Wishful Blinking

Wishful Blinking

Alas, not a firefly,
But the lights of a car passing by.

Eric R. Eaton

Artistic License

Our bathroom, small as it is, has a moth and butterfly theme. It is my partner’s doing, with her selection of the shower curtain, and arrangement of the poster and pictures I brought to the party when we moved in together. It makes for colorful accents to the white tiles, countertop, and light gray paint job, done rather hastily by the last owner it would appear. What I find most fascinating are the flaws in the art, done with intention.

The shower curtain is a subdued, matte, silvery gray nylon, with eleven different moths, and one butterfly, printed repeatedly. The renderings are surprisingly accurate, representing actual, existing species. They are oriented in different directions and arranged such that the repeating pattern is disguised. You have to exit the room and stand a bit out in the short hallway to get the full picture.

The moths and butterfly on the curtain are to scale, as near as I can tell. All are perfect except for the Luna Moth, the largest one, which has prominent nicks and tears in its pale green wings with a streaming, creased and curled tail on each hind wing. This is a frequent condition of older, living Luna Moths, so it heightens the realism.

Opposite the sink, the mirror and rail of lights above it, and the commode, hangs a vertical, framed poster of colorful butterflies, with a few moths thrown in, on a pure white background. They are arranged in a radiating pattern, oriented north, northeast, or northwest. In contrast to the shower curtain, this is a photo, or photos, of real insects, preserved in the classic wings-open-at-ninety-degrees pose. They are not to scale, which suggests that the entire poster is a mosaic of individual photos.

Flanking the poster are smaller, framed pictures I cut from old magazines. They represent the paintings of the late John Cody, descendant of Buffalo Bill. He specialized in painting giant silkmoths, mostly tropical moths with broad wings, and sometimes long, flowing tails. The Luna Moth is one example of that group, collectively known as Saturniidae.

Giant silkmoths live short adult lives. Days, maybe a couple of weeks at most. They do not even feed, lacking the proboscis that most moths and butterflies possess, coiled beneath their chins when not in use to sip nectar. The silkmoths burn fat reserves they accrued in the caterpillar stage. Cody reared most of his moth models, from cocoons he imported. It was the only way to guarantee perfect specimens with pristine, vibrant colors.

Staring at the poster while on the throne one day, I noticed something I had been oblivious to previously: Every single specimen is missing its antennae. The abdomens were missing from the gaudy, metallic blue Morpho butterflies, but it is standard practice to remove that body part from specimens. As Morphos decompose, the oily fats in the abdomen ooze onto the wings, staining them and masking the famous metallic sheen that makes those butterflies so coveted by collectors. I have only seen intact Morphos as living individuals flying through indoor butterfly exhibits at zoos.

The antennae of butterflies poses no such problem in compromising the color of the specimen. Why remove them, then, from either the insect or the photo of it? Did the artist think the slender filaments were somehow too distracting, and in the interest of cosmetics needed pruning? There are not even tweezers in our medicine cabinet for eyebrow plucking.

I find it difficult to enjoy the poster now, with that bit of tragic information now indelibly etched in my mind. It seems a little faded, or dull, and imparts a tinge of sadness that the maker felt another creature needs to be “improved” by his hand. The title of the poster is “Flights of Fancy,” but the fancy seems tarnished now. I increasingly find myself studying Cody’s paintings instead, where all is well, and he has even put them in a more natural setting, on foliage with a black or colored background. Their wings droop, as they do in life, and the magnificent, feathery antennae are still there.

Grand Finale

Versute Sharpshooter (leafhopper), Graphocephala versuta

Every bugwatcher knows it’s coming in the late fall, and both delights in it, and mourns for the lost spring and summer, quickly fading from memory. That encore of insect abundance, from heavy, arthritic grasshoppers lumbering up wooden fences, to sun-seeking lady beetles, eager to find snug crevices to pack themselves into for the approaching winter.

Differential Grasshopper, Melanoplus differentialis, male.

Multicolored Asian Lady Beetles, Harmonia axyridis, nestle in bark furrows on a tree.

This year, here in Leavenworth, Kansas, the Indigenous Summer has been long, hot, and hopelessly dry. It seems to matter little to most of the insects, but birds stopped visiting our feeders. We saw dozens of gulls passing over for a couple of days, though, bright white against an azure sky, the wind speeding them along.

Juvenile Tuftlegged Orbweaver, Mangora placida

The air is thick with the exuberance of the minute, now that the larger butterflies are scarce, no longer competing for our attention. Dreamcatcher spider orbs snag the micro-confetti of aphids, leafhoppers, and gnats that are on the wing, or that get torn from their perches by the stiff, incessant wind.

Cloudless Sulphur, Phoebis sennae, female.

Falling leaves jerk my eyes in their direction, on the off chance that they are butterflies after all, like Eastern Comma or Question Mark, or the less common Goatweed Leafwings. Leaves that rocket from the ground skyward are grasshoppers sporting autumn yellow, orange, or black hind wings. The largest ones, with clear wings, that land in trees, are bird grasshoppers.

American Bird Grasshopper, Schistocerca americana.

Political campaign signs in our front yard are sometimes briefly occupied by insects or spiders. The spiders try to balloon off, or seek shelter in the little tunnels of the corrugated plastic. I like to think that they are all signaling their approval, but they are actually endorsing the more natural state of our property, our decision to not use chemical treatments of any kind, and otherwise steward the place through benign neglect.

Microleafhopper, Erythroneura calycula

Microleafhopper, Hymetta anthisma

Microleafhopper, Erythridula sp.

Microleafhopper, Balclutha sp.

Microleafhopper, Erythroneura elegans

Leafhopper, Pediopsoides distinctus

Walking the fence line in our back yard, I stir a myriad of tiny leafhoppers that alight briefly on the weathered, algae-stained boards. Despite their size, they are riotously colorful, with streaks and bands across their slender wings. Fireworks come in both bright and muted colors that echo the changing foliage.

A male Fork-tailed Bush Katydid, Scudderia furcata.

Earlier in the season, katydids and lacewings were vivid green. Now, they are dull brown, maybe reddish, with bursts of purple or pink. Little orange skipper butterflies pop as I stroll by the tiny lavender asters that grow low enough to dodge the mower blade, along the very edge of the curb by the busy four-lane. Yellows in the form of Cloudless Sulphurs, on a partly cloudy day, flitting from one cryptic flower to another in someone’s front yard.

A little worn, a Fiery Skipper sips nectar from an aster.

Flowers, too, bloom again. The goldenrod, and taller white asters reboot themselves for one more round of Can I Get a Pollinator?. They do, in flies and bees mostly. Wild Carrot never gave up to begin with, still looking fresh as a daisy, courting potential pollinators. They succeed, in the form of two metallic flies. The flies depart when a lone ant appears to steal nectar.

A flower fly, Helophilus fasciatus, and a Spotted Cucumber Beetle, Diabrotica undecimpunctata, enjoy goldenrod nectar.

Another October surprise….no, wait, today is November the second already….is an immature Carolina Mantis, sitting stock still among our backyard goldenrod. It is probably one molt away from adulthood, but I can’t decide if it is male or female. I wonder if there are any larger insects left to feed it, get it over the hump, or if it will die young, perishing as the teenage equivalent of its kind.

Immature Carolina Mantis, Stagmomantis carolina

There has finally been rain lately, including today, so perhaps there will be yet another burst of activity in its wake. There will still be ground beetles crossing the sidewalks, and grasshoppers basking on the pavement on warm days, to be sure. Fall Cankerworm has yet to even take the stage, but they don’t always, not every year, and I might not see them if the timing isn’t right.

Leaf-footed bug, Leptoglossus oppositus.

There is no metaphor here. This is just how nature works. It varies, it adapts, takes chances, weighing risks at a molecular level. Emerge now, or snooze another calendar year. We are slower to act, built to react instead of evolving to be proactive, and to accept whatever weather befalls us. The warm, sunny days seem to encourage our lazy nature, while nature bustles around us, unnoticed by most.

Aphid, Drepanaphis sp.

Book Review: The Cicadas of North America

Chris Alice Kratzer begins her new book with a deeply personal memory and dedication, then proceeds to deliver another comprehensive treatment of a common, yet complex, category of insects: cicadas. The book is the second for Kratzer, whose debut work was The Social Wasps of North America. With memories of this spring’s periodical cicada event still fresh in the public mind, this book could easily eclipse the wasp book in popularity, but both volumes deserve your attention.

The Cicadas of North America is essentially a monograph of all members of the family Cicadidae found north of South America. The scientific community should certainly respect it as such. If this sounds intimidating for non-scientists, you need not fear. Kratzer is a master science communicator, with sincere empathy for those of us who avoided hardcore subjects in high school and college.

Part of the genius in her approach is that she is self-publishing through Owfly Publishing, a subsidiary of her company Owlfly, LLC. This allows her to set her own limits, if any, and prioritize what she sees as most important for her audience. She takes creative license that serves to enhance the readability and overall presentation of the book. The digital artwork alone is enough to recommend the book, but wait, there is more.

Kratzer’s trademark continues to be exceptionally thorough coverage of background information on life cycle, anatomy, evolution, classification, ecological relationships, and impacts on humanity, both positive and negative, past and present. Even if cicadas are not your favorite insect (but really, why are they not?), you will find yourself referring to the front of the book for understandable explanations of genetics, taxonomy, and other scientific concepts that apply broadly across all organisms.

Once again, Kratzer expands her region of focus to include Latin America as, ideally, all such manuals should in the interest of geographic accuracy that respects biomes but not borders. This might be the final nudge I need to renew my passport. I mean, look at that Sparse Emerald Cicada, Zammara smaragdula. A turquoise cicada (it is on the cover, too)?

Each digital rendering is split from left to right to show the degree of variation in color, density of markings, and other morphological features to help identify a specimen of either form. Some species are treated twice if they exhibit strong regional differences, with corresponding range maps delineating their geographic distribution. Everyone contributing reference photos, and community science records resulting from those images, is acknowledged on each species page.

If you are a stickler for minute details, and/or get hooked on studying cicadas yourself, the “taxonomic notes” in the back of the book give you the most current assessment of the standing of various species. Kratzer readily admits that what is in the book could be wrong, but there is no argument as to how much is completely unknown to anyone, at least in the community of Western scientists. The book is thus both a treatise and a booster designed to ignite further research.

If I sound like a paid shill, or an infomercial, I hope I can be forgiven for my enthusiasm for a quality example of natural history literature. Meanwhile, I hope Kratzer continues turning out more such references for whatever creatures catch her fancy. I’m subscribed to the Owlfly newsletter, so I should be among the first to know.

The Cicadas of North America is a hefty 573 pages, retails for $27.99 U.S., from the publisher, and is shipped in sustainable packaging from EcoEnclose. You can request a signed copy when you order.