My Own Mini Greenway

My garden is a mess. I'm fine with it.

Inspired by the Greenway and the diversity of plants found there, I determined to create my own little patch of native greenery in my backyard, to support the bees, birds, butterflies, and other wildlife that had been displaced by housing developments. Amid a sea of turfgrass, I painstakingly dug out a 6' x 9' rectangle and planted twelve haphazardly-chosen native forbs and grasses in a sloppy grid (no designer me, I was more interested in each plant as a specimen rather than a player in a harmonious symphony of color, scent, and texture). There was a clump of Big Bluestem, and Butterfly Milkweed in the front corner. Wild Bergamot, Culver's Root, a couple of "nativars" selected before I understood the difference between them and their wild counterparts.

The following year I replicated the rectangle with a new set of plants, and again the following year. Now I have a long, rectangular strip of a mini-semi-prairie. It's a little weedy, and very overgrown (let's just say my estimation of space requirements for individual plants was optimistic). Some plants have thrived and spread: the Gray-headed Coneflower gets a pass for being my favorite, but the Compass Plant has been making some moves as well, since establishing itself. The Wild Bergamot, on the other hand, lives up to its reputation as a rapidly-spreading mint and is "contained" with extreme prejudice.

Every week or so I will desultorily pull some less-welcome plants from the garden area: clover and crabgrass, and many of the volunteer seedlings that threaten to crown out some of the more dainty specimens. I will cut back some of the stems of Ironweed or Queen of the Prairie that are getting too close to their neighbors for comfort. But for the most part I let it be.

It was not planned for year-round color or beauty, though I try to plant flowers that will bloom throughout the growing season for early and late pollinators. There is no rhyme or reason to color or placement; it's a jumble. But I love it.

I love to circle the garden and listen to the buzz of activity as the bees and wasps circle endlessly around whatever flowers are most tantalizing that day. I love catching the occasional skipper on the Liatris, or following the Monarch from milkweed to milkweed as she lays her eggs, sometimes swooping toward a different plant with similar leaves before quickly rerouting. I love finding the Camouflaged Loopers on the Coneflowers (and on the Rattlesnake Master this year!), and so, so many different kinds of bees.

I love to think of my yard as a welcoming place, an area that I am happy to share with other living things. So much of our culture's "perfect" yard is the result of driving out any life except our own; an intolerance for sharing "our" space with anything else. What a sad and cramped world that seems!

 

Romance, Wool Carder Bee-Style

As I have occasionally let slip in previous posts, I have a soft spot for some of our most reviled non-native species and tend to cast an eye in their direction frequently when walking along the trail. The bright yellow flowers of low-growing Birdsfoot Trefoil (Lotus corniculatus) often grab my attention, and I enjoy seeing some of the small bees (generally also non-native) that can be seen hard at work prying into the tight petals of the flowers ins search of nectar and pollen.

Dropping down to take a few shots of what appeared to be a wool carder bee (possibly Anthidium oblongatum, Oblong Wool Carder), I smiled to myself as the green-eyed bee moved from flower to flower in the small clump of Trefoil.

Suddenly, another insect made a beeline [sorry] for the first. seemingly dropping from the sky and zeroing in directly on the first bee as its head was buried in a flower. The encroacher clasped its back and held it immobile. Was this a bee assault? A murder in progress?

Oh wait. They seemed to be the same species and--what's this? A little contact at the tips of the abdomens? It appears that a male bee, unceremoniously and without the slightest attempt at woo, saw an opportunity and took it. Surprised but unabashed, I continued watching as the pair remained immobile for 20 or 30 seconds, save for the male's antennae.

I left the encounter a little unsettled at the odd and seemingly hostile scene I had witnessed. The female bee gets no say in the matter? No displays, no demonstrations of fitness or other performance from the male to earn the female's favor?

This is, apparently, a common tactic among wool carder bees. Males are very territorial and will patrol their patch of flowers, driving out other male wool carders and sometimes even other species. Females tolerate what looks like a brazen assault in exchange for access to these high-quality foraging areas where they don't have to compete as much with other bees snaffling up all the pollen. Males and females will mate several times with multiple partners over the course of their lives; with the last male to mate with a female being the most likely to win out in the fertilization game.

Because of this mating system, male wool carder bees are generally larger than females, in contrast to the size difference in the opposite direction for other types of bees. Smaller males may still deploy sneak-matings with females successfully without holding territory of their own, though they find less opportunity to do so.

What Does the Bee Think?

There are so many little lives going about their business on the Greenway, every day. The vast majority are unseen: underground, under cover, hiding themselves away from predatory eyes or keeping cool in the shadows during the already-steaming summer mornings.

We can, if we take the time, capture a moment shared with the insect inhabitants. A dusting of pollen shaken loose by a perched metallic green sweat bee. The anticipatory hover of a honeybee before it lands on a thistle. A skipper, surveying its surroundings from a lofty pinnacle. A weathered Monarch, visiting its companion milkweed flowers. 

Is the sweat bee enjoying the bits of pollen as it eats? Does the pollen of different flowers have different flavors, and does it prefer some to others?

 

Does the honeybee feel anticipation as it approaches a nectar-heavy flower? Is it mindful of the bounty it will bring back to the hive, feeling a part of the community with an important role?

 

What thoughts are in the skipper's head as it pauses momentarily in the sun? Does an insect have thoughts? What is it seeing as it rests, exposed, above the foliage?

 

Does the Monarch feel its worn-out wings laboring against the air? Does it understand that it is nearing the end of its life, and feel an urgency to complete whatever lepidopteran life events that remain? Or is it simply looking for that next sweet hit of nectar, proboscis unfurling in anticipation?

I don't know. Scientists perhaps have some ideas. I can imagine, but these little nervous systems and sensory organs are so utterly foreign to ours, and imagination so constrained by our human experiences and expectations, that these brief, one-sided moments of observation will have to suffice.