Archive for the ‘Discoveries’ Category

Beyond a Collection of Facts

By Clare Crosby

mtnlaurel

I spent my childhood hosting acorn cap tea parties for fairies, scurrying on calloused feet to collect eggs from the chicken coop, and reenacting Little House on The Prairie in the meadow behind my house, just east of Austin, TX. I did not suffer from “Nature Deficit Disorder.”

But as I grew, my interests shifted. I traded the meadow for well-manicured athletic fields and our old pond for swimming pools. My interest in my Central Texas natural surroundings paused around 8 years old. I never figured out what species of oak provided teacups for my parties, only that the caps were nicely proportioned for fairies. Neither did I learn what type of moss my fairies used for seat cushions, only that it opened into minute stars under sprinkled water.

I’m embarrassed now, as a naturalist, to admit that I don’t know even some of the most common species of my home state. This lack of knowledge, however, offers opportunity when I return to Texas from Vermont, the home of my formal ecological education. As I walk old trails and come across a familiar (yet unknown) tree, my inclination is to turn to field guides or a trusted expert to tell me what to call it, who eats it, and what it might reveal about the soil beneath it. In Vermont, I have had a string of wonderful professors and peers to teach me about the natural world, assisted, of course, by an ever-growing library of field guides. I hope to be so lucky again in Texas.

This time around, however, I am resisting my urge to immediately consult the experts. I am allowing myself to make a few discoveries.

So today I went for a walk not with my field guides, but with a pair of scissors and my mom, who admires nature through eyes much more artistic than my own. We collected a few specimens, returned to our kitchen table, and settled in with our pencils, watercolors, and tea. I chose specimens that were familiar from childhood memories, but not known to me as a naturalist.

I watched my mom lovingly render each thorn on a briar that had caused me many childhood tears. My old hatred melted into fascination, then respect. Inspired, I shifted my focus to the specimens before me.

I found that Texas mountain laurel—whose “hot beans,” my brothers knew, heat up enough when rubbed on rough stone to induce shrieks from little sisters—holds its leaves into late December. The terminal leaflet, at least in the sample I selected, lists to one side. The woody, wrinkled seedpods are difficult to open before their time and the beans within, fire engine red in my memory, can also be nearly black.

elmleaves

As I sketched a species of elm, whose name I do not know, but which grew in the front yard of my childhood home, I noted that the bases of the small leaves are not dramatically asymmetrical like the Vermont species of elm. The delicate twigs of a sapling bend substantially at each minuscule leaf bud. Both the green and yellow leaves are sandpapery. The largest brown patches appeared confined by the leaves’ venation.

Perhaps I could have learned most of this from a book, a class, or a friend. I would have missed some details, though, along with an opportunity for connection.

Often as a naturalist I have learned only the characteristics that will allow me to distinguish one plant from others. This is, of course, useful. However, we protect what we care about and we care more when we have some sense of ownership or a personal connection beyond a collection of facts. So today, with my mom, I wanted to get to know my childhood acquaintances more intimately, moving past the strictly functional. I wanted to find companions for my fairy teacups and warm eggs. While it may not be a skill to add to my resume, I know that this afternoon spent sketching with my mom has made me a more inspired steward of the world around me.

In addition to being a Field Naturalist and Ecological Planning student, Clare Crosby is a connoisseur of board games. 

What’s in Your Backpack?

Rattling My Bones

connor

Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, the objects cradled in Connor Stedman’s excited hands burned with sentimental value. Their glow reflected in Connor’s eyes and didn’t flicker for an instant upon the delivery of my first question.

“So, what are they?”

To the untrained eye, they were two pieces of wood roughly the size and shape of tongue depressors, but slightly heftier and square at the ends. Connor explained it was a set of bones: A historically Irish one-handed musical instrument that is played by holding one bone stationary while rattling the other bone against it.

While the traditional instrument was made from sheep’s bones, Connor’s version originated as the South American tree palo santo, or “holy wood” in Spanish. Palo santo’s use as a good luck charm and a cleanser of bad energy dates back to the Inca era. Connor says that he’s never heard of another pair of bones made from palo santo.

Connor carved his bones in anticipation of a local visit by Irish bard Gerry Brady, who described bones as “the only instrument you can play with a pint in the other hand”. Gerry blessed this set of bones himself. Read More

The Burlington Naturalist Scavenger Hunt Series: Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland

A special series of blog posts brought to you by Liz Brownlee 
The Burlington Naturalist Scavenger Hunt Series: Discover the area’s hidden gems.  Hone your naturalist skills.  Learn to see the treasures along every walking path, trail, and creek.
This series of scavenger hunts is a chance to get outside, look closely at the world around you, and enjoy nature.  The hunts are designed for budding naturalists of any age.
 
Hunt I: Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland
 
Cruise east, away from the noise of Burlington. Slip south of Highway Two, curving along Hinesburg Road onto Van Slicken Road.  Pass the oldest house in Williston – light grey stones, hand hewn in the 18th century.  Crunch onto the gravel of the parking lot, leave your car (or bike!), and step into the wildness at Muddy Brook Wetland.
Cattails dance on the winter wind, and signs of animals layer this scrubby landscape. To the casual visitor, Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland rejuvenates and relaxes.  It is a deep breath at the end of the day.
For the budding naturalist equipped with this scavenger hunt, the wetland also offers mid-winter wonder.  Look closely at the ground, the bent grasses, the flowing stream. Find and learn to identify scat, deciduous trees, nests, and other natural treasures. Enjoy!
Find the first scavenger hunt here: Scavenger Hunt- Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland

Five Bodies

by Danielle Owczarski

I squint as I gaze offshore at the landslide scars jacketing the slopes of the Adirondack Mountains, and become cognizant of the illusion in quiet looking mountaintops, in reality, stark and frigid underneath the winter’s languid sun. I lift the camera to my eye and focus on the lone silhouette of a twisted black willow frozen to the beach, beaten by icy waves. I am in awe of its ability to survive, alone and isolated at the interface of water and earth, defying death.

I am standing on a deserted public beach in Burlington, VT, situated west of the bike path and the Burlington Electric Department. My husband and I, dog in tow and cameras in hand, are in pursuit of stories told by the natural world; those neglected by people behind weatherproofed door jams. During the winter months, protected by the shelter of my apartment, I cannot tune out the arctic breeze whooshing against my door. I imagine the biting wind flowing through my veins, breathing life into my limbs, pushing me to be a part of the world beyond my warm, snug box. Once outside, the indoor fog in my mind lifts and my periphery expands initiating a new awareness. I enter the natural world to feel alive. Read More

Random Nature Questions from a Non-naturalist

by Audrey Clark

My stepbrother lounged in front of the television watching a reality TV show about mining in Alaska.  I sat on the couch, facing away from the television, drinking tea and reading a book on visionary scientists.

After a while, I started to wonder what my stepbrother wondered about.

“Caleb?”

“Yeah.”

“What questions do you have about nature?”

Silence.

Then, in an outpouring I wouldn’t expect from a non-naturalist, let alone one who was watching TV:

“Can plants feel pain?  How does a woodpecker not get a concussion?  How do you tell how old a tree is without cutting it down?  How long does it take ants to build an ant hill?  Where does honey come from?  Like what part of the bee?  What’s the best way to survive a bear attack?  Can animals get sick from drinking bad water like we can?  Why do monkeys have better immune systems?”

In honor of my stepbrother, here are my best attempts at answering these questions: Read More

The Charisma of the Drab

Wandering down Boulevard Saint Germain near Notre Dame in Paris, I passed a store window filled with insect specimens on display. The stylish sign read Claude et Nature (Claude and Nature).

I veered into the store, astonished that such a place exists. A small stuffed bison (small for a bison, that is) stood in the center of the store, next to a case of fossils. On the right were black cases full of artfully arranged insect specimens. On the left were fossils, shells, stuffed birds, skulls (human and weasel, among others), and sea stars. All were perfectly preserved and arranged, and neatly labeled with the species name and country of origin.

I spent some time perusing the insects—they had an uncommon family of weevils!—then wandered into the fossil section, then back to the insects.

Other customers were in the store, buying up iridescent blue morpho butterflies, flashy rhinoceros beetles with horny ornamentations, and large walking stick insects, which look just like knobby sticks with legs. All of the creatures on sale were eye-catching in some way. I found myself disappointed that there weren’t more insects with mundane appearances. I craved some little drab ones so I could learn about their diversity. One of the most beautiful insects I’ve ever seen was brown and white and hardly bigger than a pinhead (a lacebug, in case you are curious). The insects present were in families already familiar to me.

This led me to ponder one of the differences between amateur and expert naturalists: level of attraction to charismatic megafauna.

Amateur naturalists and non-naturalists flock to the Serengeti to see lions and elephants, even just for a few hours. Few head to sandy beaches in Massachusetts to see tiger beetles. And when they buy preserved insects, they buy the largest, most colorful individuals. Experts and devoted amateurs, on the other hand, may be eager to see lions and tigers, but they are also there for the naked mole rats and dung beetles. Why?

I believe the answer has to do with memory and learning. An inherent characteristic of many animals is that they easily remember something bright, large, or dangerous. This is what is exploited by the wasp’s black and yellow warning coloration: remember me, don’t bother me, I sting. Young blue jays who eat a monarch butterfly and then vomit refuse to eat a second monarch because they recognize it. They may also refuse to eat other orange and black butterflies, whether or not those butterflies are actually noxious.

Just because I can easily remember what a blue morpho butterfly looks like doesn’t mean I’ll want a dead one hanging on my wall. A blue morpho is a beautiful blue that flashes sometimes deep sea blue, sometimes robin’s egg blue. I enjoy seeing beautiful things—that’s why I want it on my wall.

But I could just as well hang an iridescent blue hubcap on my wall; why a butterfly? Now my answer comes to the crux: because our love of living things is inherent.

This love is called biophilia, a term coined by E.O. Wilson and expounded upon by him and Stephen Kellert. This is why I find myself drawn to watch the fish in my aquarium and end up with a stupid, happy grin on my face. This is why people spend 30 Euros on a dead long-horned beetle (in spite of being dead, the beetle retains its living appearance when preserved).

I think experts have these three things—memory, appreciation of beauty, and biophilia—in larger or more finely tuned doses. Entomologists know and remember much more about insects than the average Schmoe, so they are more likely to remember the little drab ones as well as the big sexy beasts. They can notice more about a lacebug because they already know what it is. Their appreciation is honed to subtler beauty.

I have made it sound like being an expert is better than being an amateur in terms of seeing and loving the beauty of the world. Not so. Experts in the beauty of soil chemistry may be amateurs in the intricacies of maggot hibernation or cloud formation. They may not even see other parts of the world in any depth. Amateurs may be able to see and appreciate a broader slice of the world because they do not dig too deep a tunnel. I think there is a world between the loud blue morphos and the rare weevils where subtle beauty can be found and cherished.

On my last night in Paris I walked to Notre Dame, then across the Seine to the Hotel de Ville. There was an ice-skating rink set up in the square and a crowd of bundled Parisians whirling round and round. Some wobbled and held onto their equally wobbly friends, laughing and crashing into the wall around the rink. Others raced in weaving lines between the wobblers, or twirled on their blade tips in the center, muscular and graceful. The amateurs enjoyed laughing with their friends. For the experts, it may have been getting a move right. Both the amateurs and the experts were paying attention to the beauty of the experience, be it loud or subtle.

Happy Maggot Land

I came in to my cubicle at school last week to find a maggot squinching across my desk. After a moment of shock and disgust, I thought, “Ooh! What a nice present!”

You know you’re a naturalist when finding a maggot among your things makes you happy.

I’ve been collecting insects, so I naturally thought that one of my classmates left the plump grub for me to add to my collection. Surely it hadn’t come from the pile of soil samples I had on my desk, nor the cache of snacks I had in the cabinet. But yes, it had. I had collected a handful of red oak acorns and left them in an open plastic bag on my desk. Later, when I was working at my computer, I looked over and saw a pale yellow grub with a red face squinching around inside the slippery plastic among the acorns. I examined the nuts and discovered a hole in one of them, about 3 millimeters across.

That was when I got really excited. All I had to do was feed the little creatures and keep them happy, and I’d eventually find out what species they were. So I dug around in the faculty kitchen for a plastic takeout container, poked some holes in the lid with a pen, dumped my soil samples into it, and dropped the acorns and grubs on top. The grubs promptly burrowed out of sight. I labeled the whole thing with a permanent marker, “Happy Maggot Land, Please do not disturb.”

Then I started to worry about my maggots. What if the soil wasn’t enough to make them happy? Did they need something to eat?

I visited Jeff Hughes, the director of the Field Naturalist Program, who recommended I look in Tracks & Sign of Insects and Other Invertebrates, a recent book by Charley Eiseman, an alumnus of our program, and Noah Charney. I thumbed through and found the name of my maggots: long-snouted acorn weevils.

The female of this beetle species saws a hole in the shell of a red or white oak acorn and lays her eggs inside. The eggs hatch in a few days and the larvae eat the acorn meat. Beetles undergo metamorphosis like butterflies do; caterpillars are butterfly larvae, maggots are beetle or fly larvae. They molt five times inside the acorn and then leave their nutty shelter and burrow into the soil to pupate. Pupation in beetles is analogous to the caterpillar cocoon: a usually immobile stage of metamorphosis just before emergence as an adult. In the spring, adults emerge from the soil and fly off to mate before beginning the cycle again.

I have named my maggot friends Weevil Kneevil, Do No Weevil, and Axis of Weevil, but I have no intention of keeping them. I plan on releasing them back into the forest to continue to parasitize on oaks. It’s not because I don’t like oaks, but because I like ecology. These weevils create food for other species: one genus of ant lives inside acorns abandoned by weevils and eats the leftover meat. Squirrels eat acorns sometimes just for the grubs inside—that’s one reason why you might find partially eaten acorns.

Having maggots as pets helps me see more when I go outside. I see potential Happy Maggot Lands everywhere—inside plant stems and fruit, in dying tree trunks, and in the soil under my feet. A new way of knowing the world around me has opened up.

Searching for Squirrels, Finding the Night

Written by Rachel Garwin

A week ago, I joined my friend Teage (a Field Naturalist alum) and a group of his UVM students on an “owl prowl,” Teage’s own euphonic term for a night hike.  We gathered at the edge of Centennial Woods, where gauzy tufts of white pines and bare hardwood twigs strained the clear moonlight.  A wall of darkness met our eye-level gaze, while the raspy sounds of drying beech leaves in the understory added to a sense of disquiet.  The primary goal for the evening was to listen for flying squirrels and call them in.  Before we entered the darkness, however, we observed a requisite pre-night-hike ritual.

Since leaving a well-lit environment too soon for the darkened woods might lead to undesirable confrontations with tree trunks and branches, Teage informed us about night vision while our eyes adjusted.  Human eyes require 20-30 minutes to become accustomed to low light conditions.  Coincidentally, it finally gets dark about 30 minutes after the sun first sets.  The students oohed appreciatively at the revealed secret of the universe.

I considered Teage’s implication, reflecting on whether twilight length was consistent enough to provide a uniform selective pressure.  The period between sunset and full dark (termed “Civil Twilight”) varies with latitude and season, as it reflects the time the sun takes to drop 6° below the horizon.  On the same night, civil twilight in Burlington, VT, lasted 9 minutes longer than in Bogota, Colombia, a city near the equator.  Atmospheric conditions and local weather can also affect our perception of available light from the setting sun, which increases variability.  Pole-to-pole variation aside, the length of civil twilight appears consistent enough at low and middle latitudes to suggest the plausibility of the relationship (though it does not prove it).  What mechanisms would select for correctly timed physiological processes?  Perhaps some hairy, fanged predator was involved?

Suddenly, I heard Teage ask, “Rachel, do you have anything to add before we head into the woods?”

Bits and pieces of the night hikes I used to lead rushed to mind.  Out of the torrent, what would be most relevant to this group of students?  Our pupils dilate to accept more light, just like a camera aperture changes size.  Our eyes comprise not only lenses (e.g., the cornea) that focus light, but also a receptor structure (the retina), which translates received light into neural signals our brains can understand.  The retina, in turn, is made of two types of cells: rods and cones.  Rods are far more abundant (about 17 for every cone cell); however, the cones are concentrated in the center of the retina.  Responsible for receiving color and fine resolution, cone cells are better suited for working in high-light environments.  Rod cells cannot understand color, but they register exceptionally more light than cone cells.  The operational ranges of the two cells overlap to some degree; in true twilight, both cells help parse the dim picture before us.

Instead of a long-winded physiology lesson, I settled on a practical and safety-oriented piece of advice.  “If you’re having trouble finding the trail in the dark, try using your peripheral vision.  Your rod cells—the receptor cells that are really good at picking up light—are arranged on the periphery of your retina, so that part of your eye sees better in low light conditions.”  With that, we were off.

As the trail contoured the side of a hill, I followed it with my feet as much as with my eyes.  Hard packed dirt spotted with only a few fallen leaves firmly resisted my feet, whereas my wandering steps sunk into noisy leaf litter.  After a few quiet minutes, we angled from the trail and picked our way down the gentle slope.  Looking out of the bottom of my eyes—as if I wore tiny slivers of half-moon spectacles—proved the best technique for avoiding the tangle of hardy ferns and woody shrubs.  Teage motioned for us to stop; this would be our first attempt to call the flying squirrels.

I listened intently.  Wind gusted through the upper boughs of white pines and red maples.  Still-hanging, papery beech leaves rubbed together, sending bursts of unwarranted excitement running through my mind.  Sirens howled close-by.  One of Teage’s students fired up the iPod, and high-pitched “chip chip chip” alarm calls radiated into the night to serve as bait.  I cupped my hands around my ears to exclude the droning car engines circling the outskirts of the woods.  Still nothing.  Perhaps the squirrels’ huge eyes, dominated by rod cells, picked us out as we muddled through their habitat.

I relaxed my eyes and marveled at the increased input from my peripheral vision.  Intermediate wood ferns stood distinct from the ground; before, they had dissolved into the dimness.  It seemed we had been away from bright light long enough for rhodopsin, a photopigment in the rod cells, to build up.  Rhodopsin and other photopigments in the cone cells help increase light sensitivity within the receptor cells, though at different rates and degrees. Cone cells, which never develop the light sensitivity attained by rod cells, take only 5-7 minutes.  Rod cells, however, may need over 30-45 minutes to achieve full light sensitivity.  In the presence of too much light, these photosensitive compounds break down; enough time in dark conditions is thus needed for photopigments to build up to a functional level.

The flying squirrels proved reticent, so we walked through the underbrush back to the trail.  The undergrads hesitated less between steps, and they seemed to run into fewer obstacles.  After walking a circuit across Centennial Brook and back along the lower slope on the other side, we paused to make their eyes’ night adaption more explicit.  Crouched beneath a closed hemlock canopy, we covered our left eyes and stared at the flame of Teage’s lighter with our right ones.  I smiled, startled by the pervasiveness of the “Pirate Patch” myth.  As lore would have it, pirates did not wear eye patches to cover gaping eye sockets.  Instead, they kept one eye in darkness to allow them to see below and above deck without needing time for rhodopsin to develop.  While no historical evidence supports this story, the folks at MythBusters put their weight behind its plausibility and likely had a role in its propagation.

Teage flicked off the lighter, and we switched our “eye patch” to the light-blinded eye.  Most students commented they could see more precisely with their night-adapted eye than with the light-blinded one.  Removing my hand, I winked back and forth at the hemlock boughs above.  Sure enough, my left eye discerned individual twigs against the dark sky; my right eye saw only fuzzy dimness.  While not proof that Blackbeard covered one eye so he could rush up to a darkened deck from a lamp-lit cabin, our experience supported the possibility.

We emerged from beneath the dense hemlock canopy onto a grassy hillside, where moon-cast shadows danced at our sides.  No longer relying on peripheral vision, the students carelessly walked down the trail towards home.  I smiled.  An hour ago, they had hung together timidly in similar light levels, still uncomfortable with moderate darkness.  Now they practically ran.  While the flying squirrels had remained elusive, the students found something more powerful: the ability to stride confidently through the night.

Will You Need a Warmer Hat This Winter?

by Carly Brown

A few weeks ago I tied my laces, donned my hat, and set off for a long run down Spear Street, from Burlington to Charlotte and back again. Partway through my run I saw it crossing the road without any signs of hurry, proudly displaying its black and rusty fur: the woolly bear (Pyrrharctia isabella). I immediately looked up to check for oncoming traffic, then dodged out into the road, lunged, and swiped the fuzzy caterpillar. Without breaking stride I carefully set it on the roadside it was moseying to. Some feet down the road I repeated my behavior. My mind clicked back to middle school when I learned that a long rusty stripe means a mild winter. Is that true? And what are woolly bears when they are not cute, furry, caterpillars? Never mind what passing cars must think about my woolly bear lunge.

Wolly bear (Pyrrharctia isabella) caterpillar

Wolly bear caterpillar (courtesy IronChris, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:IC_Pyrrharctia_isabella_caterpillar.JPG)

The woolly bears that we see in the fall will overwinter as caterpillars under plant debris in the cold snow environment. In order to survive the winter chill, the caterpillars produce a substance, called a cryoprotectant, which acts much like antifreeze. When spring begins to show its face, the caterpillars emerge from the leaf litter, begin to eat new plant growth, and then form a pupa to eventually emerge as the Isabella tiger. This moth is a relatively nondescript yellow-brown moth with several darker spots on its wings. Woolly bears have two generations per year. This means that the newly emerged moth lays its eggs, which hatch to complete the cycle through woolly bear and moth in the summer. The eggs that these new moths lay will hatch into the woolly bears that overwinter.

Isabella tiger moth (Pyrrhartia isabella)

The Isabella tiger moth (Pyrrhartia isabella) (courtesy Steve Jurvetson; http://flickr.com/photos/44124348109@N01/501714313)

Do these fuzzy caterpillars tell us something about the winter to come? The legend is that the longer the rusty brown stripe on a woolly bear, the milder the winter. Conversely, a narrow rusty band predicts a harsher winter. There have been a few attempts to correlate the size of the stripe with winter conditions. One of the most well known studies was by biologist Charles Corran in the 1940s. For the first few years of his study, the prediction of the woolly bear was correct, but there was more than enough evidence to disprove the common myth in the years to follow. Some suggest that the length of the rusty stripe may actually tell us something about the harshness of the winter and spring that occurred the year before.

I know deep down that the woolly bear myth is just that—a myth. That doesn’t stop me from doing a few extra lunges to save a woolly bear or two and check out the length of the rusty stripe. Curious about what this winter will bring? I suggest that you join me in the woolly bear lunge.

Chicken of the Woods

by Becky Cushing

Frog legs, rabbit, octopus, sea lamprey: Tastes just like chicken. But a mushroom? That might take some convincing.

Purple toadstools dot moist ground. Tiny aliens emerge from rotting wood. A stalk shoots from leaf litter on the forest floor. Like Alice’s Wonderland, the damp woods in and around Burlington are splattered with wild mushrooms. While identification of the 70,000+ worldly fungi species (many more unnamed) might seem like a daunting task, learning one or two of the “showy” local varieties can be a good way to get started.

Two weeks ago I was exploring Centennial Woods, a natural area managed by the University of Vermont, when I caught a flash of bright orange through the tall white pine and maple tree trunks. Like a reflective safety vest, it stood out against the earthtone browns and greens of the surrounding woods. Squinting harder I could make out suspended shelves attached to one side of the rotting trunk. Getting closer I clearly saw half a dozen two-toned fanned layers, a giant-sized carnation corsage.

Becky with her find.

Becky with her find.

Crouching down I realized this mass was more than a foot wide and each 3-6 inch orange shelf layer was outlined along the waving free edge by a pale yellow, like fresh cow’s milk. Subtle web-like strands of white mycelia penetrated cracks in the dead trunk where, hidden from view, they obtained nutrients through decomposition. If this tree had been alive, it most certainly would have minded this organism’s parasitic affinity for heartwood. As it were, the dead trunk suited the mushroom’s role as a saprophyte, or decomposer.

I recognized this rubbery fungus. I had seen it before. Some call it “sulphur shelf” or “chicken mushroom.” Wikipedia even suggests “quesadilla of the woods” — a bit of a stretch if you ask me. It was Laetiporus sulphureus or “chicken of the woods.”

I’m not a mushroom expert. In fact, I first learned about “chicken of the woods” at an informal dinner party: I thought I was eating chicken. And yes, with loads of butter, it tasted much like the popular poultry. Luckily the skilled chef had several decades of mushroom foraging under his belt but it leads me to an important point: Never ever eat a mushroom without an extremely confident identification (which is usually preceded by many years of foraging experience). For others, past mistakes have caused disintegrated livers or failed kidneys. With 70,000 to 1 odds? It’s just not a good idea.