Lampyridae; The Fireflies

Identification: This is an oblong shaped beetle. It's less than an inch long, with dark wings frequently rimmed in yellowish coloration. The thorax has yellow and watermelon colored edges with black in the middle. The firefly emits light from its abdomen periodically. Some larvae can also emit light. These are more wormy shaped as larvae are wont to be, but at least have little legs. Really though, identification isn't too much of an issue, the blinking insect you see at night is a firefly.

Firefly Study; Daunting yet Rewarding

For the author, careful study of the natural world remains an avocation. It provides respite from the day to day, the old familiar, the routine. Pausing to reflect on nature's bounty is most refreshing; enabling an upbeat return to daily life with renewed vim and vigor. Perhaps because of my hobbyist approach, I sometimes view the work of wildlife professionals through rose tinted glasses. These strong-jawed men and women of science grapple daily with poachers, nurse sickly fawns back to health, and catalog hither-to unknown species. The rare minutes spent "at the office" consist of "a-ha" moments in which years of fascinating, non-tedious research yield stunning advances in human understanding.

In the evening they return to their quaint wooded cottages, and fall back into their hammocks. They rarely fail to sleep peacefully, while their tame wolf companions keep careful watch, as they have done nightly since first being rescued from poachers traps and lovingly rehabilitated. Though anxieties about loss of habitat and environmental contaminants loom heavy, they face these stoically, resolute in saving those starfish they can.

Out of this remarkable class of humanity emerges a select few, possessed not only of the aforementioned traits, but also a near freakish capacity for route memorization. These are those who study insects; the entymologists. Mammals number no more than 5700 species. A devoted ornithologist could perhaps learn the names of all 10,000 birds. Insects on the other hand, easily claim over 2,000,000 species, only a fraction of whom are known.

It is a herculean task to describe even one insect, as the varieties of commonly recognized examples approach infinity. Thus describing the "firefly" in any but the most general terms becomes a monumental undertaking. One recalls; as I often do, that smothering depression experienced by John Stuart Mill as he "was tormented by the thought of the exhaustibility of musical combinations." The succor once afforded by sweet harmonies withered as he faced the horror of knowing that "the octave consists only of five tones and two semi-tones, which can be put together in only a limited number of ways, of which but a small proportion are beautiful."* If only he had sought solace in the comforting multitudinousness of insectdom. While the strains of melody may grow stale, the 400,000 types of beetle could provide novel companionship to any wearied traveler throughout life's long journey. He who has chosen insects for his study, if he be in earnest, is most commendable.

The staggering volume of information available on the stupefying number of insects bearing the colloquial name "firefly" nearly derailed all progress on this humble guide. Unlike the genius Mill, I, with my feeble intellect was cowed into boobish waffling by the burthen of this labor. For over a year I dawdled like the cat i' the adage.** Heartened by this summer's display of insect bioluminescence, I set my face like flint, and took up this task with renewed resolve. I have here compiled a modest overview of the lives and habits of a few of these characters who call the northeast home.

Firefly Basics

Fireflies are not flies at all. Rather, they are a type of beetle. The multiple firefly species belong to a particular family of beetles called Lampyridae. There are about 2,000 types of fireflies, and their distinguishing characteristic is the ability to produce light.

  

Fireflies produce a cold light through natural biological processes. They use luciferin and luciferase in organs located in the abdomen to give off a pleasant glow. The light can vary from firefly to firefly; some shed yellowish light, some more greenish, others blueish.

There are no "hard and fast" rules for what a firefly is trying to communicate with his blinking. Generally, a desire to mate is involved in his discourse, but other messages may be present too. Different species have different blinking patterns, customs, and manners. While some seem to flicker about, turning on and off with little organization, others opt for the more spectacular approach of blinking in unison.

Other fireflies ensure their place in popular firefly lore by especially sordid blinking practices. The Photuris sp. firefly mimics the signal of the female Photinus sp. When her amorous male counterpart appears on the scene, he is promptly eaten. Obviously, such behavior is distasteful.

Given the loss of our hominid cousins in the mists of pre-history, it may be hard for us to relate. However, it is safe to say that were Homo-erectus still around, and were he predisposed to make a habit of decking himself in heels and lipstick in order to gobble up unsuspecting young men, we would take a dismal view of his proclivities. And rightfully so. Of course, one mustn't be too disappointed in our Photuris sp. neighbors. They are; after all, insects.

Whether he is eating his cousins in the case of Photuris sp., simply looking for a mate, or fleeing jar wielding children, the firefly is apt to be found in warm humid weather. Like the mosquito, he appreciates standing water. Given these preferences, one would not be far off base in questioning his judgement. Fireflies vary slightly, but not much more in dietary preferences. The majority who don't eat other fireflies enjoy plant based fare such as nectar and pollen. Some eat nothing at all in their adult form, leaving consumption behind in their larval days.

The Firefly; Should you Catch Him?

Finally, I wish to broach the "touchy" subject of firefly capture. The firefly is not an insect who bristles at human handling. There is no need to pluck him out of the air or devise elaborate traps. If you steadily raise your hand from beneath where he is hovering, he will often alight. However, unless you are engaged in vital research, I would recommend limiting handling to this gentle interaction, which is pleasing to both parties. I would advise against confining him to a jar with his comrades, as this leads to the demise of many upstanding insects. However, if you are resolved to do so, please provide him with ample oxygen and release him in a timely fashion. Doing so will help ensure his descendants illuminate the night skies for years to come.

Further Reading:

* Johns Stuart Mill, "Autobiography"

** See Macbeth/Wodehouse

Pandion haliaetus; the Osprey

 

 An osprey perched in a tree near its nest. Image by the Author.

Identification: The osprey is a large bird of prey, larger than the average hawk but a bit smaller than most eagles. Adults can have a length of near 25 inches and wingspan near six feet. Osprey are usually seen over open water or nesting. The osprey has brown feathers over his back and wings, and a largely white underbelly. In the northeast, osprey have a mask-like band of dark feathers crossing their eyes. Their diet is mostly fish, and they can be seen over both fresh water and salt water.

Lord of hawks, the osprey wields aquiline majesty with a kestrel's grace. He conducts maritime hunts in plain view; soaring, hovering, and plunging along coasts, slow rivers, and ponds. The sight of an osprey diving from 100 feet and submersing himself entirely is matched only by his uncanny ability to emerge clutching fish from the most unlikely bodies of water. Many a fisherman has cast away the hours without nibble or tug, only to see an osprey drop in from above, pluck a fish from the seemingly barren waters, and fly off crying piercing notes of victory.

Giant Hawkbird? Most Likely an Osprey

One thing the osprey has going for him is the relative ease with which you can spot him. Rather than skulking in the woods, or lurking amidst tree tops, osprey spend much of their time above the open water, where they are clearly visible. True exhibitionists, osprey build their homes in readily viewable spots atop pilings, buoys, and utility poles. They construct sprawling stick nests and occupy these for much of the spring and summer. In these nests the osprey can be observed tending eggs, and raising chicks, much to the delight of nature centers everywhere. If you google "osprey cam" you will be treated to your choice of live feeds featuring footage of nesting osprey. 

Although most people in the northeast have regular contact with the osprey, I have noted a marked reluctance on the part of non-birders to commit to an osprey identification. On numerous occasions past, my assistance has been sought in establishing the exact species of large birds of prey. In almost every instance the answer has been "osprey." One summer after receiving an unprecedented number of these queries I mused to my wife that I could probably answer all nature related questions with "it's an osprey" and be correct most of the time. However, this year I encountered a curator of a local nature center who had evidently put this idea into practice. As I cheerfully began explaining that I had just seen a juvenile bald eagle fly over the parking lot, and that I've always found the juveniles more handsome than the mature specimens despite their popular appeal and so on and so forth which is normally a topic of much appeal and edification I was interrupted.

"Osprey," she said, before i had progressed much farther than "I just saw." Her eyes glassed over. Clearly she was retreating inward, shielding herself from the darts of the hundred misidentifications and wives' tales naturalists no doubt suffer daily. An understandable practice yes, but unbecoming nonetheless. True, when in public I wear no insignia proclaiming my status as author of a highly regarded animal blog. True, to her I appeared no different than the commonest of boobs who mixes his phoebes and kingbirds. Still, I was stung by her brusque dismissal. At this moment I vowed to drink silently from this bitter cup, savoring the sour taste with which this wretched encounter seasoned my nature center visit as the saints did season their repast with wormwood, to turn what might be an occasion of mere earthly satisfaction to one of most sanctifying mortification. I vowed that I would never dismiss another question or comment regarding the natural world without first hearing it as though uttered by Carl Linneaus himself. Only then; if it proved to be wholly lacking merit or common sense, might I address its author's statement with anything less than the utmost generosity. 

I digress. Despite my initial misgivings, the curator turned out to be a lovely woman, quite knowledgeable about turtles. I must return to the subject of osprey identification. I think it likely that the hesitancy to throw caution to the wind and wholeheartedly label osprey as osprey has a two-fold origin. First, one must consider that for many people the osprey population was considerably depleted during their childhood. While osprey are plentiful now, during the mid 20th century their numbers suffered greatly due to use of DDT. This pesticide famously caused birds of prey to lay fragile, easily destroyed eggs. So perhaps some still recall the osprey as a rarely sighted visitor to the northeast. Perhaps during these times the man who proclaimed, "look an osprey" was as likely to be laughably mistaken as he who shouts, "look a northern goshawk" at every raptor who visits his suburban feeder. I don't know. I wasn't there. It may be that one of my gentle readers can clear this up for me.

I think the second reason underlying reluctance to identify is ironically the ospreys omnipresence at nature centers and atop buoys. It is possible that some are so familiar with seeing an osprey on top of a buoy or sitting on a stick nest, they have come to consider him a bird who does only this. They rarely see more than the top of his head peaking out over twigs. Thus, he remains hidden in plain sight. When he soars out over a bay a new view is afforded that differs somewhat from the bird huddled on his nest. The flying, hunting osprey is rarely captured on "osprey cams." 

Osprey from Beneath. Image by Steve Hillebrand courtesy of Fish and Wildlife Service

Do not be intimidated. If you too have previously only thought of the osprey as a nesting bird, you can easily learn to identify him in flight. First of all, don't be thrown off by where he chooses to fish. He is just as likely to appear over your local pond as over the coast. A large bird of prey over the water will most likely be an osprey, but you can look for a few simple clues to clinch the identification. He will have a mostly white underbelly, thus distinguishing him from the larger bald eagle which is only white on the head and tail. He will circle, and every so often hold his position in one spot by beating his wings. This frequently, but not always precedes a dive. When he dives he will go completely under water just for a moment. If he catches a fish, he will fly off with it turned forward so that it runs like a line going from his head to his tail. This adaption allows him to fly with less wind resistance. The most distinguishing feature on specimens in the northeast is a mask of dark brown feathers. This cuts across the eyes giving him an appearance not dissimilar to that of Darryl Hannah's replicant in the film Blade Runner.

Using these principles you will soon be on the fulfilling road to successful osprey identification. You will find this quite rewarding, and rarely spend a day at the beach in which you fail to sight at least one of these majestic creatures.  

Further Reading

Procyon lotor, the Raccoon

 Image by Dave Menke, courtesy of US Fish and Wildlife Service

Identification:

The Raccoon is a mammal measuring up to 30 inches and weighting up to 30 pounds, though most individuals are smaller. He has dark mask-like fur around his eyes, and a long tail ringed with dark fur. He is an adept tree climber, and excellent at manipulating objects with his paws. He has a developed sense of touch and will turn objects around with his paws in order to understand them, much like a dog might sniff everything in sight with his nose. He is an omnivore, hunting and gathering anything ranging from trash to crayfish from a local stream. You will most likely spot him at night. 

The Raccoon; Neighborly Habits, Folksy Manners

Not all animals adapt easily to society. Our expansion and encroachment upon wild lands typically displace native inhabitants who flee before the onslaught of civilization. Though normally deleterious to their health and well being, forced relocation is often a wild animal's only practical solution. In newer or more rural communities these immigration~migration dramas typically involve a larger cast of characters, with black bears pawing through garbage receptacles, and moose stumbling into traffic. However, by the time so-called civilization has taken firm root, only a few hardies find themselves adaptable to life among the humans. Their numbers are mainly comprised of a few urban dwellers: squirrels, pigeons, rats, possums, and; the object of our current study, the raccoon.

The raccoon is sometimes overlooked due to his nocturnal habits. As he is rarely out and about during the day, we forget his presence until he raids our trash, or his mate decides our attic makes a perfect starter home. Despite the inconvenience, it is in part these traits that  make the raccoon well suited for urban life.

In some ways the raccoon is not so different from ourselves. Alone in the wilderness; where he contends against only nature herself, he ranges widely, marking out territories of over 10 square miles. There he blissfully frolics, hunts, forages, and sleeps the day away. This idyllic life is marred only by the occasional great horned owl or coyote attack. And; like ourselves, the raccoon will blithely toss this all aside for the convenience and excitement of the city. Given the choice between rolling pastures and cramped tenements, where greasy food and female raccoons of questionable morals abound, he will opt for the latter every time.

We might be tempted to view the raccoon as a johnny-come-lately to metropolitan life. If we are urbane Larry Appletons, the raccoon is a quaint Balki Bartokomus; yet to shed his rustic myposean mannerisms. Still worse, he tends to live in squalor, carry diseases, and eat refuse.

All this is true, yet lest we become too smug, we would do well to ponder our own comportment in early city life. While we have been at it a long time; confirming the oft misconstrued Aristotelian label Polis animal, our city dwelling history is hardly all indoor plumbing, weekly garbage collection, and functioning HVAC. In ancient cities our ancestors thought nothing of lighting a cooking fire in the living room, or tossing sewage out the windows onto unsuspecting passerbies.While the raccoon may harbor parasites and make a mess of your chimney, he has the good sense not to cook his dinner in the sitting room. If he is smelly and dirty, well we lived that way ourselves for a few millennia. So let's not judge him too harshly. To quote Julius Caesar (the emperor, not the eponymous Shakespearean play), "He who reflects on another's lack of breeding wants it himself."

The Raccoon; Still Wild

Although it behooves us to refrain from judging the raccoon's moral character, this must be distinguished from making an informed practical judgment as to how our relationship ought to be structured. While the former is ungentlemanly, the latter is merely an exercise in prudence. One simple caveat ought to guide our approach. This is: above all things, the raccoon remains a wild animal. 

Though it be ever unfortunate, we remain fallible creatures. When faced with a charmingly masked furry face, and person-like paw manipulations, we sometimes fancy the raccoon not only like  ourselves, but even to be a sort of quasi-human in the vein of nymphs, sprites, or Pan the goat god. How easily our brains turn to ineffectual goo when introduced to adorableness. Consider the poet Sexton, who saw the raccoon as a dancing party guest, whose visit could presumably have been interchangeable with a social call from the long dead French tragedian Jean Racine. In clinical psychology, a commonly observed cognitive distortion is viewing a low probability event as possessing a high probability. While this might more typically involve fearing poisonous spiders in the kitchen, or contaminated cereal, I have no doubt that equating a raccoon in the backyard with visitations by shades of 17th century playwrights would offer a textbook example.

While many are rooted firmly enough to never consider the raccoon a paranormal soiree attendee, the danger remains that his intelligence and remarkable dexterity will be taken as evidence that he is a hair's breadth away from total domestication. This is a mistake. It may be helpful to recall the distinction between taming and domestication. The former effects the behavior of individuals within a wild population through incentives, punishments, or manipulation of instinctual behaviors (e.g. imprinting). The latter is the culmination of generations of selective breeding to change the behavior of the species as a whole. The "tamed" animal remains wild at heart, or alternatively may be so emotionally impaired as to be the merest shadow of his true self. Thus, given a lapse in vigilance, a run of the mill "tame" tiger may forget himself and maul his trainer at any time, while a beagle who mauls is rightfully viewed as a defective outlier. Your beloved spaniel is domesticated, but the young deer who Emperor Julian the Apostate beguiled into becoming a poster fawn for pagan regression was tame. Left to its own devices, it would assuredly have made a mess of the imperial tent and proved itself incapable of observing even the barest norms of polite society.

Taming has its place. For an injured or orphaned wild animal, human care giving may be the only option. In these cases it is best to contact a local wildlife rehabilitator, who will be trained in working toward the end of eventually returning the animal to the wild. If this is not possible, the animal may live out its days as a tamed creature. In no case should you attempt to tame a raccoon yourself. This admonition includes semi-taming practices such as trying to lure them close to your house with food, or teaching them to sit on your lap and eat from your hand. While the raccoon has adapted well to urbanization, it is wrong to think that either of us strictly benefits from a close proximity to the other. On the raccoon's part, contact with humans increases road kills, and forced relocation or extermination when he selects the wrong home for a den. On our part, offering raccoons excessive encouragement can lead to damage to our houses, and diseases such as rabies and roundworm. Indeed, according to news reports, raccoons in central park have experienced a spike in rabies over the last decade. Anyone who has sniffled his way through the magnificent film Old Yeller can attest to the heart rending consequences of a rabies outbreak. As with the other animals discussed throughout this guide, the raccoon's independence ought to be observed and protected. Though he seems almost human at times, attempts to render him so more fully will often result in heartache and disappointment for all involved.

Further Research

Chrysemys picta; the Painted Turtle

picture by Franch, W.L.

Identification: 

The painted turtle is normally spotted on or near water. His smooth upper shell or carapace is a dark muddy color; almost a greenish, brownish black. His lower shell can range from yellow to orange, encompassing shades in between. He can be about twelve inches long from nose to tail, but tends to be seen in a range of smaller sizes. He can not pull his head and limbs entirely into the shell as box turtles do. Painted turtles have paint like streaks of yellow, orange, and red on their necks and chins, from which they derive their common name. 

As an undergraduate I had the good fortune to receive a liberal arts education. Less than three centuries ago this would have been a monumental scholastic undertaking, requiring at the outset an ability "extempore to read, construe, and parse Tully, Virgil, and the Greek Testament; and to write true Latin in prose and to understand the rules of prosody and common arithmetic, and bring sufficient testimony of [my] blameless and inoffensive life."* Fortunately, by the time I arrived on the scene, standards of higher education had loosened considerably. Academia found no trouble accommodating a middle-of-the-road intellect such as myself at one of her average-to-decent centers of learning where diplomas are awarded freely with little regard to one's ability to construe and parse Tully. 

While Tully and the Greek Testament were sorely neglected in my assigned course of studies, one shouldn't presume that a more modern notion of the "liberal arts" did not factor into the character of my intellectual development. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. While students at other institutions frittered away the hours amassing lucrative skills in fields such as technology, engineering, and business; I developed penetrating insights into human nature through classes sporting titles like "deconstructing community." It was during this time that I was introduced to the argument that descriptive language is an inherently violent social enterprise due to its limiting nature. Although malicious stereotypes illustrate this most effectively, one can also suffer heinous violations at the hands of those who unthinkingly hurl compliments and well-wishing. As is frequently the case, "the media" is often scapegoated as an egregious offender in this subtly brutal practice. For evidence of this, we need look no further than the painted turtle. 

Impossible Expectations; Cruel Disappointments

From ancient times western culture has painted the turtle into a corner. Though the larger reptile family has been cast as villainous knaves, humanity has said to the turtle, "nothing against you friend, you are alright by us." Snakes burst into human history by beguiling us into giving up immortality and boundless pleasure. The turtle (or more accurately tortoise) on the other hand, first made his mark by besting an insufferably cocky rabbit with dogged persistence. Few people are likely to respond well to being called "lizard like." On the other hand if we were to say, "oh don't mind Rita, she's just a turtle" it might prove a bit of a head-scratcher, but certainly no basis for outrage on Rita's part. 

Over the millenia, humanity's approval of the turtle only grew. Yet this reached dizzying heights of excess with my generation. While our parents and grandparents may have fondly considered turtles to be potential childhood companions, we began to see them as much more. We learned from the mainstream media that turtles could; under the right conditions, master the english language. We were lead to believe they were surprisingly agile. Not only this, but they had a sense of humor analogous to that of the average American 6-10 year old. They developed an appreciation for pizza. Totally out of keeping with their previously observed preferences, they asked that small fish not be included with their pizza. They practiced ninjitsu. They fought crime.

If one approaches the painted turtle expecting all this, disappointment is inevitable. Even after careful instruction, the most accomplished of turtles will fail to demonstrate the basic rudiments of ninjitsu. If you rely on them for protection from criminal master minds in sharply edged armor and their disembodied brain sidekicks, you may be placing yourself at risk. 

The Painted Turtle; Still Worthwhile (& how to Observe)

Relinquishing the fantasies of youth is difficult, yet ultimately rewarding. Once childish dreams are put aside, one can appreciate the painted turtle as he is. Though his real life existence may seem superficially less glamorous, it is actually quite fascinating. 

The painted turtle is a water turtle; as such water is where you are most likely to find him. If you hope to spot him, quietly approach a pond or gently flowing stream anytime from late spring to fall. First look for fallen trees, stumps, or rocks that extend above the surface of the water. Often times you may see him resting atop these basking in the sun. If you approach too closely or too quickly, he is likely to become alarmed and scuttle off into the water. 

If you don't immediately spot a turtle there is no need to fret. Place yourself by the bank, preferably near the aforementioned stump or log, and sit still. Try not to think about seeing a turtle, as this may lead to impatience. Instead, take in the whole scene, noticing each plant, insect, cloud, bird, etc. Doing this, the waiting experience itself will become pleasant and intrinsically rewarding. Soon, you may very well see a painted turtle arrive on the scene. If he is not ready to climb out of the water, you may see him poking his snout just above water, or staying near the surface in order to bask. 

The turtle sunbathes or basks because he is cold blooded. He needs an external heat source to keep his body temperature sufficiently high enough to move around, digest food, and go about his other turtle business. He gets this from absorbing the suns rays. Do not fear for his health, he will not get skin cancer. Nor will he become overly wrinkled and look elderly while still in midlife.

When the turtle is sufficiently warmed up, he turns to other pursuits, including hunting his food and laying eggs. He eats both plants and animals, enjoying fish, crayfish, water dwelling insects, tadpoles, and more. Of course, he also must be careful to avoid being eaten himself. Although his hard shell provides some degree of protection, determined predators can find away around this obstacle. Hawks, herons, raccoons, and others all will prey the painted turtle. Once the turtle has mated, the female will dig a hole, and lay her eggs inside. She will then cover the hole with her hind legs, and leave the young turtles to their fate. Despite this, child protective services has no need to intervene in the turtle family. The young will hatch and make their way without the careful guidance of a responsible adult.

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When the weather becomes to cool for the turtle, he will do something similar to hibernating. He will burrow down into the mud, sometimes deeper than two feet. Then, he stays down there until milder days return. His behavior is a little different from mammals, who will sleep throughout their hibernation. With the turtle it is more like just being very still.

Overall, the painted turtle is an unassuming patron of our local waterways. Though popular culture has inflated his reputation, his ego has suffered no such effect. He continues to add a bit of color to our ecosystem, and remains a staple of our summer waterscape.

painted turtles basking on a log

Further Study

 

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 3-Pak (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II - The Secret of the Ooze, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III) 

* Franlin B. Dexter, "Regulations at Yale College," Biographical Stetches of the Graduates of Yale College with Annals of the College History, New York, 1896, Vol. II, pp. 2-18.

Bufo americanus; the American Toad

Identification:

This toad is common in the northeast. He ranges in size from less than an inch to a over three inches. He is most often a shade of brown, but is sometimes more reddish or greenish. He has wart-like bumps on his skin. The toad is most frequently observed in the evening when he attempts to cross roads or lawns. Although the name is highly suggestive, I rarely spot a toad sitting on a toadstool.


The Toad and I, the Toad and You, the Toad and Us

The American Toad is everyman. Perhaps this is uncomfortable. When pondering nature we may be more prone to identify with eagles, killer whales, and tigers. In our more pensive moments we may feel the poet Rilke speaks to our souls, almost penetrating the fog that obscures our rightful place in the cosmos as he muses:

...I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song.

Note the glaring omission of the American Toad from amongst these wondrous possibilities.

Never one to duck controversy, I will argue that even the poet himself most likely bore more resemblance to Bufo americanus than to either a falcon or a storm. The toad embodies life as it is, warts and all. He is stout, easily damaged, and almost wholly lacking grace or elegance. From the time of his nonage, death and failure stalk his every move. Most specimens will not make it through the first five weeks of life as a tadpole. Things get only marginally better for those who successfully metamorphose. Though the toad can live for over a decade, most perish within two years. They are frail and prized as a delicacies by snakes. Their warty appearance has made the very name "toad" a byword for ugliness and repulsive mannerisms.

Despite these challenges, the toad persists. He hurls himself awkwardly into the unknown with artless pitiable hops. He struggles to eek out a living, dining on insects and worms. All the while he sings. In this he defies the world that treats him casually. His small life may little impact the indifferent earth. He may be gone in an instant. Yet in the spring he calls out across the still swamps and ponds, raising a strident refrain of hope and renewal.

Are we not like toads? Are our lives not brief? Do even our greatest civilizations not fall to dust and undecipherable whispers on stone? Rilke may envision himself raging over the seas like a thousand year storm, yet is not a thousand years a mere instant? I for one would be happy to call the toad my brother. My victories are like his, over mere worms and flies; trifles in the cosmos. A man must hold this knowledge in his depths, yet still toil, strive and sing as does the toad. Indeed if a man would be a storm is he yet a man? If a man know he is a toad, perhaps he is a man, and more.

The Toad; Warts and All

Having addressed the toad's larger significance, I will move on to some of his particulars. My treatment of an animal is never complete without assessment of the common wisdom, and comment on divers oddities. This leads me to the first major question; will touching a toad give you warts? Be assured, it will not. While the toad has bumps on his own skin, these are not contagious. He does have the ability to release a toxin through his parotoid glands, located in the two large bumps behind his head. However, this toxin will not cause warts or anything like instant death. To a human the toxin is merely an irritant. It is advisable that you avoid rubbing the toad rigorously into your eyes and mouth.* Some sources suggest that you wash your hands after handling toads. While this is a sensible precaution, I would also recommend not becoming too alarmed if you do come in contact with Bufo americanus. I spent many a happy hour in my childhood carousing with toads and never suffered ill effects.

The toad is a nocturnal animal. You may well see him during the day, but he is most likely hopping somewhere to escape the cruel sunlight and hunker down for a snooze. He is also not a big fan of cold weather, and burrows into the earth to hibernate for the winter.

Unlike many frogs, the toad strays from water after he is finished his tadpole days and becomes primarily a land dweller. Of course, being an amphibian he must find some source of moisture to absorb through his skin. Despite this, he does not confine himself to the banks of ponds and streams.

Handling and Care

In researching this piece I was a little surprised to find that the toad has built himself a reputation as a desirable pet. Now I certainly don't question the judgment of anyone who enjoys his company. As a child, I caught quite a few toads. However, with age my enthusiasm for interfering in the toad's daily life has waned. In general, I think he is best left alone. If you catch him you will notice he is likely to urinate on your hand. Obviously, he does so because the experience is unpleasant to him, as would be our own handling by well meaning cyclops. It is true, the toad may live longer in captivity, and his bodily needs may be effectively met. Still, he is a wild animal and his place is with his own. Certainly I do not judge, and you may do as you will. When I see a toad on my walks I still invariably stop dead in my tracks. Yet these days I quietly observe him only, carefully giving him no cause for alarm. I let him hop off nobly to his fate, and I remain behind, thankful for his inspiring example.






*obviously, popping a whole toad into your mouth and swallowing, or otherwise consuming a toad is most inadvisable, and would be beyond the pale in wanton disregard for both the toad's health and your own.

Further Reading

 

The Wind in the Willows

Siala sialis; The Eastern Bluebird

Identification:
The Eastern Bluebird is a small thrush with mostly blue feathers. It is light reddish brown on the chest, and has a white belly. Adults are a little over five inches. It has a cheerful call which can be heard here. Females are a bit more dull and grayish than the males.


Bluebird Habits

The bluebird is a lover of border regions. He particularly likes to perch at the edges of fields, meadows, or lawns. He can be seen making numerous short flights across these spaces hunting for insects. Numerous bluebirds are often spotted near specially constructed houses or "blue bird boxes" built to accommodate their needs. These are sometimes grouped along trails, allowing for ample sightings. the Sialis diet is not too different from what you might imagine for a typical songbird; various bugs, seeds, berries, the odd worm etc etc. Common wisdom maintains that meal worms are a species favorite, and that providing these can be instrumental in attracting bluebirds to a yard.

The bluebird is a year round inhabitant for much of the lower northeast, but ranges farther north in the summer. He is not averse to roughing it a bit, and can be seen enjoying snow in quite a few photos. His mating arrangements are rather liberal, resembling what some might call "open marriages." Pairs generally keep up appearances by sticking together for the kids, but take bluebird lovers on the side.

The Bluebird of Happiness (or Despair)

It's no wonder the blue bird has been pegged in the collective imagination as herald of all things joyful. The sight of an energetic sialis in full flight, his plumage sparkling in the morning sun, can soften even the hardest heart. Watching his short bouncing flights from fence to roof, to branch to wire over cropped fields stirs our spirits. We recall, or even feel for the first time our own sense of resilience and optimism. This is all well and good.

As you first begin to engage more fully in nature, quieting your movements and opening your eyes to your surroundings, the presence of bluebirds will become more apparent. You will spot them where once you saw only trees, wires, or "birds" of a generic and undistinguished manner. So many are content to stop here. The bluebird will make you smile. Its giddy call will be ataractic, lulling you with the seductive whisper "all is well."

My friend, all is not well. Nature's avian display of innocence and light bears us bittersweet tidings of joy and grief. While he seems well established and secure in his numbers now, the bluebird's history is one of tragedy and loss. To know the full measure of his sorrow, we must hearken back to earlier times.

Centuries ago the eastern woodlands of North America were variegated with a dazzling array of brightly feathered birds. On late summer afternoons flocks of sunny goldfinches weaved through the balmy air, narrowly avoiding collisions with scarlet tanagers and blindingly orange northern orioles up for their seasonal visit from the lower Americas. The azure bluebird was right at home in this psychedelic avian mix. True, here and there some duller sorts crept in. The grackle was never far off. The loathsome brown-headed cowbird ever threatened the sanctity of nests. Yet by and large this was a perfect time to be a charmingly colorful songbird.

Alas, this idyllic landscape was soon marred by the encroachment of some particularly reprehensible European birds. Notable among these are the house sparrow and common starling. Both were intentionally introduced in order to bring a bit of old world culture to the "new" continent. In the starling's case, their introduction was part of a deranged scheme to bring all birds mentioned in William Shakespeare's work's to America. If only one of Shakespeare's eloquence were alive to lament the darkening of our skies with dismal flocks of these unsavory creatures.

These winged stormtroopers of drab were relentless in their advance. They bullied, harassed, and overran our native species with gleeful abandon. They were particularly cruel to our innocent bluebird, usurping his nests and driving him from his ancestral home. Had they mastered the use of tools they would no doubt have put his young to the sword and salted his fields.

The bluebird population declined. He became less and less visible. Soon children were born for whom he was but a story, a portrait in a field guide. Fortunately, conservationists and bird enthusiasts found new hope for our embattled friends. Specially designed birdhouses were erected that keep out the hated starlings and house sparrows, and provide sanctuary to bluebirds.

Gradually the bluebird's numbers increased. Nowadays they can be seen flitting about by any observer with a bit of patience and knowledge of where to look. Still, all is not well. Our backyards still teem with invasive sparrows. While the bluebird maintains a healthy population, his sightings fall within the more common backdrop of plague-like starling flocks, sometimes stretching from horizon to horizon.

Thus, the bluebird bruits happiness, but also sorrow. We feel rightfully blessed when seeing him alight, but our joy contains the seeds of grief. We know his life is precarious, and he perches upon a razor's edge. On one side life; carefree, full of song and delicious insect meals. On the other; oblivion. We see this and it tasks us. Will we look within ourselves and see our own mortality? Will we see the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures? Will we learn to live fully, allowing both the joy of creation and the grief of loss to flow through us like ocean waves? Or will we fall? Perhaps raging against the starling horde, and the house sparrows' song of death. Or perhaps blinding ourselves to the pain; contorting our faces into pantomimes of grotesque but inauthentic happiness; ignoring the gorgeous frailty of nature in favor of chipper platitudes or modern convenience. Though the perils of obsessive gloom seem well marked, we must recall the Dane's sage warning that "for despair the most cherished and desirable place to live is in the heart of happiness." And so, the bluebird sighting does more than just momentarily lift our spirits. It brings face to face with ourselves, and calls us to probe the deeper mysteries of humanity.

Further Reading

The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition For Upbuilding And Awakening (Kierkegaard's Writings, Vol 19) (v. 19)

Pomatomus saltatrix; the Bluefish

Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Licensing information.

Identification:
As his name suggests, this fish has a blueish tint, with a lighter underside. While the young "snapper" blues are often between six to ten inches, adult fish can be over thirty inches. A bluefish over twenty pounds would be considered large. Fish have sharp teeth, and a forked tail. The spiked dorsal fin is about halfway back, giving the fish a sort of "large forehead" look.

The bluefish made his cinematic debut in the popular sequel, Jaws 2. In a particularly poignant scene, sheriff Brody spots a dark mass moving beneath the waves towards a crowd of bathers. Alarmed, he cries out to the swimmers, ordering them out of the water. He sprints to the surf, firing his pistol into the ocean. He believes he is shooting a prowling great white shark.

One of the more level headed beach goers points out his error. The shape is no shark. It is "just" a school of bluefish. The vacationers' facial expressions shift from terror, to relief, to disgust. The sheriff is shamed. Those bathers, and the predictably bullheaded town administration disdain and mock him for his vigilance. Again, it was "just" a school of bluefish.

Yet those truly worthy of disdain, if not merely pity, are they that underestimate the hazard posed by just such a school of Pomatomus saltatrix. Yes they can laugh. Yes they can jeer at the trigger happy simpleton of a sheriff. But had they exposed their fingers, toes, noses, etc. to the bluefish's raw fury, I expect they'd offer a more measured response. While Carcharodon carcharias has gained a reputation for maneating and boorishness, pound for pound he is less impressive than the fierce saltatrix. This bantamweight is the ocean's true undisputed terror.

I once witnessed my elder brother, a career military man and paragon of masculinity, laid low by a twenty inch bluefish. It took no more than a quick flop of the tail and cavalier snap of the old canines to wound him deeply, necessitating a trip to the E.R. complete with stitches. The bluefish thinks nothing of meting out such punishment. In this he bears little resemblance to so many fellow fishes in his weight class. The average fish is a poltroon, who avoids interacting with humans at all costs. These turn and make frantic retreats when encountering the mere shadow of the ominous Homo sapiens. Naturally, the bluefish spurns their company, unless he plans to eat them.

The Bluefish; an Impressive Fellow

The bluefish claims several braggable physical assets and characterological features that endear him to the amateur naturalist. Should you find yourself in the company of fishermen or beach goers, you can quickly establish your scientific credentials by expounding on this fish's virtues. While he is often dismissed by those who know him as only "a bit too oily" for the average palate, there is mileage to be gotten out of extolling his strengths. For one thing, he displays an admirable athleticism. He is capable of rapid accelerations and respectable vertical leaps. His swimming style is aided by his unique swim bladder, which can increase or decrease the amount of air it contains more rapidly than any other fish. This allows him to make sudden changes in depth.

The bluefish is also to be lauded for his cosmopolitan nature. Not given to provincialism, he ranges throughout the world's temperate oceans. He will also travel in unusually large schools. These can sometimes reach lengths of over a mile.

Of course, no account of the bluefish is complete without mention of his voracious appetite. Bluefish society frowns upon finicky eaters. He has two simple criteria for determining the merit of a potential meal. A) Can he see it? B) Can he fit at least some of it in his mouth? Yes, he will eat almost anything, though he primarily dines on fellow fish. In keeping with his other "pathy" traits, he is not averse to cannibalism. Ties of blood and kinship are all well and good, but nothing that should make one miss a meal.

Lest anyone make too much of the bluefish's penchant for violence and aggression, it's important to remind ourselves that despite my strongly anthropomorphic language, the bluefish remains a fish. While cannibalism and unbridled hostility would be somewhat off putting in a roomate or next door neighbor, they serve the saltatrix well in his daily struggle for survival. He is truly a marvel of predation. On the few occasions when I do swim in the ocean, I am more than happy to share the waters with this magnificent fish. Should I spot an approaching school, I will give it a wide berth, but view it fondly none the less.

Further Reading

 

Blues