Parkville Nature Journal - The Owl Tree

“Hooo, hoo-hoo, HOOO! HOOO!” It is October, and once again a Great Horned Owl is sitting in the dead “Owl Tree” opposite our house - where he frequently perches from dusk until dawn. Sometimes his hooting wakes us up. This time, although it’s four in the morning, we hurry to the window.

Through a small telescope that Kirk set up in advance, we can see the owl’s feather “horns” fluttering in the wind. “Hooooo, hoo-hoo…” He barely moves until his final “HOOO! HOOO!” when he bows forward twice, as if for added emphasis.

Known for silent flight and sensitive hearing, owls are formidable hunters in the dark. But there is another reason that Our Owl can hunt successfully at night -- and it’s the same reason we were able to accurately position our telescope. Owls have sedentary habits, hunting in the same territory night after night. Familiarity with a favorite perching area - including the height of the branch - can be essential to an owl’s ability to pounce on its prey. Remarkable auditory systems replace the absence of sight, and being a creature of habit allows the owl to see anything out of the ordinary. Not surprisingly then, most Great Horned Owls do not migrate, but maintain permanent territories throughout the year.

This month find a quiet place and listen for Great Horned Owls. If you’re lucky enough to see one, you may have found your very own “Owl Tree. “

The Ultimate Workspace Designer

I am now a beekeeper. With the help of my husband Kirk at the table saw, I assembled my own beehive and helped two friends assemble theirs.

We built Warre hives, designed by Frenchman Abbe Emile Warre (1867-1951.) Warre spent decades studying each existing beehive design. He evaluated which parts of each design were efficient and which were not. He kept a journal of his findings.

More importantly, he kept an open mind about hive design and focused on the well-being of the bees as a means to get the most honey. Warre understood that he was not a bee, he could not direct the bees about the best way to make honey. He could, however, be a honey facilitator by paying attention to the bees' process of making honey and designing a hive for the bees.

Warre also observed something about people: unlike the days of his childhood in France when everyone had hives of their own, ordinary people rarely kept beehives as a means to produce their own honey. "Modern" commercial hives, supposedly designed to heighten production, had become more time-consuming to maintain and less user-friendly. People had stopped owning their own hives.

Warre sought to design a hive that any person could easily maintain, but a design that was the most natural for the honeybees. In designing "The People's Hive" he was going for the win-win.

And so the answer to all Warre's design questions centered around studying the bees themselves: what structure helped the bees to construct their own honeycombs, move around within the hive, reproduce, store more honey, stay warm through Winter and survive into Spring. Unlike mass-produced commercial hives that were based on the needs of the beekeeper, studying the essential needs of the bees was the cornerstone of Warre's beehive design. However, bee-friendly hives also made beekeeping easier and more people-friendly!

Commercial hives need frequent monitoring by the beekeeper. The People's Hive allows bees to work with little or no interruption between Spring and the Fall harvest. Less disruption to honeybees is crucial to productivity because every interruption and disturbance causes honeybees to panic and gorge themselves on their own honey to survive. Undisturbed and trusted as the honey-making experts, bees have no need to stop (and actually reverse) honey production. Minimal-maintenance hives allow beekeepers to focus on other issues - like marketing honey.

As an Artist, I can relate to the effect of my workspace on my ability to Create. Of course, Artists are not bees. I have never gorged on my own artwork (but I have been too distracted to get into a productive, innovative Creative Flow.) I love this workspace design analogy -- and especially the fact that Warre respected honeybees' natural instincts enough to design Beehives around the essential needs of BEES!

In Nature, as in all things, Good Design always accomplishes the win-win.

The Church of Forest Joy® - Our Donkey Altar with Reverent Squirrels

The Church of Forest Joy® now has an ALTAR!

I designed it, Kirk and I made it out of mortar and recycled bottles. It's lit from within.

Why? I needed to give my parents' lawn donkey a place to be revered - whilst containing tasty cold beverages near the firepit...

Our yard is a sanctuary for me, full of Nature and Creative inspiration.
It's nice to have my parents' lawn donkey there, a little reminder of the people who taught me about appreciating the Natural World.

Parkville Nature Journal - Rhythms and Cycles

In my nature diary, I keep track of natural events and the dates that they occur. Similar to birds that build nests exactly like their ancestors, it feels instinctive: while I was growing up my mother recorded all significant events within the grid of her kitchen wall calendars.

At each year's end, rather than store the entire calendar of notations, Mom would neatly transfer all data about the arrivals and departures of birds (and other notable events) into a 25-cent NIFTY Stenographers notebook. It’s now one of my greatest treasures.

“Marge's Yearly Diary” began in 1968. That year she saw a King Bird on May 18th, May 20th a Crested Flycatcher caught her interest. On August 7th my parents bought a Tilt-back chair from Emery Bird Thayer.

On February 17th 1976, the first Robin arrived. Mom saw the last Pine Siskins and the first Orioles on May 3rd, heard the first wren on May 17th. Dad had a cruise control put on the car on August 6th.

During 1984, Mom’s last Spring, the Robins arrived on February 24th. She saw the first Grosbeak on May 2nd, and there were still a few Pine Siskins on May 18th. After that last entry in Mom's handwriting, my dad took over the recording duties for a couple of years. His notations, however, centered around visits with relatives, Doctor appointments and dates that he performed routine home maintenance. Nothing about birds.

I had already begun obsessively recording natural events when I moved to Parkville - before I came into possession of Mom’s NIFTY steno diary, long before I learned that people who study the rhythms and cycles of nature are called Phenologists. And now, forty years after Mom began her diary, I often compare her notes against mine to see if our mutual note-taking reveals a pattern. For instance, like Mom, I’ve recorded the Orioles' arrival during the first week of May. It’s wonderful to anticipate them - and greet them with juicy oranges in our feeders.

Here’s a fun recurring event that emerged over years of diary-keeping: On May 5th 1994, Kirk and I experienced what we called “The Night of the Screaming Monkeys,” with much cat-like screaming, laughing, barking, cackling and “Who-cooks-for-you-ing” out in our forest. The performers were pairs of Barred Owls, calling and chasing each other from one large oak to another. Three years later on May 5th 1997, we were sitting with friends on the back deck and yes, you guessed it, “The Night of the Screaming Monkeys” commenced on cue to provide the entertainment.

Will our Barred Owls once again treat us to “The Night of the Screaming Monkeys” during the next few weeks? We'll be sitting on our deck - awaiting the Barreds' Overture!

Parkville Nature Journal - Moons on its Wings

I rest my chin on the wooden ledge of our huge picture window, nose pressed against the cool glass. Mom concentrates on her needlework while Dad snores on the living room floor, “watching” television. Insects with fascinating patterns on their undersides cling to the window, beguiled by the flickering glow of TV Western mixed with lamplight. A ghostly green shape flutters and lands in front of my eyes. It has a fuzzy belly and large leaf-shaped things on its head. Long graceful tails hang from wings that are almost as big as my hands. I gasp and quietly tap my finger on the glass. “Mommy! LOOK!” My mother’s eyebrows arch high above her thin black reading glasses. She smiles. “Ohhh, isn’t that gorgeous! That’s a Luna Moth! See the little moons on its wings?”

The Luna Moth is one of the largest moths in North America, and a member of the Giant Silkworm family. Its 3 to 4-1/2 inch wings are pale green with transparent eyespots and long curving tails on its hind wings. It has a white velvety body, pinkish legs and feathery antennae.

At around midnight, the Luna moth’s “calling time,” the males’ larger ultra-sensitive antennae begin to detect species-specific pheromones released by females. Although females usually don’t fly until after mating, males will fly great distances to follow the scent of a female. "Calling” usually continues until the female has mated. The following evening after the pair separates, the female lays about 200 eggs in small clusters on the leaf undersides of host plants such as walnut, hickory and persimmon.

Larvae emerge in about one week and soon become bright green caterpillars with a narrow yellow stripe, spiny reddish tubercles and a brownish head. Sedentary, solitary feeders, they will grow quite large. After storing enough energy to sustain themselves through their adult mating and egg-laying stages, Luna caterpillars use leaves and silk to spin papery brown cocoons. These can always be found in leaf litter below host plants. In Missouri, three generations of Luna moths are usually produced each year. The third brood will over-winter in cocoons until the following April.

Luna moths die shortly after mating or laying eggs. Adults don't eat -- they have no mouthparts. Luna moths must accomplish their life's work in about one week. Short life span and night flying habits combine to make them a rare and exciting discovery.

Five decades have passed since I saw my first Luna moth. My mother and father - as if seen through cool windowpane– are with me in memory as I watch for the Luna to reappear every Spring. Its fragility and ephemeral beauty still takes my breath away.

Parkville Nature Journal - Liberation Chorus

“What-CHEER! CHEER! CHEER!” Sunrise illuminates a glowing-red Cardinal in the treetops. As I tidy up fresh green growth in my garden during a warm March morning, Robins chase and fuss at each other. In late afternoon, the soft warble of Bluebird is accented with an occasional blast of Blue Jay. A pink evening sky darkens to indigo while owls perform a lively call and response. I hang up my gardening tools and listen.

Down in cool damp valleys, frogs and toads have emerged from hibernation and returned to traditional breeding places to begin their Spring Liberation Chorus. Like birds, each frog and toad has its own eloquent mating call. In fact, toads and frogs were the first vertebrates to develop vocal chords - 170 million years ago during the Jurassic Period – long before birds appeared in the skies.

When calling, the male breathes in, closes his mouth and nasal openings and inflates one or two vocal sacs, expanding them to about half the frog’s total volume. Air is quickly forced back and forth between the lungs and the mouth. The vocal sac enhances the sound - like a piano’s resonance box. Producing sound within this closed system enables frogs and toads to vocalize under water.

Flooded fields, ditches, ponds and water-filled depressions are vital gathering places for over 22 species of Missouri frogs and toads, and the waters may be writhing with dozens of species at once. Distinctive croaks, clicks, buzzes or squeaks made by each male allow females to locate a single attractive male of her own species amid thousands of enthusiastic crooners. A couple of weeks after courtship and mating, tadpoles hatch from their watery nurseries, grow and transform until ready to leave the water.

In March, there are songs of cheer, songs of victory and continuance, songs of love – a Spring Symphony that celebrates new life and rejoices in the return of GREEN.

Parkville Nature Journal - Harbingers of Spring

It’s February, and like a child who can’t wait for Christmas, I revisit old hiding places in search of treasure. Wandering my gardens, I poke the toe of my shoe through glistening brown leaves to reveal bright green daffodil tips. In my journal, I record the exact date when tiny Snowdrops bloom. Sometimes I discover them (and show them to my husband) by flashlight.

As the water temperature of our fish pond rises, our koi swim sluggishly in search of food. High above, arrowheads of geese sail northward. Bluebirds begin to chitter again. Flying insects, spiders and ants become unlikely reasons for me to rejoice. And so, whether the days of February are warm or ice-covered, I will jubilantly proclaim to anyone - and everyone - “Spring is coming! Spring is almost here!”

Meanwhile, near a brush pile in Parkville, a squat, shadowy figure emerges after four months of profound hibernation. Twenty-six inches long but several pounds lighter, it waddles from its forest-edge den towards a stream bank in search of delicate greenery. As February days get warmer, the groundhog -- also called woodchuck, marmot or whistle-pig -- increasingly spends its time grazing, sunning and preening itself in small vegetated clearings. If alarmed, the “whistle-pig” gives a loud, shrill whistle and retreats to its den.

Groundhogs have a circannual (biological) clock that wakes them from hibernation, but emergence from the den depends on average daily temperature. Thus the groundhog became our long-range weather prophet.

Will the groundhog see his shadow and retreat back into his den this month? Do I have to be patient until late March -- or is Spring truly around the corner? On cold nights before Springtime I’m snug in my bed, but snowdrops and whistle-pigs dance in my head.

Parkville Nature Journal - Flying Squirrels!

January 2, 1996 - Nebraska just won the Fiesta Bowl and now it’s bedtime. Kirk lets Gracie dog out the back door and follows her down the deck stairs. On the oak tree next to his head, a “thing”lands, scurries upward and chitters.

“You’d better come out here!” he whispers through the door. I quickly sneak outside. Zoom! Thud! Zip! “TSEET!” We pick up Gracie and run inside, lock the door, turn off the porch light and stare out into the darkness.

A tiny gray alien appears on our peanut feeder. It has huge black eyeballs, a furry flattened tail and a loose fold of skin behind its front legs. A second alien lands. I shuffle quickly through the pages of our Audubon Nature Guide and hold up a photo for Kirk: Southern Flying Squirrels.

Flying Squirrels are nine to ten inches long - including the tail - and weigh about 5 ounces. Parkville’s oak-hickory river bluffs provide optimum diet and opportunities for nesting in dead trees.

The loose fold of skin extending from a flying squirrel’s wrist to its ankle forms a glider wing when the legs are outstretched at right angles from its body. The squirrel zips up to a treetop, triangulates its head to judge distance and launches itself downward toward a neighboring tree. It steers using its tail and varies the tension on the flight skin to control speed.

By landing and quickly scurrying to the opposite side of the tree, the flying squirrel eludes possible predators. Strictly nocturnal behavior is crucial for survival, since gliding in daylight attracts predators such as owls and cats.

Although glides are usually shorter than 50 yards, the glide ratio is about three horizontal feet for every vertical foot. This means that from a 100-foot high perch, a flying squirrel could travel the length of the Fiesta Bowl football field!

Does your neighborhood have lots of trees? You might have flying squirrels!
Place a peanut or suet feeder where you can easily notice nighttime activity. Watch and listen carefully. A nearby porch light might help you see flying squirrels before they can zip away.