Butterfly Mimics and a Publication Note

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Red-spotted Purple (10/22/16)

On first glance, I thought the butterfly shown above was a late-flying Eastern Black Swallowtail.

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Eastern Black Swallowtail (6/23/16)

After a closer look, I decided the unknown visitor might be a Pipevine Swallowtail. (I don’t have any photos of Pipevine Swallowtails because I’ve never seen one in person. Here’s a link with photos.) But how could it be any kind of swallowtail, without the characteristic “tails” on its hind wings?

Red-spotted Purple (10/22/16)
Red-spotted Purple (10/22/16)

As always, I turned to the internet for answers. Searching for “butterflies that look like Eastern Black Swallowtails” led me to the Swallowtail Butterfly Comparison page on a site called Butterflies at Home. There I discovered that my unknown butterfly is a Red-spotted Purple, which explains why it doesn’t have tails on its hind wings. It isn’t a swallowtail at all. Instead it belongs to the family of brush-footed butterflies. (As an aside, I’m now fascinated with name “brush-footed”.)

Red-spotted Purple
Red-spotted Purple (10/22/16)

But why do all of these butterflies look so similar? What is so special about a combination of blue highlights and reddish spots? Obviously the pattern carries some sort of selective advantage, something deeper than aesthetic appeal for camera-wielding writers.

Unknown Swallowtail July 25
Spicebush Swallowtail (7/25/12)

It seems that the story starts with Pipevine Swallowtails, which lay their eggs on the poisonous pipevine plant (also known as Dutchman’s Pipe.) As the caterpillars feed and grow, they ingest and store a toxin called aristolochic acid, which lingers in their bodies as the caterpillars mature into adults. So the butterflies, as well as all stages of the caterpillars, are poisonous. Even their eggs are poisonous.

All in all, it’s an elegant and effective defense against predators. So effective, in fact, that it conveys a measure of protection for any butterfly with black wings, blue highlights, and reddish spots. Selective advantage, indeed.

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Red-spotted Purple (10/22/16)

Now, if only I could find a Pipevine Swallowtail to photograph…


For more information, check out a few of these articles:


Publication Note: On October 7, my poem “The Fire” posted at Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. Many thanks to editor Christine Klocek-Lim!

The Rest of the Wren Story

In June of 2015, I noticed that one of the yard’s House Wrens had begun feeding a family of Northern Cardinal nestlings. (Read my initial blog post here.)

Nestling May 30

The adult cardinals, especially the male, were also feeding the nestlings.

Nestling May 31

In that early blog post I wrote, “I wonder if this kind of behavior is common. Have the yard’s birds been feeding each other all along?”

Cardinal May 11

In searching for answers to my question, I ran across the Tough Little Birds blog, run by biologist Katie LaBarbera. I contacted her through the blog, and she replied that the behavior was unusual enough to be of interest to other biologists. Before too long we had a short article ready to submit for publication. After peer review and a few revisions, the article was accepted by The Wilson Journal of Ornithology and can be found in the current (September 2016) issue: House Wren (Troglodytes aedon) provisions nestlings of Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis).

And now, as Paul Harvey might have said, it’s time to post the rest of the story…

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Back in June of 2015, while I was searching for answers online, the wrens’ brood hatched. For a few days the male wren stayed busy feeding both nests, dividing his time somewhat unequally in favor of the young cardinals. But something changed as the cardinals neared fledging. The last time I saw the cardinal nestlings accept food from the wren was on June 5th, and the last time I saw him approach their nest was on June 6th. (They greeted his visits on the 6th with silence.) On June 7th, the young cardinals left their nest.

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The yard stayed in a turmoil on the 7th, loud with the cries of hungry cardinal fledglings and nervous cardinal parents. (The male cardinal was particularly aggressive with larger birds that day, much to the dismay of a hungry brown thrasher.)

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cardinal-june-7

The wren, formerly so devoted to the cardinal nestlings, never approached the cardinals after they fledged. Instead he spent the 7th, and the following days, feeding his own nestlings. The young wrens stayed in their nest box until June 16th and 17th, eating spiders and praying mantises and a variety of other insects brought by their parents.

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The nestlings grew bigger and bolder each day.

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And their parents worked harder and harder to keep them fed.

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By June 16th they showed signs of leaving.

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wren-june-16

And on June 17th …

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They were out of the nest box, but they were still hungry!

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When they left the yard that evening, I felt bereft. As I always do when the yard’s children move on.

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I wished, as I always do, to follow the fledglings. Or at least to know their futures. Did any of them survive? Have they, perhaps, visited the yard again in the weeks and months since?

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Let me know if you see them.

2016 Hampton Roads Writers’ Conference

I quit writing this summer.

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Each time I opened a document, new or old, my inner critic won. Sometimes I closed documents without saving them.

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I avoided my notebooks, partial manuscripts, and poems.

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Something inside me whispered that my unpublished words were worthless. That no matter how much time I spent arranging them on the page, they would always be worthless.

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But then I went to the 2016 Hampton Roads Writers’ Conference.

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Where I remembered why I started writing in the first place.

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I remembered how stories haunt my dreams and daydreams. How the convection of my imagination brings characters and scenes to the surface over and over again, how writing these characters and scenes frees my imagination to create more characters and scenes.

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I remembered the shiver of recognition when lines and phrases turn to music in a poem. It doesn’t happen in every poem I write, or even in every tenth poem, but when it does happen it’s magic.

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I remembered how satisfying a difficult revision can be, both during and after the process. Like solving a puzzle or riddle. Pieces falling into place, sometimes falling into unexpected places. Creating order out of the chaos of previous drafts.

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This insight was alchemy, the combined effect of a series of excellent presentations and workshops.

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I can’t praise these presenters highly enough:

I’m grateful to Hampton Roads Writers for putting together such a wonderful conference.

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If you write, no matter what you write or why you write, check out one of the writing conferences near you.

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Especially if you’ve quit writing.

The Nostalgia Shelves

The Nostalgia Shelves started with three bins of old books and a stack of tired posters. Many were as old as I am, and the wear showed. They were, literally, loved to pieces. Torn, faded, and stained, none of the items could be saved intact. So I dug out my scissors and bought some Mod Podge.

Shelf 1 July 5

Shelf 1 July 6

Shelf 1 July 6

All of my old favorites found new purpose in the Nostalgia Shelves. Their stories are alive again.

Shelf 2 July 8 Complete

Shelf 2 July 8 Detail

Shelf 2 July 8 Detail

Shelf 2 July 8 Detail

Shelf 2 July 8 Detail

What’s more, the horses have a new home.

Shelf 2 July 31

I don’t have a “before” photo, but the “after” is definitely lighter and brighter.

Shelves July 31

And the unhoarding continues…

Lost Time

Squirrel May 2

Every so often, time slips sideways. One week it’s May, and the next week July scrolls into August. I have photos and bills to prove that June actually happened, but it happened in a blur of travel, home repairs, and unhoarding.

Rabbit May 11

My unhoarding saga began after Mother died, when the extent of her hoarding (and mine) could no longer be overlooked.

Eggs May 14

Mother’s hoard was generational. Parts of it accreted as she raised five children, other parts were passed down from two much-loved grandmothers, a formidable mother, a pair of admired aunts, and a somewhat difficult mother-in-law. With each obituary and burial came new photos, letters, books, furniture, glassware, doilies, and quilts.

Hoverfly May 14

The women who raised Mother had filled their homes with small treasures, and, because each of them had very real memories of hard, empty years, they treasured everything. Everything held a story, and all of the stories were passed to Mother (who had no siblings) for safe-keeping.

Ladybug July 15

Fighting her own memories of hard, empty years, Mother made room for everything, stuffing her house to the eaves with family history. She made room in her heart, too, and genuinely loved this patchwork collection of heirlooms.

Dragonfly July 15

She loved it, that is, until it overwhelmed her.

Swallow May 26

The hoard took over Mother’s house, just as my hoard was taking over mine. In her house, as in mine, cabinets were jammed full, drawers wouldn’t close, shelves bowed under their burdens, one entire room was given over to storage.

Ducks May 11

In the wake of Mother’s car accident and death, as I helped my siblings sort and pack five generations of Mother’s belongings, I resolved to make a change. I didn’t want to carry on this tradition, the death ritual of dividing the hoard. Treasures or not, I no longer needed or wanted most of the stuff I had been hoarding.

Robin May 24

Resolve is one thing, doing is another. And unhoarding is ridiculously hard work. It got even harder after I scraped off the easiest layers — books I was never going to read, clothes I was never going to wear, dishes I was never going to use. Then came the emotional stuff. Tattered childhood books. Scarred toys and threadbare stuffed animals. Memory-laden trinkets and gifts that warmed my hoarder’s heart.

Bee July 16

I spent hours and days and weeks putting off decisions, moving containers from one room to another, painting around them as I dithered. Some days I was tempted to ship them all off to thrift stores, unopened and unsorted. Other days I fought an urge to unpack everything, to binge on dusty memories.

Skipper July 8

But I don’t want to live in a box of memory. To be owned by the past. So this summer I’ve been cleaning and repairing toys and stuffed animals. Some few will stay with me, others will go to thrift stores. What can’t be salvaged will be recycled or sent to the landfill. (After being photographed, of course.) I’ve also been cutting up old books, calendars, and posters for use in current and future art projects.

Clearwing Moth July 16

Some memories I’m voluntarily discarding, others have been lost in the commotion. But the house gets lighter and brighter with each newly emptied container, with each completed project.

Carpenter Bee July 16

And it feels like an even exchange — memories for light. Time for time.

Tiger Swallowtail July 9

I think Mother would approve. I think all of them would approve.