Oct 29th, 13
By Rob Rich
The flaring wings or the breezy wisps of aspen and birch are few today. Gone are the flights of spring, but at Mobbs Farm in Jericho autumn is in flight. Apples and acorns plunk down with minimal elegance, but the swirling leaves trade the birds for brightness in the distant wood. And across the rusty meadow, others waft down lightly before winter. This is a day for milkweed, hinting at flurries to come.
They glide with a powdery lift by a pappus – the Greek for “old man” – providing cottony parachutes for each kernel. Soft, green pods once held them moist and tight, but now they are freed as they crack in the crisp, dry wind. The pods tear apart, opening for each white pappus to glisten like eyes in the gaze of the sun. They lift with a grace that seems to laugh at gravity. But failing to plant in the sky, they finally fall. I wantonly tear at some unopened pods, eager to help the silky strands find a resting place on earth.
Oct 24th, 13
By Matt Cahill
I spent the afternoon sorting a tangle of dead bodies. Their legs were all snarled in a heap. I had to pry each little corpse apart, delicately, one at a time. Down the barrel of my microscope the petri dish was filled with yellow stripes and cellophane wings, stray heads and dispossessed parts. How lovely, I thought, to see nature up close.
Then in the middle of the pile, underneath the furry abdomen of a bee, a set of small black legs began to wiggle. These insects had been stewing for two weeks, ever since I had swept them up in my net from the late-summer goldenrod and dumped their squirming bodies into a calm bath of ethanol. They should have been very much dead.
But the legs kept wiggling. Pushing the bee aside, a small wasp head emerged, yellow-painted with large black eyes, quivering. The tiny wasp crawled up on the pile of bodies like a shipwrecked sailor on a sandy shore. I shook the dish to knock it back under.
“Savage! What gives you the right to kill?” the small wasp yelled when it surfaced again. Read More
Oct 19th, 13
By Kelly Finan
In the fading light of mid-October I’m suffering from apple exhaustion.
Apples floated before my eyes as the first fallen leaves dusted my route from Vermont to Pennsylvania. I raided my father’s apple tree with such tenacity that he demanded I wear a helmet, then I attacked the neighbor’s trees. I made applesauce until I ran out of mouths to feed and canning jars to fill. Bursting with pride (and applesauce), I shuttled the remaining fruit back to Burlington, where it became the star of a dessert for the season’s first potluck.
Upon arriving at the event, I unveiled my creation and placed it among the other dishes. It accompanied…
…three apple pies. And nothing else.
The potluck’s four guests ate only apple desserts. In true Burlington spirit, someone arrived with a quinoa dish, but the damage was done. I was sick of apples.
But like a true naturalist, when I’m sad, I look to botany for comfort. I harkened back to a time when fruit was a buffet of discovery, not a monoculture of boredom. And I remembered this:
From a botanist’s perspective, I had been looking at the apple upside-down. Read More
Oct 16th, 13
The new web site for the Field Naturalist and Ecological Planning programs features our graduate explorations and research at the intersection of nature and human nature.
On the site you’ll discover who we are and what we do in our two programs, including research projects this year ranging from the High Sierra to the Maine Coast. Find us online at:
Oct 15th, 13
By Laura Yayac
The orbs dangle, pale green with darker stripes, like adorable baby watermelons on a vine of curls. Each one rests under its own leaf awning. Get closer, though, and you’ll see that this is no ordinary miniature fruit. Covered in spikes and ready to impale, it is at once magical and ominous. And that’s not the last of its tricks.
My encounter with the wild cucumber (Echinocystis lobata), a cousin of the ordinary garden variety, released my inner nature nerd. Are the wild cucumber fruits edible? If many plants rely on animals to eat their fruit and disperse the seeds, why the thorns on this fruit? How else would the seeds spread? I watched the crazy fruit over several weeks as it opened and split at the bottom – what triggered that process?
The answers were fittingly stellar for such a spectacular fruit. Read More
Oct 7th, 13
By Bryan Pfeiffer
An entire season of fall foliage flares from a single plant. Find your fireworks on Hobblebush (Viburnum alnifolium). This understory gem may be the perfect shrub. It adds food and habitat diversity – for nesting birds and other wildlife – beneath forest canopy. And its blooms play a crafty game of deception each spring. Read More