turtle boy and the green-tailed towhee

Turtle Boy...kickin' butt 'n takin' names...



It would be no great exaggeration to say that Matt Conn grew up at Lafayette's Acadiana Park Nature Station. Even before I got there in 1986, Matt had already gained infamy as the star of “Turtle Boy,” naturalist Steve Shively's short film featuring eight-year-old Matt and his backyard menagerie of turtles. Thanks to his mom, Kim, Matt and sister Emily visited the Nature Station seemingly just about every week for years; and like many kids, Matt fell hard for the Wild Things. As a college student he went on to work under me as a teaching naturalist at the Nature Station before graduating from ULL with a degree in Renewable/Sustainable Resources. Today, Matt serves as Senior Ecological Project Manager for the John Chance company, a survey/environmental/regulatory firm in Lafayette.

typical "scrub-shrub" habitat bordering a live oak forest

A few years ago, Matt jumped at the chance to acquire 67-acres of freshly-mutilated live oak forest, marsh, and cypress swamp down in Iberia parish, just above Weeks Island. Since then he's planted thousands of trees and is carefully managing the recovery of that diverse little chunk of land.

the elusive/reclusive Seaside Sparrow in a salt-marsh above Sabine Pass

(photo by Matt Conn)

Matt also got into nature photography, and went straight for the most difficult of natural subjects – birds. Unlike plants or turtles, birds move around a lot, and it's exceedingly difficult to capture decent images of them. Now, Matt's wanting to learn all he can about birds; but rather than carrying around a field guide and a pair of binoculars, he just totes his camera, shoots hundreds of frames, and then identifies them later at his leisure. Recently – and much to our mutual benefit – he's been taking shortcuts and simply sending me photos of the birds whose identities he can't figure out.

Green-tailed Towhee; note lovely citrine-yellow edges to folded wing feathers

(photo by Matt Conn)

Just after dawn on 29 October, he photographed a bird at the scrubby entrance to his land that he knew was very different from the regularly-occuring species that he'd been observing. Looking through his field guide, he identified it himself: a Green-tailed Towhee; a ground/brush-dwelling, stout-billed, long-tailed, sparrow-like bird of the mountain-region of the western U.S. During the winter months, Green-tailed Towhees migrate down into the far southwestern U.S. and Mexico. The easternmost edge of the Green-tailed Towhee's wintering grounds is west-central Texas. But as birds are wont to do, a few of them always end up well outside their wintering grounds; some species more than others.

That's the thing about birds. They have wings, and those wings often carry them to wacky places. Birds that are encountered out of place are called “vagrants.”

Like all states, Louisiana keeps close track of its birds – even its vagrant birds. In fact, vagrant bird sightings are the most eagerly-anticipated of all. They're just so . . . vagrant . . . y'know? Some arid-southwestern U.S. vagrant species such as Rufous Hummingbird, Black-chinned Hummingbird, Ash-throated Flycatcher and Vermilion Flycatcher are actually regularly-occurring in Louisiana each winter, with a dozen or two (or more) annual records for each. Others like Scott's Oriole, Sage Thrasher, and the Green-tailed Towhee are recorded much more infrequently, certainly not every winter. In fact, according to Louisiana Bird Records Committee chairman Steve Cardiff, there were only 10 total records of Green-tailed Towhee on file for Louisiana prior to this winter.

Matt's Green-tailed Towhee (lodged here in a honey locust tree)

 is one of four recorded thus far in Louisiana this winter

(photo by Matt Conn)

This winter is shaping up to be an odd one, weather-wise and bird-wise. It's going to be a noticeably warmer one, for starters; and with the awful devastation of food, water, and habitat resources in drought-plagued Texas, Louisiana is already receiving a number of rarely-occurring vagrants, including four Green-tailed Towhee sightings thus far. This winter's Green-tailed Towhee sightings have emanated from just south of Shreveport, just south of Alexandria, the Thornwell area of southern Jeff Davis parish, and Matt's bird in Iberia parish. 

winter color on da gulf rim

Swamp Red Maple (Acer drummondii)

Yeah yeah, I know. Down here along the Gulf Rim there's not much fall foliage color to brag about. But what we do have is a winter foliage color show – not in vast expanses, mind you, but definitely in small clumps here and there. It's not exactly gonna rip the eyes right out of your head; rather, it's a matter of opening one's eyes and actually looking for it.

Baldcypress intermingling with a hybrid Holly

(Ilex opaca x cassine) in our backyard;

excellent contrast in both color and texture

Generally, our winter foliage color season begins in November, when baldcypress (Taxodium distichum) reveals the first hints of rust color in its needles. Other early colorizers include black cherry (Prunus serotina) and cedar elm (Ulmus crassifolia). With each passing day, the cypress colors up a little more, until finally around Thanksgiving it drops everything, thickly covering the ground below with a rich, rusty-red carpet.

Cedar Elm (left) and American Hornbeam (right)

provide a nice combination behind our barn

Swamp Cyrilla (Cyrilla racemiflora) is a personal favorite, turning

red/orange/yellow gradually, and over a long period of time

Witch Hazel provides yellow fall color AND fragrant blooms;

all in November!

Black Cherry going orange-yellow

on the northern edge of our backyard

Meanwhile, additional pockets of color can be found in individual specimens of swamp red maple (Acer drummondii), American hornbeam (Carpinus caroliniana), sweetgum (Liquidambar styriciflua) and sassafras – and of course Chinese tallow (Sapium sebiferum), but decent folks don't like to talk about that one . . .

Wetland oaks including Nuttall (Quercus texana) and overcup (Q. lyrata) don't begin turning until December; but by Christmas they are both wonders to behold.

Let it be known as well that there are a few outstanding winter-foliage natural areas in northern Louisiana which are easily accessible. The best by far is Sicily Island Hills Wildlife Management Area (see http://sicilyislandhills.com/ and http://www.stateparks.com/sicily_island_hills.html ) in extreme northeastern Catahoula parish; and the best time for winter color is Thanksgiving week. Also visit-worthy are Walter B. Jacobs Memorial Nature Park and Eddie Jones Park (http://www.caddoparks.com/findpark.cfm ), both in Caddo parish around Shreveport. Both of those park feature, among numerous other color plants, stands of southern sugar maple (Acer barbatum), one of the most stunningly colorful of all our winter plants. The Macon Ridge, an ancient Mississippi River escarpment up in Morehouse parish above Monroe also holds nice stands of southern sugar maple. Kalorama Nature Preserve http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kalorama-Nature-Preserve/111378675635675 is a fine destination on Macon Ridge. Check it out. And check out Kalorama curator Beth Erwin's fine blog (http://arborlady.blogspot.com/) 'The View From the Hill' while you're at it.

Fall/winter foliage color arises from red, orange, and yellow-pigmented metabolic wastes (carotenoids, anthocyanins, etc.) which are actually contained in the leaves long before we see them. Toward the end of a leaf's life, chlorophyll production ceases; and once all the residual chlorophyll drains out, its metabolic wastes are finally unmasked.



sparse nesters...

Northern Flicker showing off its shafts...

(photo by Larry Amy)

Down-river pal Larry Amy recently sent in some nice backyard bird photos from his place on the Vermilion River in Lafayette. Serendipitously, all of the photos featured birds that nest only sparingly here in the cusp of the coastal zone and southern-interior of Louisiana. Most of you are probably familiar with these birds; but chances are that you locals observe them more in fall/winter than in summer. That's because – for reasons unknown – very few pairs of each of these species decide to nest down at this latitude in any given year. It would seem that both food resources and nesting habitat for each of these birds can be found in good supply here in south Louisiana – possibly to an even greater degree than they can be found at the northern ends of their respective breeding ranges. So what's the deal?

Ah, Nature.

The first feature bird is the Northern Flicker. In Larry's photo above, you can readily see how it got its alternative common name, the Yellow-shafted Flicker. Pretty fine, non? “Yellow Hammer” is another common name – one which we used as kids growing up in Ville Platte. 'Course, being from Ville Platte, we pronounced it, “yella hammuh.”

"Yella Hammuh" preparing to hammer...

(photo by Larry Amy)

The few Northern Flickers that I've detected nesting down here over the years have been confined to urban forests – places in towns and cities hosting large neighborhoods of big, mature shade trees. Come October, though, and Yellow-shafted Flickers flood into our region from all over; and their piercing, “KYEAR!” cries can be heard all through the fall and winter months.

More than any other woodpecker, flickers spend much time on the ground gobbling up bugs and other arthropods – including ants. There's a well-told story amongst bird people about gut-analysis performed on the stomach of a single flicker which turned up 5,000 ants(!).

Lydia calls the Belted Kingfisher, the "Blue Monseiur"

due to its fancy hairdo...

(photo by Larry Amy)

Feature bird number two is the Belted Kingfisher, a wetland-associated bird that tunnels into steep stream banks to make its nest. And when I say “tunnel” I mean TUNNEL; for the average tunnel length is three to four feet, with one as long as twelve feet being reported (see Oberholser's Bird Life of Louisiana, 1938). Again, there seems to be no shortage of steep stream banks down here, so why don't we host more nesting kingfishers? Fortunately, Dan Debaillon Coulee (“coulee” is a Cajun word for “gulley” or intermittent stream, ya'll; from the French, couler [“to run”]), which runs right below the north deck of the Acadiana Park Nature Station in Lafayette has handsomely-steep banks, and hosted a pair of nesting Belted Kingfishers for most of the twenty-four summers that I worked there.

Hollerin' Red-tailed Hawk

(photo by Larry Amy)

And then there's the good old Red-tailed Hawk, which enjoys one of the most cosmopolitan breeding range of any North American bird. Southern Louisiana is a winter epicenter for this species. Swamp edges, ag-field edges, meadow edges, pipeline and utility-line rights-of-ways, and roadsides of any sort are all good locations for this bird, which flocks into Louisiana by the thousands (if not tens-of-thousands) each fall and winter. Come summer, though, and Red-tailed nests are few and far-between in these parts. Larry's fortunate enough to have a nesting pair somewhere very near to his Lafayette backyard.

seldom-seen Louisiana birds . . .

Nelson's Sparrow -- note intricate patterning....handsome devils!

(photo by Jeff Trahan)

On September 28, Shreveport birders Terry Davis and Jeff Trahan, who were conducting a routine migratory shorebird survey at the Yates Tract of the Red River National Wildlife Refuge (south of Shreveport, just northwest of Coushatta, LA), ran across a small group of migrating Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrows. Seldom seen in Louisiana anywhere away from our coast, Nelson's Sparrow is a far-northern breeder (west-central interior Canada and Atlantic coast of Canada) that spends its winters tucked tightly withinin the marshes of the Atlantic and Gulf Coasts of the U.S.


Finding a Nelson's Sparrow anywhere away from its isolated breeding and wintering grounds is a pretty big deal, as this bird tends to stick to marshland habitats even during migration.

Back in 1938 (from The Bird Life of Louisiana) when there were precious few non-game-bird observers living in Louisiana, ornithologist Harry Oberholser characterized this species as “a rare winter resident...in the Gulf Coast region of Louisiana,” and at that time was not aware of any Nelson's Sparrow sightings away from coastal marshes. By 1974 (see Louisiana Birds) ornithologist George Lowery, Jr. had realized that Nelson's Sparrow was actually common during winter throughout our coastal marshes; but reported only a handful of records away from the coast – only two of which came from the northern half of the state (“at Shreveport” in October 1963 and “at Natchitoches” -- probably from the state fish hatchery -- in December 1972). Even today, if you want to see a Nelson's Sparrow, you'll probably need to hang out around cattail marshes as near to the coast as possible – in winter of course. You gotta work for this one, ya'll.

Nelson's Sparrow -- Red River NWR 28 Sept 2011

(photo by Jeff Trahan)

Davis and Trahan noted that their Nelson's Sparrows were actually feeding on the seeds of a small unidentified weed species. Fortunately, Jeff got a bird/plant photo, which he forwarded to me. Like Jeff and Terry, I had no clue as to the identity of the plant, so I forwarded the photo to botanist Charles Allen, who promptly identified it as valley redstem (Ammannia coccinea), a moist-soil plant which is actually pretty common throughout most Louisiana parishes. If you've done any tromping through wetland habitats in Louisiana, chances are you've tromped on valley redstem.

Another little-observed bird in Louisiana is the Bobolink, a member of the blackbird family that is seen in our state only during migration periods, primarly spring migration. Like Nelson's Sparrow, the Bobolink nests in the far-northern U.S. and Canada, and tends to congregate around marshes during migration. Bobolinks are champion migrants, engaging in epic 12,000+ mile round-trip annual jaunts between the northern U.S./Canada and Argentina.

Bobolink, female or young male

(photo by Paul Conover; see http://swlouisianabirds.blogspot.com/)

In Louisiana we normally see Bobolinks through a rather narrow spring migration window extending from late April through May. These days, one of the most dependable places to see them in Louisiana during that time frame is within grassy/weedy areas (such as back-beach dunes and roadsides) adjacent to marshes around Grand Isle and Port Fourchon.

During this same time period, we used to regularly find them here in south-central Louisiana in the weedy fields adjacent to the Lake Martin road south of Breaux Bridge, but those fields have since fallen to suburbia.

I'll never forget my first Bobolink sighting -- a small group of them had set down in an unplanted cotton field just south of Monroe in late spring 1979. I even heard the loud, metallic, banjo-like "bob-o-link" cries of the males in the group. Go ahead and google "male bobolink" to get a load of this dapper dude.

Bobolinks employ an elliptical migration route whereby they fly northbound directly through Louisiana and the northern Gulf Coast in spring; but on their southbound return in fall stick primarily to the Atlantic Coast. During fall, they are said to course over the eastern seaboard, island-hop through the Caribbean, then enter northern South America en route to Argentina. But in certain years they're sighted way out over the Atlantic Ocean (from Bermuda) as well, creating speculation that when the winds are right, they eschew the North American coast and possibly the Caribbean altogether, flying non-stop to South America. Watching them cut so easily through the air during spring migration through Louisiana, it's not hard to imagine them staying aloft for thousands of miles at a time, especially with a decent tailwind...

In 1974 Lowery called the Bobolink “a common spring transient” but “extremely rare this far west in fall on its return journey southward.” Here you should understand the Lowery was calling it “a common spring transient” from a field ornithologist's perspective – one who actually goes out looking for them during that narrow window of time. Otherwise, it's definitely not so “common” to more casual birders and non-birders.

Interestingly, even farther back in 1938, Oberholser called the Bobolink “fairly common in southeastern Louisiana” (rare elsewhere in Louisiana) during both spring and fall migration periods, suggesting the possibility that its continental population level then was large enough to exhibit regular “overflow” as far west as southeastern Louisiana during each fall migration period. Either that, or fall weather patterns along the Atlantic Coast were substantially different than today's. Or possibly both. Regardless, seeing Bobolinks in fall migration anywhere in Louisiana is a big thing in this day and age.

fall-migrating Bobolink (female type) sitting atop narrow-leaf sumpweed

along Lighthouse Road, western Cameron parish, LA

(photo by Paul Conover)

So guess what? Along with Nelson's Sparrows, Davis and Trahan also found Bobolinks at the Red River NWR on September 28. Whoa. And there's more. On that same day, Lafayette birders Paul Conover and Dave Patton also found Bobolinks a couple of hundred miles south of Davis and Trahan – in extreme western Cameron parish near Sabine Pass – right near the Louisiana-Texas border. Everyone involved agrees that these birds were probably blown westward off their usual eastern seaboard course by the persistent low-pressure pattern (= counterclockwise winds) that's been in place over the northeastern U.S. for much of this summer and fall. To reinforce this theory, other noted "elliptical migrants" including Black-throated Blue Warblers -- and even a Blackpoll Warbler (exceedingly rare in fall migration; recently found by Paul Conover in western Cameron parish) -- are showing up this fall in Louisiana.

ooh that smell . . .

Cestrum nocturnum -- Night-blooming Jessamine

(not "Jasmine" but "Jessamine;" there's a difference...)

Beginning about five days (or, better...nights) after the 6.5” of rain we got from Tropical Storm Lee, Lydia and I were seated in our usual evening positions on the back porch. Suddenly we became overwhelmed by the penetrating perfume of Night-blooming Jessamine (Cestrum nocturnum). What with the droughty summer & all, I guess we had sort of forgotten about the two specimens planted on either side of the front/south side of our house. So dry it was, they hadn't even bothered with making flowers all season.

But on the evening of September 10 . . . BAM! Carried on a bare whiff of southerly breeze, the fragrance crept like soft fingers from Heaven some 65' to the back porch, simultaneously hitting both of us. Oh what a scent:  An ancient perfume, immediately transporting us back to our childhoods, maybe all the way to our grandmothers' dressing tables. Truthfully, there's no good way that I can describe such a magical fragrance in words. . . it's just too fine for that . . . better to smell it, then you'll know exactly what I'm trying to write.

Interestingly, the genus Cestrum comes from the plant family Solanaceae – the Nightshade family – from which comes stuff like tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, eggplants, wolf-berries, horse-nettles, and such; none of which produce bloom-scents that could even remotely be described as “perfumy” or even “penetrating.” You'll notice from the photo that unlike the blooms of tomatoes, potatoes, and eggplants, night-blooming jessamine blooms are long and tubular and really hold some scent. Those of you who grow it will also notice that the closer you stick your nose to the bloom, the more pungent – almost acrid – the scent becomes. Its perfume is best-appreciated from a distance; at least 10-15' away at minimum, I'd say.

Night-blooming Jessamine Fruits

Cestrum is a New World tropical/sub-tropical genus containing about 150 species; only a few of which produce perfumy blooms. All Cestrums produce berries. Night-blooming jessamine produces fairly large, white, porcalein-like fruits that birds love. The birds then spread the seeds around, and so(w) spreads the plant. In pre-Katrina New Orleans, Cestrum nocturnum was so prevalent that most gardeners considered it a weed. Katrina's big brackish flood wiped out all of the night-blooming jessamines that it touched, however; and today, I'm sure many New Orleanians are pining away for it. In her fine book, The New Orleans Garden, Charlotte Seidenberg mentions that Cestrum nocturnum, native to the West Indies, has been grown in New Orleans since the 1700s.

This morning (19 Sept) I noticed fresh new blooms on our Sweet Olives. Hoo-Boy. The Jessamine/Sweet Olive mix just might do us in....but what a way to go, non?

For more on Sweet Olive, be sure to check out Gail Barton's recent post (http://yardflower.com/?p=3193) on her Yardflower.com blog.

tough plants for tough times...

Basketgrass

Well it's been a long time coming, now here we are. Been promising this post all summer....


Our climate is changing. Here in southern Louisiana we can expect a hotter and drier climate; indeed, we've already entered into that scenario. Without steady irrigation, our typically lush, tropical gardens will be a thing of the past. Well, tropical, yes; but lush, no. I don't know about you, but I've never been one to water an ornamental garden. Don't have the time nor the inclination. So what to do? Use plants that don't need any supplemental irrigation.

Below is my 'tough plants for tough times' list for Gulf Rim gardens (zones 8-9). These plants are not only drought-tolerant, but flood-tolerant as well...which is good, since we are still prone to occasional deluges (September 3-4, tropical storm Lee for example, dumped 6.5” on our garden; twenty-four hours after which it looked like it hadn't rained at all...). Listed plants are all very long-lived as well. Most will perform beautifully for at least 15 years; and in fact most have lived in our garden for 20 or more years. Lastly, in order to make this list, plants must have BIG aesthetic appeal: long blooming season and/or excellent texture and/or foliage color.

Dwarf Bottlebrush 'Little John'

(or, if you're from New Orleans, "Lil' Jawn")

Dwarf Bottlebrush 'Little John' (Callistemon vinialis) – I believe this is an Australian native – same as the full-sized Callistemon citrinus. Survived last year's exceptionally cold winter (yeah, I know, 'what about global warming, smarty-pants?' Note that a massive high-pressure dome was parked over Alaska all last winter, not only creating one of Alaska's warmer winters on record, but also conveyor-belting arctic air deep into the U.S. interior all the while....) here in horticultural zone 8b/9a. Excellent texture; sea-green foliage hue; blooms early spring – summer. Full-sun. Butterflies/hummingbirds.

typical Bottlebrush bloom

Lantana 'Miss Huff'

a probable L. camara X L. urticoides hybrid

Lantana (Lantana camara/urticoides) – I'm not talking about the dwarfish creeping types (L. montevidensis, etc.) here – though for all I know they may be tough as well – but the naturalized shrub types that have inched their way up into the Louisiana coastal zone from Mexico and the Caribbean. L. camara is the species that old-timers know as “Ham n' Eggs”..... L. urticoides is an orange/red bloomer. Both are awesome for duration of bloom and general bad-ass toughness. Full to half-sun. Butterflies/hummingbirds.

Turk's Cap

Turk's Cap (Malvaviscus drummondii) – A hibiscus family member native to coastal Louisiana – specifically, in cheniere (live oak-dominated coastal forests). Winter-hardy all the way up to Shreveport. Runs like a Banshee in full sun, so be careful. Perfect for half-shade to bright filtered light, especially around the bases of shade trees, where little else will grow. There, it behaves itself nicely, laying down into a 3-4' groundcover. Butterflies/hummingbirds/songbirds.

Antique Rose 'Caldwell Pink'

'Caldwell Pink' Antique Rose – Amazingly, this 4' X 6' bush rarely if ever needs pruning! It barely even needs dead-heading. It's like the Ever-ready Rabbit, blooming and blooming despite drought or flood. Classed as a 'China' rose, which accounts for its everblooming habit. The only drawback is its lack of fragrance. Full-sun.

Pavonia hastata

Pavonia hastata – Pavonias are hibiscus family members. Over 270 species worldwide, including a couple of natives from the southwestern U.S. where it is commonly known as “rock rose.” P. hastata, however, is from South America. Here along the Gulf Rim it grows to about 4' X 4'. Like shrub lantana and 'Caldwell Pink' rose, it always seems to be in bloom. Should it get unruly, just cut that sucker back to about 18” and it'll straighten up and fly right. Full sun. Oddly, I have not noted much butterfly/hummer activity.

Tropical Sage

The Mighty Salvias – There are about 700 Salvia species worldwide. This is the same genus containing the herb, “sage” (Salvia officinalis). Here in the U.S., ornamental Salvias are among the best hummingbird attractors in the garden. The most beautiful Salvias hail from the mountains of Mexico, Central America, and South America; but one species, called Tropical Sage (Salvia coccinea) is native to coastal Louisiana. This species is one of the first plants that I'd recommend for a butterfly/hummingbird garden. Try to get native stock if you can. You'll see a number of cultivars offered in the trade. They're OK, but they are short-lived. Native tropical sage is sorta rangy, growing up to 5+ feet; but if you need it shorter, all you have to do is snap its weak stems down to the height you prefer. I've seen it used as a dense groundcover below live oaks, and maintained at 6” height with a weedeater. Native tropical sage will throw a lot of seed over time, developing into gorgeous clumps here and there. It's easy to transplant, easy to dead-head, and easy to weed-out. Blooms constantly. I even remember it blooming in January at our place one year. Shade to full-sun.

Anise Sage

Anise Sage (Salvia guaranitica) comes in a very close second to tropical sage on the “must have” list for butterfly/hummingbird gardens. This South American native blooms consistently spring/summer/fall here in south Louisiana. Does not seed. Shade to full-sun.

Salvia 'Argentine Skies'

Salvia 'Argentine Skies' is basically a powder-blue color form of anise sage. But anise sage makes modest clumps over the years, whereas 'Argentine Skies' runs hard. Use it to fill big spaces. Half-shade to full sun.

Horseherb

Horseherb (Calyptocarpus vialis aka Zexmenia hispidula) – is sometimes listed as a southern U.S. native, but I'm not so sure. As with Turk's cap, tropical sage, and shrub lantana, I believe that horseherb is a New World tropical species that probably got into the wild here on its own (migratory songbirds??). It showed up at our place about 20 years ago, but didn't really spread until after the Big Flood of May 2004. It's a shade-loving perennial groundcover. Lydia's scared of it. I love it...the plant, that is....not the fact that she's scared of it. I find it very easy to weed out of places where we don't want it. Lydia disagrees. We have agreed to disagree on many subjects during our 30+ years together. . .

Basket Grass

Basketgrass (Oplismenus setarius) – is yet another species from the American tropics that has naturalized here in the southern U.S. Are ya'll detecting a pattern here? Tough plants. Naturalized. If they're gonna make it, they've got to really really want to. Anyway, texturally basketgrass is a gorgeous thing. Like horseherb, it's a shade-lover. By the way, when they're in their 'happy place,' both horseherb and basketgrass colonize with enough density to preclude weeds.

Big Bluestem; producing its late-summer

bloom culms

Big Bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) – There are quite a few native grasses that make excellent garden plants, and its so sad that so few are used. Remember: grasses impart a “flowing” texture in the garden that few other plants can match. Grasses “finish” sunny gardens, just as ferns “finish” shady gardens. Incorporating grasses and ferns is the mark of a fine garden(er). Color's cool, but texture's tops! When not in bloom, big bluestem has a fine, fountain-type growth habit. Many genetic strains have very cool gray-green foliage and colorful red-yellow joints on their bloom culms.

Dwarf Maiden Grass 'Adiago'

(admittedly, not photographed at its best...but...trust me...)

Dwarf Maiden Grass (Miscanthus sinensis 'Adagio') – Maiden grass is native to Asia and Africa, and one of the most horticulturally-developed genera in the world. Hundreds of M. sinensis cultivars have been developed over the years. A couple of these cultivars have proven to be invasive within U.S. east coast habitats; but not so in south Louisiana. My favorite maiden grass cultivar is 'Adiago,' a dwarf that grows to no more than 3' X 3'....an excellent “finishing” plant for sunny gardens.

Southern Shield Fern

(the Tropical Sage went ahead & seeded itself in)

Southern Shield Fern (Thelyptris kunthii) – A drought/flood-tolerant fern? Yep! This cosmopolitan species is native not only to Louisiana but also to the entire U.S. Gulf South, West Indies, Mexico, Central America, and down through much of South America! Pale-green – bordering on chartreuse-green – matte-finished fronds contrast beautifully with shinier, darker-green shade-loving companions. Toughest Gulf Rim fern you'll ever meet. Half-sun to full shade.

time of the moth . . .

Five-Spotted Sphinx (photo by Steve Boutte)

Thanx to Monica Boutte for passing along

Steve's fine photos....and for getting me to

thinkin' about moths.

Yeah, I know. You love the butterflies but think moths are sort of creepy. After all, no one has exactly jumped at the chance to create a horror movie about a giant butterfly come to kill us all. Yet enter Mothra(!)....if it wasn't for Godzilla that big crazy nocturnal insect woulda sucked every last one of us up thru its proboscis.

big, powerful fliers; sphinx moths are often mistaken

for some sort of crepuscular hummingbirds

(photo by Steve Boutte)

(Sigh) Anyway, it's moth time down South ya'll. In fact, it's Lepidopteran time, as late-summer/early-fall always hosts the largest and most diverse appearances of both butterflies and moths here along the Gulf Rim.

The first time I visited Charlotte Seidenberg's lovely wildlife garden just a couple of blocks away from the Mississippi River in uptown New Orleans, she couldn't/wouldn't get off the subject of moths. I wanted to talk about birds. She was going on and on about her favorite mothing spots “across the lake” (Ponchartrain) and have I ever seen this moth and that moth. Moth-woman!

diurnal and definitely wasp-like, this Clear-winged Moth

defies moth protocol, but has thus far escaped moth-excommunication

(photo by Bill Fontenot)

By the same token, she immediately gained my respect and admiration for digging such decidedly un-sexy creatures (though Steve Boutte's photos, featured here, surely indicate otherwise). So what I guess I mean is that it's refreshing to hang out with people whose fascination with Nature has taken them farther than the typical “gateway species” such as southern magnolia, flowering dogwood, butterflies, hummers, and songbirds.

back to Steve Boutte's fantasmagoric Five-Spotted Sphinx...

larval form of this species is the much-hated ('cept by thousands of species

of spiders, amphibians, reptiles, and birds) Tomato Hornworm

 

In her excellent 1995 book, The Wildlife Garden, Charlotte states that “There are 765 species of butterflies in North America, but 10,500 known species of moths!” Huh? So what's the deal, here? That kind of disparity in species diversity indicates that....hmmmm.....moths must be ecologically important. More important than butterflies perhaps. Important as what? Well, as plant pollinators for starters; and as food items for a massive number of creatures from spiders, toads/frogs, small snakes, lizards/skinks to birds, bats and other mammals of all makes and models.

tiny geometrid moths congregate on our bedroom window

(note reflection of some sort of important television

program happening in lower left....)

I love bird ecology – the way that particular bird species situate themselves within particular habitat types; what all they do there, how they do it, and when they do it. My old college buddy Wylie Barrow is a bird ecologist at the National Wetlands Research Center here in Lafayette. We have a mutual fascination regarding which birds eat what foods and when and where they do it. It was after many hours of conversation – and many more hours of Wylie's fieldwork in the cheniere forests along coastal Cameron parish – that we came to a truly cool conclusion regarding migratory songbirds and the food items which are absolutely crucial to their survival as they make their long twice-yearly treks between the temperate and tropical Americas:

Here in coastal Louisiana, roughly the halfway point in the annual migratory route for numerous species of migratory songbirds, the arrival of the bulk of spring-migrating warblers dovetails perfectly with the peak outbreak of geometrid moth larvae (very tiny white/naked caterpillars or “worms”), which the warblers (and other songbirds) attack with gusto. By summer's end, these same geometrids only now adult moths, are out in profusion. In coastal cheneires, these tiny moths roost beneath the leaves of various plants, especially those of giant ragweed, which develops profuse thickets in coastal Louisiana. So guess what? The same warblers and other songbirds, now with offspring in tow and now coursing southward toward the tropics, stop off at the same coastal habitats and now feast on the same moth species – now adults instead of “worms” – utilizing them as a major/crucial food source in the same way that they did with the larvae in the spring.

It's all just so uncannily amazing.

Once you think about it, however, especially from an evolutionary/survival-of-the-fittest perspective, it becomes apparent that those migratory birds which time their stateside arrivals and departures to coincide with geometrid moth outbreaks are the ones that ultimately survive best, passing their now-hardwired sense of migratory timing on to their descendents via DNA. The same scenario holds true for all traveling animals. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds are another example. How is it that they know to hold off on their northbound trans-gulf spring migration route until stateside native nectar sources such as red buckeye, eastern coralbean, and trumpet honeysuckle come into bloom? Are they geniuses or something? Have they engineered such solutions via computers and think-tanks and what-have-you?

Nope. More like idiot-savants: they just do what their Creator tells them to do. Creation has never stopped, ya'll. If it did, animals would no longer know what to eat and when and where to eat it. No, the process continues, with new life forms evolving by the year...by the day...really, moment to moment in time.

Self-conscious ever-analyzing humans find such revealations “amazing,” “incredible,” and “genius.”

“Meanwhile,” as Bob Dylan sang, “life goes on all around us.” It's just another day in paradise...

Vine Sphinx

(photo by Steve Boutte)

I don't want to end this post without bragging a lil' more on Charlotte Seidenberg and her talents not only as a naturalist but as a writer as well. She ain't no spring chicken (I know she's older than me, for example...) but in her love for all living things she's more like a kid than an adult. She even looks more like a kid than an adult. She grew up but she never grew out of that innate fascination with Nature that all of us are born with. In demeanor, she's on the shy side – unless she's talking or writing about Nature. Then she becomes a firey preacher: “...I defy you not to become as intrigued as I with indigenous plants and animals...I defy you not to be as fascinated as I with the complexity and beauty of our native insect life....My garden is becoming a place for learning about the natural world. And the more I know the more I want to know...” she writes in the introduction of The Wildlife Garden.

I know she'd be embarrassed if she read this; but she echos the sentiments of so many of us, particularly in the darkening times in which we live today.

Charlotte writes from a first-person perspective, peppering her books with personal stories. That's what makes them so repeatedly readable. But then she also researches her topics to within inches of their lives. Check out her The New Orleans Garden (1990) for example. I know she had to be cross-eyed for at least a few months after all the microfiche she must have perused in order to determine earliest dates of introduction for three centuries' worth of the hundreds of plants entering the garden scene in New Orleans. Ditto for The Wildlife Garden. Read 'em; and I defy you to believe otherwise.

Oh, and . . . Long Live the Moth!