Albino Housefly!

First thing I saw this morning when I got up was an albino housefly at eye-level on my sliding glass door. The whole body was creamy golden and the eyes were red. The tips of its feet looked a little darker. There were no lines on the wings, just transparent. I hurried to get my camera, but the bright morning light outside backlit it so much that it just appeared dark in the viewfinder. I managed to corral it into my hand and carefully closed my fingers around it to carry it to the freezer. My intention was to cool it down so I could take a really good picture of it. I eased the fly into the freezer, whereby it promptly flew under the plastic covering for the light. I closed the door and impatiently waited for no more than a minute, congratulating myself for such cleverness and thinking where I would put the creature for its photo-shoot. On the dark green wall? Maybe one of the cookbooks with a black cover. Albinos look best with a black background. Wouldn't my facebook friends be surprised? What luck! I hastily opened the freezer door and attempted to pry off the plastic light cover. Surely it pops off, I thought, or else how would anyone change the bulb? Presently, my photography subject zipped out of its hiding spot and into the vent that blows the cold air into the freezer. Gone! And the only way to get it out would be to unscrew the vent plate! Sigh.

The silver lining is that this is maybe a good omen for my interview today. I am interviewing for a volunteer position at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum to work in the Herpetology, Ichthyology, and Invertebrate Zoology Department, or H.I.Z.Z. Erik tells me that the job mostly involves cleaning snake cages. I don't mind. I heard that they need someone to specialize in invertebrates, especially arthropods. It is true that I have spent most of my free time obsessing over skinks, reptiles, and tetrapods, but I feel I am ready and able to study arthropods and think that it would be a wondrous path to take. So perhaps the fly is a blessing from the arthropod gods.

Except that I couldn't photograph it, but it seems that I am unable to photographically capture ANYTHING of import of late. All of our photos from Montana I accidentally deleted. And there have been quite a few tender and poignant moments with Micah and Noah lately that I have forced myself, to no avail, to burn into my memory for lack of a recording device. All this is to remind me to live in the moment and be present.

Nothing Left To Do But Walk

As I was leaving the house with my camera to go to the park I dashed outside to grab Noah's shoes. I saw this little guy strutting around on the patio with his head cocked to one side. I wondered what happened to him that he found himself walking on the ground in the middle of the day. I thought he had immense spirit to be so disabled that he could no longer fly, his head was tilted, his tongue lolling out, but still walking as if that was how he was supposed to get around.

Cabbage Aphids (Brevicoryne brassicae)

It started so innocently. One day I noticed a few aphids on the tip of a flowering stalk on one of my collard plants. I cut that tip off, but noticed another tip with aphids on them. I thought to myself, "Here's an opportunity to observe nature in action. Predator versus prey. Can the plant protect itself? Will parasitic wasps and ladybugs and lacewings move in and lay waste to this enemy?"

The parasitic wasps and ladybugs did move in and make a valiant effort, but not before the population of aphids exploded on my patch of collards. Aphids are literally born pregnant, but that is not the end of the chain. The fetus inside is also pregnant! So each aphid bumbling and slurping up the precious phloem in the plant is pregnant with her own granddaughter!

Aphids that prey on Brassica oleracea (broccoli, cauliflower, kale, collards, cabbage, brussels sprouts, kohlrabi, and kin) can convert the plant's own defense chemical, glucosinolate, into a kind of mustard oil that can deter some predators, such as larval two-spotted ladybugs.

Aphids in the garden patch in spring are a sign of a cool spring, because some of the predators, like lacewing larvae, will not hatch out until the temperatures are consistently warmer. As the weather warms up going into summer, the aphids die back anyway because the symbiotic bacteria that help them digest their sappy meals cannot tolerate higher temperatures.

Yesterday I pulled out any remaining straggly collard plants. I had already harvested seeds about a month ago from the plants that bolted before the aphid attack. Since we started focusing on buying a house with my parents a few months ago, I ceased to plant new garden beds. I still have my Indian onions growing and some cucumber young plants that got planted before we really decided to make the move. The onions will get moved and I will ask our rentors if they want to keep the cucumbers. The collard bed is a sunken bed, just like the others--I realized that it is one of the best ways to garden in the desert. The earth in the collard bed is dark and soft, so beautiful; I am sad to leave it. Erik wants me to top off the depression, which means covering it with the sandy gravely compacted dirt that I had so laboriously removed when pregnant with Micah. Once covered up, that lovely loamy earth underneath will be like prime real estate for all the weeds that roam this area-- Bermuda grass, wild mustard, cheeseweed, spiderling.

And yet, there are always more seeds, more opportunities, waiting to be planted and nurtured, tended to and cared for. Why lament the end of a garden plot? Because then it really meant something. It had a purpose; it fed us and taught us and showed us stuff about life and the universe. And then it got attacked. And then I finished its life. Yes, I, killed my garden. The aphids and I; I and the aphids.

Argentine ants

Ants have invaded my reptile cage, the tropical humid one, to be more specific. Ants are in Berman's cage. Berman is a Solomon Islands Prehensile-tailed Skink, also known as a monkey tail skink, Corucia zebrata. He shares his cage with a Solomon Islands ground skink, Eugongylus albofasciolatus. Their tropical climate ecosystem that they call home is like an oasis in the Sahara desert for the Argentine ants. You know which ant I'm talking about. The one that gets in your kitchen trash, especially if there is something wet and sweet in it. The ones that invaded the trash cans in your junior high school. Pretty much the only ant you've ever seen unless you go camping and notice the bugs. Why are they so ubiquitous? Who are they?

Argentine ants (Linepithema humile, formerly Iridomyrmex humilis) do indeed come from Argentina. They have invaded fairly the whole world, probably with the help of people. Wherever they go they tend to displace native ants, which can affect plants that depend on native ants for pollination and lizards that specialize in native ants, such as the coastal horned lizard. But surprisingly, the ants don't pillage and plunder the native ant colonies as they sweep across the praries. All they need... is love.

Argentine ants are so successful because neighboring colonies do not fight with each other, like most ants do. Individuals roam freely among unrelated colonies and help each other with their work. They take each others' food without need for repayment. In this way they form supercolonies that can rapidly spread. Queens intermingle as well, often foraging with their workers. Argentine ants tend to upset the balance of native ants who form more tightly knit colonies that are constantly at war with the other tightly knit colonies. The Argentine ants can outcompete the native ants in searching for food and colony location. And if a battle should break out, unrelated colonies will defend each other. Their sheer numbers coupled with already heavily disrupted ecosystems, such as those along the California coast, create a recipe for disaster, with respect to native ant populations.

When I visited Biosphere II about 15 years ago, the experimental space station built near Tucson, the "scientists" had been out for at least a few years. As a budding biologist, I was fascinated with the idea of living in there, like living in one of my reptile cages! I thought the rain forest was beautiful and the grasslands looked lovely. I imagined how the scientists woke up every day and tended to their chickens and pigs and then took data on the plants and fish. As we toured around the outside of the Biosphere (no one was allowed in) and peeked into the windows, we couldn't help but notice the double row of busyness marching all along the entire base of the space capsule. Someone asked the guide about it and she said that was a recent problem and they hadn't worked out all the kinks yet. Apparently not, as it was one of the few animals to breech the security gate.

What can we learn from the Argentine ant? Give peace a chance and we can conquer the world? Perhaps, and yet... if all the peaceful people succeeded in ridding the world of war, would it be a better world? Maybe we need some warring people to keep us awake. A little bit of yang in the yin! Therefore, enjoy your battles because they may be your last! You might be overrun with boring peaceful people who want to share food and support each other!