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Features (Creature Feature)

Keep him in the lab and out of my kitchen!

Call him Drosophila melanogaster in the lab, where a century ago the fast-breeding creature helped scientists understand chromosomes and set out mapping genes.
    At home he’s the common fruit fly, aka the vinegar fly.
    Each autumn the tiny winged pests arrive in your kitchen. There they swarm, hovering intrusively over edibles you’d rather they had no part of. From the bowl of fruit to the compost container even to the fridge, they are with us. The tiny pests enter through open doors, windows, even screen mesh. Inside, they multiply.
    They’re here to stay until the frost, unless you take measures against them.
    Though they’re glad to drown in your glass of wine, the better trap is a paper funnel directing them into — but not out of — a bottle or jar baited with an ounce of wine or vinegar. If that doesn’t work, visit your hardware store for disposable fruit fly traps baited with nontoxic lures the flies like even better than your apples.

Find Lothian-grown pumpkins from around the world at Riva Farmers Market

Your search for the perfect pumpkin may end at the Anne Arundel County Farmers Market, where Ray and Sonja Wood of Lothian, with grandson Brandon Myers, offer a bumper crop of heritage pumpkins from around the world.
    Some are huge: not pumpkin-catapulting huge, but pumpkin-carving-contest-worthy. As Jack-o’-lanterns or on uncarved display, they’re great.
    Decoration was the couple’s original pumpkin plan.
    Ray, who grew up on a dairy farm, took up pumpkin-growing about 15 years ago to ease into retirement after a career as an electronics engineer. “It keeps us active, but it doesn’t pay much,” he says from the tailgate of one of the two pickup trucks he uses to haul the pumpkins to market usually starting in late September.
    But customers wanted pumpkins they could eat, too. Specific pumpkins. One wanted a Long Island Cheese pumpkin. Others followed with requests for pumpkins they’d grown up with. That launched the Woods into growing heritage pumpkins from all over the world, including France, Thailand, Italy and Australia.
    The Woods also grow gourds, which are purely decorative.
    Every year, they harvest about three acres of winter squash and pumpkins, including the green and orange Fairy Tale, Blue Hubbard, long and appropriately named Pink Banana, and one of Sonja Wood’s favorites, Galeaux d’Eysines, a warty French pumpkin that’s good in pies, soups and pumpkin bread.
    All pumpkins are, technically, squashes, but there are differences. Winter squashes tend to have a stronger taste and hold their shape better, Sonja says. Pumpkins, which tend to be milder, don’t retain their shape as well. Some, like Pink Banana, offer both ­qualities.
    The tough skins of winter squash and pumpkins help to preserve them through winter. Their mild flavor means they can be used in a variety of ways: soups, stews, breads and pies, or cubed and baked with a little butter, maple syrup and balsamic for a side dish.
    Food historian and heritage grower William Woys Weaver says that the darker orange flesh around the seeds is the tastiest part of the pumpkin.
    “There’s nothing here I don’t eat,” Ray Wood says. “My wife finds some easier to prepare than others.”
    Washed, dried and kept in an unlighted, cool (50-degree) area, pumpkins and winter squash will last for months. Cooked pumpkin, roasted or steamed, can be peeled, cooled and frozen for later use.
    Seeds are also edible. Roast washed, seasoned seeds for a snack. Or save the seeds and try to grow your own. Cucurbits cross readily, so you might be surprised by what develops; allow plenty of space for these vining plants.
    Find your perfect pumpkin at the market through October 25.

Scientists succeed in gene sequencing the nasty pests

The first one broke in on August 29. Throughout September, every warm, sunny day brought more. Wiggling though cracks a fraction of their size, smearing windows, crawling up walls, hibernating in curtains, under cushions, behind pictures and among magazines. As humans and dogs basked outdoors on the last Saturday in September, a persistent hailstorm of invasive brown marmorated stink bugs pinged house, windows and doors.
    Nothing stops them but the suction of a vacuum cleaner or Bugzooka. So armed, we’ll catch hundreds. But many more will live among us until they swarm again to leave in spring.
    “Few treatments deter Halyomorpha halys, the damage it causes or its ability to spread,” say investigators at the Institute for Genome Sciences at the University of Maryland School of Medicine.
    “Growers consider the invasive stink bug to be the single most important pest in the mid-Atlantic region, and they have tried desperate measures, including the increasing use of broad-spectrum pesticides to control the problem.”
    They’re so pesky that Dr. Francis Gouin, the Bay Gardener, cut down his peach orchard rather than war with stink bugs over the fruit.
    Those bugs are pretty smart, but humans ought to be smarter.
    So University of Maryland geneticists and entomologists have devised a new strategy to quickly sequence the bugs’ genes. Their findings, they say, “could lead to new ways to control this abundant and costly pest.”
    The Maryland scientists developed a way to skip the time-consuming first step of breeding genetically identical individual animals in the laboratory. Instead, they managed to sequence and analyze all of the genetic variants that arose in their population of stink bugs, and to do so at all points in the insects’ life cycles, from the egg stage through late adulthood.
    “This is the first step in our ongoing work to develop a pest control strategy that employs molecular genetic techniques to manage the stink bug invasion without affecting other, potentially beneficial insects,”
says Prof. Leslie Pick, chair of the University of Maryland Entomology Department, who guided the research.

Southern migration underway

Say good-bye to an osprey — if you can find one. My neighborhood nests are all empty and their eerie whistle waded into memory.
    Beginning in mid-August, the fish hawks left their summer homes all along the Eastern seaboard for winter grounds in the Caribbean, Central and South America.
    Where osprey go we know from the work of osprey followers like Rob Bierregaard, who has tagged with transmitters birds all along the coast.
    Migration of his tagged birds began on August 14, one day short of the earliest migration date.
    Snowy, the first to head south, “was a bird on a mission,” Bierregaard writes. “She arrived back at her wintering area in northern Cuba just eight days after she left her staging area in Long Island.”
    Not all migrating osprey make a beeline. Many circle and dally for weeks at good fishing grounds.
    Doing things “the normal way” was Crabby, a young female osprey tagged by Bierregaard.
    “From Kent Island in Chesapeake Bay, she started south on August 25 at 10:55am,” he wrote. “She spent her first night at Kerr Lake on the Virginia-North Carolina border. Next stop was the Congaree Swamp just north of Lake Marion in South Carolina. She blew through Georgia and spent the night of the 28th in northern Florida and made it to the Everglades in southern Florida on the 29th.
    “That was the last we’ve heard from her, but this is pretty typical of our cell-tower birds. From here on, they can make it to South America without being near a cell tower (the only way we hear from them). We’ve had birds that we last heard from on the eastern coast of the U.S. in the fall only to have them show up again the next spring. But we’ve also had a remarkable number of cell-tower birds find towers in Haiti and down deep in South America.”
    Learn about migrating osprey and follow the migration at www.ospreytrax.com.

Disquise and foul odor protect this butterfly

    Caterpillar Survival Rule No. 1: Be disagreeable.
    Eurytides Marcellus, the Zebra Swallowtail, a striking butterfly in classic black and white, is Calvert County’s official butterfly. Whether chosen for its instantly recognizable good looks, for its clever defensive tactics or both, the Zebra’s admirers must decide; details of the mascotorial appointment are lost to history.
    Moving across the landscape in aerial scout fashion, the Zebra seldom settles for long. It lights near edges of puddles or ponds and favors zinnias, summer phlox and butterfly weed.
    The larva feed on foliage of the pawpaw, the American banana, a shrub or small tree once plentiful in the understory of hardwood forests. Smooth and light-green, the larva’s bulbous head and oversized eyespots imitate a snake. If disguise isn’t sufficient, when disturbed it flashes a bright orange, forked apparent tongue that emits a foul odor. This cunning caterpillar has Rule No. 1 covered.
    There is no chasing a scout on the wing, so I was pleased to snap this photo of the Zebra in refueling mode.
    Does anyone besides me see Lewis Carroll’s hookah-smoking caterpillar? Or a dark-coifed fairy in zebra-striped wings?
 

The very thirsty Silvery Checkerspot

     After being tethered and tightly wrapped since last autumn, checkerspots in the garden are like tiki bar openers, brightly dressed and very thirsty.
    I see the silvery checkerspot,  Charidryas nycteis, feeding in groups at everything: bee balm, summer phlox, Shasta daisies — blooming or not, even experimenting with the artificial woodgrain of vinyl siding on our house.
    Larvae feed on turtlehead, both Chelone glabra (white) and lyonii (pink). Turtlehead requires constant moisture, so populations of checkerspots tend to wet meadows.
    Checkers feed summer and fall, then lay eggs in clusters. The eggs hatch and partially develop as pupae, then hang suspended, literally and figuratively, in brown-speckled white cases over the winter. This period of suspended growth is called diapause, a useful tactic to survive inhospitable seasons whether cold or long and dry. Warm weather triggers full development and liberation.
    Silvery’s larger cousin is the ­Baltimore Checkerspot, Maryland’s official state butterfly, a rarer sight.

Great Spangled Fritillary

     Fritillary butterflies may be the original social butterfly. Dozens appear in June when butterfly weed dazzles into bloom, affably sharing landing space and lunch with tiger swallowtails and clusters of bumblebees.
    Focused on the abundance of summer, the Great Spangled Fritillary — Speyeria cybele — is not unnerved by an amateur photographer. Its stained-glass wings glow bittersweet orange with ornate black tracings. Silvery-white oval spots on the underside inspire its name. The Great Spangled can be nearly four inches across and is seen in most of the United States and southern Canada. It manages two generations per season in the southern part of its range, the second overwintering as larvae. Caterpillars feed at night on violets and milkweed. Tufted wiry spines, set in rows of three, promise any hungry bird a serious case of indigestion.
    Fondness for pink coneflowers and any sort of mint will extend this beauty’s presence in your garden. Leave wild violets to spread and start a patch of milkweed to be your hatchlings’ bed and breakfast next spring.
    Pictured is Asclepias tuberosa, butterfly weed. Very popular with monarch butterflies is Asclepias incarnata, swamp milkweed, with pale pink flowers; it blooms a bit later.

Our flowering gardens are butterfly way-stations

     The butterflies nectaring around your garden took wing from the caterpillars nibbling there a few weeks back.
    Fewer black swallowtails are flashing their wings in my garden. Many summers, all the leaves are eaten down to the stalk by the hungry white, black and yellow-stripped caterpillars that pupate black swallowtails. This summer, I’ve seen only one such caterpillar.
    But I have hopes for other caterpillars, other butterflies.
    My yard is one of many in Chesapeake Country hosting monarch gardens, planted with butterfly weed, black-eyed-Susans, bee balm and boneset plus milkweed, ironweed and Joe Pye weed. Day by day, the plants have grown. The black-eyed-Susans are blooming; and all of us butterfly gardeners are hoping for monarchs.
    The plants will sustain the long-distance flyers with nectar. The caterpillars produced by those butterflies will eat the milkweed. Milkweed is their one and only food. I cheer their rise, for the caterpillars that eat this milkweed are like the generation that will fly all the way to Mexico to begin next year’s repetition of the ancient flight of the monarchs. The annual migration from Mexico to Canada and back takes four generations.
    Monarchs usually reach our latitude in September, when I’m hoping my spring plantings will be ready to welcome them with flowers. Together, we butterfly gardeners are hoping for big returns, a regular irruption.
    Once you see an irruption of monarchs you’ll never forget it. My thrill came in September, 1970, when a swarm — called a kaleidoscope in the colorful language of groupings — crashed a backyard picnic in Springfield, Illinois.
    Since then, lost habitat, less milkweed and climate change have pushed the species toward extinction. The current migrating monarch population is as low as two percent of original levels.
    If you see an irruption, let me know: editor@bayweekly.com.

Summer’s darlings, winter’s pests

Three seasons of the year bugs are pesky. But summer has fun bugs as well as pests.
    I have a strong dislike of bugs, especially stinkbugs, verging on fear. Those little stinkers freak me out with their buzzing around hitting anything in their path. They and their evil eight-legged or beetle-y friends rule my house, and many other peoples’ too, when they come in from the cold.
    In the summer, however, bugs are like everything else: alive, green and refreshing. I’ve seen a bright green praying mantis scaling the wall at Bay Weekly, a blue and purple dragonfly buzzing around my grandparents’ pond and colorful butterflies fluttering.
    Dragonflies have inhabited earth since the dinosaurs roamed and continue to thrive in our developed world. Their grace, power and magic bring even more joy to a beautiful summer day.
    These vibrant bugs don’t scurry from the cold along with us into our houses, or sneak in through the slightest crack. Summertime greeters are pretty, colorful and born every spring, unlike their bothersome, freeloading cousins that board with you when the weather gets chilly.
    I have always been a fan of summer bugs. When I was younger, I played outside with bugs, capturing caterpillars by day and chasing fireflies by night. I never squirmed away from worms while baiting a fishing hook. Summer bugs I like.
    Come winter when bugs break and enter into my home, we might have issues. For now I enjoy them in their habitat. They were here before us.

Encounters with wild neighbors

The creatures of Chesapeake Country are out in force. Since the last full moon on June 13, critters of every make and model have been hopping, waddling, crawling, slithering, walking, meandering and flying out of cover and into view.
    Since that moon, treetops flash with male fireflies signaling their mates. Closer to ground, females flash in their own code. Strange flying things come nearer still.
    Luna moths hang around my porch light in pairs, glowing in iridescent shades of green. Through a door left open after dark, a Pandora sphinx moth of many more shades of green visited editor Sandra Martin’s home, staying long enough to be photographed and drawn.
    A bunny sits alone in the yard and watches me with caution, then hops off to safety. Old Man Toad — who arrives every year in early summer — visits me in the evening on the patio and poolside. A family of geese swims in a neighborhood pond.
    At our Bay Weekly office, a lone praying mantis nymph the size of a thumb-pad, scales an enormous wall.
    These are safe entrances into the world we share. More often, encounters involve risk, usually for a wild thing not yet evolved to avoid human machines.
    Since the last full moon, I’ve seen four box turtles survive road crossings. The last one made me a hero as a school bus full of kids cheered as I carried the turtle out of the way of the oncoming bus and to safety.
    Eight ducklings haphazardly waddling without Momma Duck on Route 2 were scooted to safety on a nearby patch of grass by two human mommas.
    A wild turkey mother and chick scampered across a winding country road, then climbed an embankment to safety. Families of deer — three after moonset June 30 — looked left and right before crossing.
    But too often roadways mean death: deer, frogs, possums, raccoons, skunks, snakes, squirrels, turtles lie killed, often crushed, along our roadways.
    Drive carefully; we’re not alone here.
    Send us your sightings with photos: calendar@bayweekly.com.