldi and whatnot I kept hearing a soft yet sharp snapping sound. Finally I put aside the tax worksheets to find out what the heck was making the sound. Over my neighbor's flat roofed house birds were gyrating and snapping up insects in mid-flight. Lots of birds. I recognize the black phoebe, and that made sense because I know these little pointy headed guys live to eat insects. And those other birds, the yellowish ones, I thought were lesser goldfinches.

But wait. Lesser goldfinches are strictly seed eaters, or so says my bird guide. So anyway, a black phoebe and some other birds were feasting on flying insects. Termites. Amazing what a satisfying snappy popping sound they make as they met their small dooms in the birds' bills. Really, it was transfixing to watch until I noticed that some of the migrating buggers were landing on my driveway and making their ways disturbingly close to my house and especially the wood patio cover.

Based on the spring swarming behavior these termites would be western subterraneans. But they really look (brown head, darker wings) more like drywood termites. And, subterraneans more commonly swarm out of the ground, not somebody's roof. Here's a crappy photo of one of them. When they alighted on the ground, they scurried around in a panic and were hard to photograph.

Whatever species they are the purpose of the swarming flight is to disperse, meet and mate, after which they shed their wings, and seek out some wood to lay eggs in. Which is not only a bad thing but, as far as I've found, it also isn't a tax deduction.

Orthopteran evaporation

Yesterday, the first warmish sunny day in awhile found these members of the orthopteran family drying off and gathering rays the morning after our coldly uncharacteristic equinoxical rainstorm.

Into the light, cloudily

Spring begins, or so the modern weather people say with their flowing hand gestures and graphical maps. The sun's position crosses the celestial equator to the north marking the middle of spring in the old reckoning. The day when the daylit hours begin to outweigh the night, the vernal equinox marks our return to the realm of light. It happens in a blink of an eye, faster really, and life rushes toward the light in a flurry of bird song, new sandals, and insect wings. Usually. It has been unseasonably cold enough to put a chill on the bug celebrations.

Anyway, I put on my beanie and sweater to brave the mounting cloudiness and capture whatever seasonal frivolity I could find in the thin glow of spring.

There were some brightly colored blobs among the anise foliage. Most of them were bird droppings, but this one turned out to be a dead treehopper fallen from the nearby cestrum onto the feathery new spring leaves of the anise. Surely there are treehopper eggs enough tucked into the bark of the cestrum, and I'll consider the next generations a scourge before summer is over, especially when they move onto my beefsteak tomato plants. Still I felt a little sad. Probably just the overcast sky, and now the rain, since everybody knows southern Californians can't be happy without the sun shining. Why would a wee tetrahedron of lime green lifeless cuticle make anyone sad, found dead just as we both and the garden we have lived in turned back to the light?

Malva

Malva of Sylvestris, patron saint of all that grows in vacant lots and neglected waysides, bugs that somehow survive the winter without any help from anyone, and the cusp of spring's returning light that warms all who dare to step into it

pray for us.

95% of the time we don't have a clue what we are doing.

Seeing the Magic

Where have all the leprechauns gone? Perhaps they never existed, like the snakes St. Patrick is said to have driven from Ireland. Or perhaps they are figurative embodiments of merriment, as the snakes represented Satan, or more likely, devils to those ancient Celts. And the devils are everywhere you know, from the evildoers that trouble our times to the 1/2 eaten chocolate bar in my freezer. If it's that easy to incarnate malevolent spirits, shouldn't we make a bit more of an effort to see the magic in our surroundings?

St. Patrick used the shamrock with three leaflets in one leaf to bring to life the concept of a trinity of personages in one god. But a shamrock seemed an ordinary thing to his pupils, so they set off looking for four leafed clovers and leprechauns to bring them super-ordinary goodness, or maybe it was just fun to needle the good bishop. Here's something I found: a double egged lacewing egg stalk. That must be good for a wish or two, wouldn't you think?

And then I found the real prize, the fairy-winged beauty who laid the magic eggs. Or at least I can imagine it was this lacewing.

You've surely eaten your ceremonial corned beef + cabbage, or stew by now. With luck you didn't have too many Guinness. Still, here's a St. Patrick's Day greeting to all you Irish folk; or you who are just a bit Irish; and even if you just love Irish folk, or are an Irish wannabe, or an Irish sympathizer, or fellow Celt; and even those who just love tromping around in the drizzle looking for green crawly things, seeking magic but getting distracted by thoughts of beer, and warm food.

Solanum Shout Out

I was browsing some blogs I like and noticed this photo of solanum centrale. I guess it's commonly known as bush tomato, or desert raisin, and though I have never heard of it before, it looks familiar there blooming in the Australian outback, 8000 some-odd miles and two seasons away from here. The flower looks very much like one of my pet weird plants, firethorn or porcupine tomato, which is native to Madagascar but was discovered by me back in Y2K at a plant sale right here in OC. At the time it was barely a 2" pot's worth, but it soon grew to fill out a larger container and even made a trip to the county fair where a plant pavilion worker nicknamed it "Hannibal". Since then it has been transplanted around the garden twice, and is currently growing under the fremontodendron tree. I am posting it here so it can bloom in sweet digital concert at opposite ends of summer with its cousin halfway round the world.

So here is my little homage to Solanum pyracanthum, the tomato tough enough to bloom before St. Paddie's Day. While lots of people are thinking green on that day, gardeners are thinking tomato since March 17 is considered The Day to have your garden tomatoes in the ground by, at least in my part of the northern hemisphere. Of course there would be little point in getting your lycopersicum esculentum to bloom so early since the nights are still awfully cold for fruit to set; unless you just really like tomato flowers:
















































The fruit of s. pyracanthum is small, thorny, inedible. If you let 'em, they'll hang on the branch all winter long and dry up like this.


The overall impression from the plant is reminiscent of a tomato: the sprouts from the leaf axils, the way the stems get bumpy as they mature, the shape of the flower clusters, even the shape of the leaves. Like a tomato plant, but much thornier.




And what about the bugs, you ask? There were lots of green lynx spiderlings on this plant. Last October it was home to a nest of them, and I suppose a certain percentage of the brood doesn't wander too far from home.













































Lacewings attach their eggs to the tips of the spines, effortlessly extending the protective length of the egg stalks. Here is one of them.














There was one solitary ant foraging up and down the leaves. These ants often tend honeydew producing sap suckers, like treehoppers and aphids. There weren't any of these around, and I've never noticed them on this plant. Plants in the tomato family host a species of treehopper; maybe this ant was just hopeful, or ambitious.


A syrphid fly stopped for a few moments on a leaf tip. Stretched its wings, then left.


















I did see a green leafhopper but those buggers are devilishly hard to shoot for some reason; very small, usually the same color as the leaf they're on, and they are fast. Anyway, here is evidence of leafhopper feeding on a leaf.









If you're interested in knowing more about members of the solanum family, this site has a list along with info and photos of the Australian mob of wild tomatoes.

A Cottony Cushion Tableau

Cottony cushion scale (Icerya purchasi) is a pretty bad pest of citrus and other woody shrubs and trees in California gardens. When you notice it, the host stems are usually covered with nymphs in various growth stages exuding honeydew crowded in among females and their fluted white cottony egg sacs. In this little scene there is just one maturing scale (surely a female since males are rare and technically unnecessary since the females are hermaphroditic) and an empty egg sac suspended among the carolina cherry (prunus caroliniana) fruits.

Adulthood

Same katydid as this post, a few days later newly molted to adult. This individual is smaller and paler than adult females seen during summer in this same environment. This one has been feeding on waxflower blossoms. Could that account for the pinkish pigmentation of the wings?

Seeing Red

Few insects see red. While anyone who has ever argued over paint chips will agree that color perception is a highly subjective craft, we can determine a creature's physical ability to see colors (as defined by their light wavelengths if not their emotional charges) by identifying the visual pigments found in their eyes. A few insects (bees, butterflies) have three pigments giving them more detailed color vision that may include red; while larval insects and some adult species (like termites) have no color vision at all. The more common occurrence is two pigments which react to wavelengths in the green/yellow to ultraviolet range. Red is therefore invisible to most insects (and spiders). Human pigments react to frequencies ranging from red to violet, leaving ultraviolet invisible to us.

Red used to be mostly invisible to me in the sense that I completely ignored its existence in clothing, home furnishings, cars, and flowers. I'm one of those people who associate red with war, aggression, blood and The Man instead of love and passion. I'm more of a purple person, with happy dashes of yellow and orange framed with all varieties of comforting greens. But lately red has snuck its hot blooded way into my garden. One of the first invaders was an orphaned red pentas I reluctantly adopted. I stuck it in the worst section nearly barerooted two summers ago; it rewarded my concern with vermillion flower clusters in nearly all seasons, attracting swallowtail butterflies in summer.














This calendula, a new variety named Touch of Red, blooms dark orange but I would call this bud cinnamon, or maybe brick. This is the adult of the nymph previously posted here.







I am a sucker for marguerite daisies, which the nursery trade insists on calling Argyranthemums to make them seem more exotic I guess. Anyway, they keep breeding new varieties and this one, Ruby Slippers, has turned out to be a very good performer. But, is it really red? In this photo, with the katydid nymph, it looks pink. An informal survey of my family members in the field with a real live plant concluded these ruby slippers are a velvety purple with undertones of pomegranate red.


I planted cestrum to attract hummingbirds. The flowers of cestrum newellii are described by Sunset Western Garden Book as "bright crimson". The dictionary defines crimson as deep red inclining toward purple. Maybe my pigments are defective, but I don't see the purple here; I think it's more like scarlet, referring back to Webster: "a brilliant red tinged with orange". The green lynx spiderling has no opinion since it's all invisible to him.

This ranunculous bud is speckled with drops from the rain we had yesterday. I'd say this is really a tomato red. I like tomatoes a bit more than red ranunculous; these were being stocked temporarily in the yard before shipping to someone else's redder landscape. Anyway, the bug on this bud is me reflected in the center droplet.






If the red in these flowers is invisible to the bugs I found on them, what do they see instead? If I can learn to see shades of red in the garden, can I hope to learn to see ultraviolet? When Roget's has over 16 synonyms for red, all of which are subjective, can we really presume to label anything merely red which might be tending toward purple, or even orange?

Waxflower + Fly

Geraldton Waxflower (chamelaucium uncinatum) blooms through winter and into spring in our climate. Many insects use it for food during this period, including this syrphid fly feeding on nectar at a katydid-chewed flower.

Scudderia furcata prom portrait

This almost-adult female forktailed katydid is perched so prettily among the waxflowers here, it's impossible for me to regard her as a pest. Check out this info on bush katydids (genus scudderia). At the bottom of the page is a great photo sequence of their unique way of laying eggs between tissue layers of leaves.