NH Outside: Summer Archives

This morning I awoke to the sound of gentle rain hitting the porch roof. The sky was pale gray and furry like a mouse. The rain was falling straight down with no wind to weave it around obstacles and through open windows. Ah, I thought, nature is catching up on her watering today. This will be a good chance for me to catch up on some of my indoor work, too.

I sat down at the desk and started paying bills. The sky got lighter and brighter and before long a fully beaming sun was calling me outside. Nature had finished one chore and had moved on to another. I decided to do the same and wandered into the yard.

I deadheaded daylilies and checked the size of the cucumbers in the garden. Those darn Japanese beetles were back at the beans; I made short work of them and then went inside to fix lunch.

The day continued sunny and grew increasingly warm and humid. I forgot about the bills and other paperwork and decided to transplant some daylilies. It was hard work in that heat, but the finished product of three curves of arching tapered leaves was well worth the effort.

But what was that sound way off in the distance? It sounded like thunder. The sky was robin-egg blue and clear, but that thunder was definitely rolling along somewhere.

As I put away my various tools, I looked to the north, where the large beaver impoundment always beckons me. The water is nearly covered with lilies now and the bullfrogs are often quiet. The tall, dead trees with their massive great blue heron nests stood stark against clouds the color of wet rocks. Yes, a summer storm was coming our way, and it wasn’t going to bring a soft, gentle rainfall.

I watched as the clouds swung over the tops of the nests and began to fill the sky, spilling from the north, across the arch of the sky and towards the south. The wind began to build, and the thunder grew louder. As I finished a few quick chores outside, the darkness swept in the approaching storm. I decided it was time to head inside and quickly.

Just moments later, the first patter of raindrops began to play on the porch roof. The soft drumming lasted briefly then turned into a full orchestra of sound as the rain pounded the metal roof. The wind pulled leaves from trees and flung them in dervish circles. The water cascaded down as if off a tall cliff. There was something wonderful about the wildness of the storm – something elemental and it called to me. Had it not been for the flashes of electricity in the air and the quickly following thunder, I know I would have been tempted to run outside to feel the strength of the deluge, the exuberance of the storm. Would it have felt like needles on skin or would I have been pounded until I staggered? Would I have joined the leaves in their crazy dance or been pushed down and held there by the strength of the wind and rain? What would it have felt like to be a part of that display?

The storm left as it came, the rain and wind slowing down, a music box nearly unwound. The clouds seemed to turn over, revealing their white puffy side, and blue sky began to peek through. The rain petered out, allowing the returning sun to glisten on every wet leaf and flower. The hummingbird reappeared and moved rapidly among the monarda. A squirrel began to scold from the tall pine. All was peaceful again. It was as if the storm had never hovered briefly over us.

The sunlight after a storm seems nearly miraculous. How could it still exist after what had just occurred? Surely the wind and rain, thunder and lightning, must have broken the sunny day like a piece of crockery smacked against the edge of the counter. How could it be whole again? Where could it have been hiding? How could it have returned so quickly? It seemed to be laughing, as if it had enjoyed the storm.

The wildness of the storm made the day feel more alive. It seemed to dance now, lifted from humidity-induced torpor, enjoying the cooler temperatures. The water drops and little pools sparkled and sang and every blade of grass stood up straighter. It was beautiful. The entire day had been beautiful.

The day had made me feel a part of the symphony of nature. I wasn’t just a listener at the concert but a part of the orchestra. I played the music of each movement. Oh, I hope another day like this one comes along very soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Seeing a “new” bird or animal is an unexpected thrill. We have enjoyed two new bird sightings already this summer.

The first sighting happened recently in Franconia, when an unusual mewing sound caught our attention. The mewing turned out to be birds!

A woodpecker like bird was scampering up and down a white birch tree next to the high deck, just six feet away. Its coloring differed from that of hairy or downy woodpeckers. A quick check in our bird book confirmed we were observing a yellow bellied sapsucker, a member of the woodpecker family.

The sapsucker was industriously drilling rows of holes to get the sweet birch sap. Later we saw several more drilling away. These two had no red markings on their heads and speckled buff breasts the markings of juveniles. They had already learned to drill for food and were happily sucking out the birch sap.

Next we noticed bees flying about. They were obviously attracted to the sweet sap, too. And could it be? Yes, a humming bird! What a fabulous example of the interdependence of the flora and fauna of nature a little ecosystem right in front of our eyes, like a TV screen, but real. Watching this intertwined ecosystem reminded me of a favorite paperback book, Forest and Thicket, Trees, Shrubs and Wildflowers of Eastern North America, by John Eastman, with beautiful drawings by Amelia Hansen. Eastman not only describes a tree or plant, but gives its “lifestyle.” For white birch he notes that it “does not thrive where average July temperatures exceed 70 degrees Fahrenheit.” He also relates fascinating information about each plant’s “associates” and “lore.”

Eastman confirmed our amazing sighting in his chapter about white birch trees: “[A] pitted area of holes drilled in regular horizontal rows, usually fairly high on the tree, indicates the feeding site of the yellow bellied sapsucker. After drilling the holes, the sapsucker returns at intervals to lick up the exuded sap and any insects attracted to the flow. The ruby throated hummingbird is a secondary feeder. Though not the only tree ‘tapped’ by sapsuckers, white birch is a favorite.” I was curious to know more about sapsuckers. I discovered they breed north of the Nashua Manchester line here in New Hampshire. They like to nest in second growth woods.

White birch and aspen are tree species that sprout first in a cut forest, because they thrive in full sun. Sapsuckers like these pioneer tree species, but they need the older trees that are beginning to decline and have rotten centers. They excavate or dig out the punky centers for hidden and well protected nest sites. Obviously pecking holes in trees is the woodpecker’s unique adaptation. Woodpeckers may use the same tree for several years, but they excavate new nest cavities each year. They usually rear a clutch of five or six, incubating the eggs for 12 to 13 days and nesting for 24 and 26 days. In addition to sucking sap, they eat inner bark, insects, and fruits and berries. Our second “new” bird nested in the shrubbery next to our house in Amherst. Wood thrushes made a nest at the top of an overgrown lilac under our bedroom window.

We were alerted to the nesting activity by the lovely, flute like song of the thrushes. They started singing at sunrise, giving us a melodious alarm clock for a week or so. Then they moved on to other behavior that didn’t require singing perhaps incubation is quiet time.

Soon there were babies in the nest I could barely see by peeking through the dense cover of leaves. With the continuous rain this summer, the roof of leaves proved strategic. In early July we finally had a sunny Saturday. Not only were baby swallows fledging from their nest in the box in the garden, but we also heard lots of commotion near the thrush nest. A baby thrush was perched on a branch near the nest making a loud racket. Mother thrush paid no attention to the little ball of fluff, which eventually figured out how to flap its wings in the damp air. I didn’t pay enough attention either. Soon it was gone along with its mother, and the nest was empty.

I’ve just learned that bird nests next to houses are a bad idea because of bird mites. The life cycle of the mites coincides with the nesting schedule, and the mite population can explode just as the birds leave. With the birds gone, the mites can invade a home and bite humans to test them as potential hosts.

So I will cut back my lilac tree to shrub size to eliminate the perfect nesting site. The thrushes will find another location nearby, although maybe not so perfect for bird watching.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Tree Steward

I don't mind picking berries alone.

When my children were young, we’d take an annual field trip to the local strawberry patch. They started off crawling on the matted straw between the rows. I quickly picked berries while their attention focused at their handfuls of straw. When they crawled towards the strawberry plants, I watched them explore, making sure they didn’t eat any leaves or moldy berries. The few berries they picked left red juice dripping through their chubby fingers.

As they got older, berry picking became an adventure. We'd wait for the hay wagon to take us to our pick-your-own row of strawberries. When the wagon arrived, passengers holding their brimming baskets of berries took a big step down from the wooden cart. I looked enviously at them and thought, "Did they get all the good ones? Were there any left for us?” My children were more interested in being the first ones on the wagon.

Once everyone was seated, the tractor bucked into gear and slowly pulled us towards the picking area. We lurched back and forth as the wheels dipped into the pot-holed, dirt road. We passed several rows with people picking, but didn’t stop until we reached a strawberry sign with the number 5 on it. The kids bounced up and down anxiously waiting to get off the wagon. We jumped down from the wagon and were directed to our designated row. The treasure hunt had begun.

I usually walked down the row about half way before starting to pick. I wanted to be immersed in the patch rather than sticking to the edges. As she found her first berry, my Kelly would boast, “Look at how big this one is!” My son, Casey, would retort, “I found the biggest, bestest one of all!”

Sometimes the berries were right on the edge of the row and easy to find. But the best ones often hid in the center of the plant under the leaves.

I loved gently brushing the leaves and stems aside to see what treasures were hidden. When I found the perfect berry, I cupped it in my hand with the stem between my fingers and gently pulled. The berry snapped off the stem and made a crisp, pop sound. Perfect berries had a squeaky, red shine and were evenly speckled with seeds. The caps provided handles to hold onto as you bit into the garnet delight. The warm red juices burst into your mouth and left your fingertips stained with precious memories.

I knew the treasure hunt was over by my children’s pinkened lips and face, filled baskets, and whines of “I’m hot!” As I slowly stood up, my back also creaked it was time to go. So, we started walking back to the farm stand in our red-blotched sneakers.

As we walked down the row, I inevitably spotted another strawberry that I had to pick. So I stopped and picked it. Even though my tray was full, I thought, “Just one more.” The strawberry fields bedazzled me, and I was addicted. That was it-the last one. But then it happened again. I had to pick another strawberry. I averted my eyes, looking toward the farm stand, trying not to look down. I quickened my pace and finally exited, leaving thousands of unclaimed jewels behind.

Now my children are older, so I go picking alone.

Occasionally, I eavesdrop on child-parent conversations. “Look Mom! It’s two strawberries stuck together.” I continue to listen as the mother gives instructions on which ones to pick. “Now Zachary, make sure you pick the nice red ones. The green ones aren’t ripe and the black ones are rotten.” As the children emerge from picking, they remind me of my children with red-stained lips and red smudges on their white tee shirts. I remember that I usually had Kelly and Casey wear red tee shirts when we went picking.

One June day in the strawberry patch, I wasn’t quite alone. I walked to the end of the row, close to the edge of the woods. I’d never seen a snake while picking berries, but this day I heard a rustling under the strawberry plants. Scared of snakes, I feared the worst and quickly hopped back from the row. I watched and waited for my nemesis to slither out from beneath the plant and onto the straw.

The leaves rustled again. I prepared to run. Then out popped the furry, striped face of a chipmunk with a huge strawberry in its mouth.

It looked side to side as if checking to make sure all was clear. As it hopped off into the woods, I compared his booty to the strawberry I’d just picked. He picked a good one, but I smiled and thought, Mine was the biggest, bestest ever!

By Alice Mullen, Family & Consumer Resources Educator

At the age of 40, I thought my childhood dream of having my own pony had finally come true.

The truth is, I'd had horses in my life before, but they were never mine.

Before I was born, my parents left New York City and bought a 55-acre farm in Vermont where I spent my first five years. It was an ideal setting in my child’s mind; fields to roam, a pond for skating parties and swimming, and lots of animals for playmates.

I loved the horses best, but as the youngest I wasn’t allowed to ride them unless it was with someone older. That’s why I wanted a pony all my own. Forward 35 years.

On a cool summer morning I stood by a row of windows in my second-floor bedroom and looked out onto the back lawn toward the woods that led to a golf course. With coffee in hand I luxuriated in the feeling that comes when a soft dawn breeze, pungent with sweet pine, wafts through the screens and promises another beautiful day. The mist on the grass was thigh-high and rising. The only sounds were the birds chirping their morning calls.

As I turned to head downstairs, something by the edge of the lawn caught my eye. Having the eyesight of a mole I never trust my un-spectacled eyes, so I raced frantically to the bedside table, jammed on my glasses and checked the spot again.

A pony! A lovely brown filly, grazing on the tall grass no more than 60 feet away. All logic left my brain. It seemed my dream had come true; my prayers had finally been answered.

Not wanting to frighten the pony, I flew silently down the stairs to enlist my husband’s help in corralling her. Looking like a player in a game of charades I began gesturing madly and mouthing “There’s a pony out there.”

“WHAT?” he replied in full voice.

“Shhhhhhh. A pony! A pony! Over by the woods. Help me get hold of her.”

We stepped outside and simultaneously assumed a stealthy crouch­­as if that would work. The pony nonchalantly lifted her head, continuing her munching as we moved slowly toward her. Making no attempt to run, she allowed my husband to clip our dog leash to her bridle.

For one brief moment I allowed time to slip away. I was a kid again and it felt like Christmas. While I held the lead, Jay called the police to see if anyone had reported a missing pony. No one had.

“Can we keep her?” I asked, half joking, half serious.

“Ya, right,” came the reply. “Let’s think about this for minute,” he said assuming his scholarly voice. “If we can retrace her hoof prints we can probably figure out where she came from.”

Although the prints led to a small stream and disappeared, that was enough evidence to give Jay the brilliant idea that she must have come from the estate on the other side of the golf course. So sure was he of this that after letting me play a while with the pony, he set off to return her to her rightful owner.

Down the cart path they went, the pony making no objections until they came to the barn. She wasn’t the least bit interested in going inside, but the horses in the stalls seemed delighted to have her back. It took some doing, but eventually with persuasive pushing, pulling and cajoling she was safely “installed.”

Since Amy, the woman who took care of the property, wasn’t home, Jay left with a satisfied feeling that he’d done his good deed for the day. I hung back, a bit sad at having to give “my” pony back.

A week later Jay ran into Amy in town and told her about returning the pony.

“Oh my gosh!” Amy laughed. “I wondered who had put her in the barn - I came in after work and almost died when I saw her there. She belongs to the Gordons on the other side of town.”

“Really?” Jay said, “But the other horses seemed so happy to see her.”

“That’s because she’s in season and they’re all stallions!”

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

It rained last night. Anytime it rains in early June, we have to search the yard carefully before letting the dogs out, because early summer rain brings fearsome guests: female snapping turtles, intent on finding soft ground for burying their eggs. We’ve identified three separate individuals over the years. Two are huge, one merely large. How do I know they’re snapping turtles? What other turtle is eight to 14 inches long (some grow to 20 inches) and weighs up to 70 pounds, with a massive head and a long sawtooth tail? When you approach many turtles on land, they pull in their heads and legs and hide under their protective shell, but the snapper can’t do that. Instead, she’ll likely turn and snap. Approach with care! Her powerful jaws can sever a finger or toe.

Once I had to move a turtle from an area, because I was afraid she might hurt the dogs. I got a wheelbarrow and a shovel, intending to lift her gently into the wheelbarrow and transport her outside the fenced yard to an area with nice sandy soil. As soon as the shovel came near her, she snapped at it and held on. I actually lifted her up and into the wheelbarrow just through the strength of her jaws on the shovel. Some jaws!

As she drags her heavy body through the mulch, mother snapper leaves a clear trail through the yard. Periodically she’ll stop and dig a test hole. She needs to go deep to bury the 20 to 40 ping-pong-ball-sized eggs she’s carrying. I can’t tell you how many plants I’ve lost when a snapper has bulldozed through the garden, knocking over tomato plants, digging up corn stalks, or disrupting the young cucumbers. I guess she figures her kind were here long before I started vegetable gardening, so if she wants to check out the soil, she can.

Watching any turtle dig a hole is fascinating. Where we need shovels, turtles use powerful hind legs. A leg pivots and goes down, scooping up dirt, depositing it beside the hole. As the hole gets deeper, the female twists, one side down and out then the other, down and out. Half the turtle ends up in the hole before she’s satisfied with the depth.

Slowly she’ll lay the eggs, pulling her head inward as each egg is pushed out. When all the eggs are finally in the hole, she begins covering them up. Now the legs pull the soil back into the hole and tamp down: first one leg, then the other, dumping and tamping, dumping and tamping.
By this point, her energy is nearly gone. She’s traveled quite a distance from the pond or swamp where she lives, searched for the perfect spot, dug the hole, laid the eggs, and filled the hole back up.

Here’s the really amazing part: I’ve watched a snapper dig a hole and noted exactly where it is in relation to a landmark. Once she’s gone, I’ve headed out to the site but couldn’t find even a trace of a disrupted surface. How could she do that?

A snapper mother’s role is finished when the nest is buried. She doesn’t lurk nearby to watch the eggs and protect the young hatchlings, but leaves them entirely on their own. Mammals find many of the nests and relish the nutritious eggs. If the nest isn’t found, the eggs will hatch in August, and the young will either make their way to water or hide out until the following spring. Even when small, snappers are unmistakable­sharp claws on the feet, large head and long tail. Once I counted 18 over a half-hour period as they hatched, dug out of the ground, and made their way down the path.

Mother snapper’s goal now is to get back to the safety of the water. It takes great effort to haul her exhausted body over land so the journey takes her a long, long time. She’ll walk a short distance, then rest a while, then drag herself a little further on before resting again. Many times, she’ll have to cross roads to get back to the body of water she calls home. That’s where she’s most vulnerable. Cars do take the lives of many snappers.

Once back in her element, she’ll recover, feeding on fish, crayfish, reptiles, birds, small mammals, and plant material. When winter comes, she’ll hibernate in the muddy bottom or under a log or some submerged debris and wait until spring comes around again. Then when the early summer rains soften the soil, she’ll haul herself out of the water and start the journey again.

Maybe next year I should set up a sandbox. Do you think she’d use it?

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

A fist-sized American toad clambered awkwardly up the steep hill from the wetland to my garden, my oversized puppy having prodded the sluggish animal out of its daytime nap. I shooed the dog away and picked up the unhappy toad, which I impulsively called Mikey.

Mikey thanked me for the unwanted attention by relieving himself on me (warning: they do this a lot), but unsurprised and undaunted, I carefully placed him under a large broken clay pot that lay in two pieces near a leaky faucet, hoping I could lure him to work in my garden.

Mikey tried out both rooms of the duplex pot and then snuggled down in the damp soil to wait for the evening hunt, leading me to conclude that, like the '70s cereal commercial, “Mikey likes it!” Pleased with myself, I resumed gardening.

I’m particularly fascinated by toads and become attached to my small amphibian friends like Mikey, who seem friendly (or at least easy to catch), don’t bite, and don’t give you warts. Male American toads like Mikey (Bufo americanus) emit a long, musical trill to attract females for mating. The NH Fish and Game Department posts photos, information and recordings of the American toad (and other native frogs) on its web site. You’ll find some amazing sounds there, sounds you’ll realize you’ve heard many times but didn’t listen to or recognize as frogs and toads.

Closely related to frogs, toads like Mikey live in drier habitats and uplands and have stubbier legs with less webbing on their feet. Female toads lay long egg strings instead of the masses laid by frogs. Toads also condense their cycle of metamorphosis, minimizing the aquatic (egg and tadpole) portion of their lives, with a longer toadlet and juvenile toad stage.

Dogs and many other animals don’t usually bother toads (more than once anyway) because of the glands on the back of their heads that secrete a white milky (sometimes toxic) substance. When that doesn’t work, the toad might suck in air to blow itself into much a larger, more intimidating animal.

Snakes, apparently undaunted by either of these techniques, are said to eat many slow-moving toads, though I wish they’d work on the chipmunks in my garden instead.

The first toads of summer remind me that the cycle of renewal is upon us. I sometimes take the biggest and strongest breeding adults like Mikey from dangerous roadway areas into my garden, where they serve as allies in my annual battle against slugs and nasty bugs. Toads seem to like my garden, because some areas are shady, moist toad havens that grow slug-attracting plants like Hosta. These natural warriors dispatch slugs and other nasties in abundance.

Next to pollinators such as bees, wasps and hummingbirds, toads top my list of favorite garden buddies, coming out at night to hunt. Sometimes I’m lucky, and a female toad lays a long egg string in my water garden, the eggs hatching into tadpoles in a matter of days. The tadpoles then become toadlets, tiny and impossibly cute versions of Mikey, that some damp evenings I see scattering in all directions, each hopping frenetically towards new territory.

I imagine most of the toadlets perish, killed by cars or eaten by snakes and birds, but there are so many. Some will survive and prosper, some will carry on their heritage and become the mature toads that we know and love.

Maybe Mikey will turn out to be Michelle and lay eggs in my water garden again this year. Less than two months later, a toadlet army will be everywhere on rainy nights, making it impossible to navigate a car or even walk in a straight line without squishing some of the diminutive troops.

But some of the toughest and luckiest of summer’s soldiers will survive the journey to new territories, dispersing from the hatch to eventually overwinter by using their strong hind legs like shovels to burrow deep into damp soil. More friends for next year’s garden!

By Eileen Pannetier, Master Gardener

Weather-wise, it was a decidedly unpleasant day. Low clouds blocked all views of the distant mountains, while the chilling wind drove spitting rain through our hair and against our faces. We were at the shore of the lake to introduce a West Coast visitor to the fine art of fishing. We had a container of worms and an old rod and reel, but the wet wind numbed our fingers when we tried to thread a wiggling worm onto a hook.

We persevered. Finally, the worm and hook were dangling in the water, awaiting a hungry mouth. We waited with them, and waited and waited. Nothing seemed to be running except the wind.

Not far off, two ducks came in to land on the water. Unfortunately, they were too far away for me to identify them clearly. It wasn’t easy to pick out their markings. Why hadn’t I thought to bring along the binoculars? There was a quick flash of white. Hooded Mergansers perhaps? These are such lovely ducks. The males have white breasts with two black bars on each side and their black heads have fan-shaped white crests which they raise to entice the females. Add in brown flanks and you have one very attractive creature.

Suddenly from not far away we heard the call of a loon. “Listen!” we cried as the bird once again gave its haunting call. A few minutes later, the loon and a companion came into view. They are such stunning birds with their brilliant red eyes and all-over black and white coloration. Down into a deep dive went one bird, in search of the same fish we were seeking. A few minutes later, it popped up several yards away. The birds seemed to take turns hunting. Apparently they were having the same poor luck fishing that we were.

Suddenly, just off a jutting of land, I noticed a fin going around in circles. We decided to investigate as this was the closest we’d been to seeing a fish in nearly an hour. We scrambled down the rocks to move closer to the still visible fin. Straight down the fish’s head pointed as it swam in circles, and then the fish flipped to one side before moving to a new area. It wasn’t long before we saw a second fish doing the same thing. Our visitor was happy to actually see a couple fish in the water, but we knew that, with spawning in mind, these fish weren’t going to be tempted by any wormy bait. So, we simply watched and enjoyed this glimpse into nature’s way of creating the next generation of fish.

The cold and wet had now become distinctly uncomfortable. It was time to admit defeat and give up on the fishing. We trudged back to the car, consoling our visitor that next time would be better. On the drive home, we decided to take a detour to show him more of our beautiful area. We choose a spot with wide, mown fields and views of the lake and several islands.

Despite the low clouds, he could see enough to recognize that the surroundings were truly spectacular. The wind drove the lake water into small waves, while mist and fog alternately shrouded then revealed the islands. We sat in the car and talked about how special the lake is in all the seasons of the year: reflecting the beauty of the fall foliage, white with snow and dotted with bobhouses in winter, glinting with sunlight in spring and summer.

Suddenly, one of us noticed a movement over near the woods. Out walked two wild turkeys, a hen and a jake. Heads jerking out and in as they walked, they seemed totally unaware of us. What a treat to watch them.

The turkeys poked around in the short grass, searching for seeds and insects. They’ll eat just about anything. They’re so ugly that they are actually beautiful. I look for them whenever I pass a field, especially one where corn had been grown for they love to search there for food.

Sometimes in the summer when you are driving down a road, you’ll see a hen followed by a dozen or more young, then another hen. The little ones scurry to keep up, while a hen will cluck to them, “Hurry! Hurry!” Our two moved off over a rise and out of view.

It was time to head home. On the way, we counted up our haul:

Fish taken: none
Fish seen: two
Ducks seen: two
Loons seen: two
Turkeys seen: two
        
All in all, not a bad day of fishing.

By Susan Poirier, Master Gardener

The room was pitch black as I lay in bed searching the darkness outside my window for the momentary flash of light. As a child, my excitement at seeing the first fireflies of the summer rivaled the anticipation of waiting for Santa or the thrill of waking up to the first snow of the season.

Now, each year I am transported back to my childhood when I first spy lightning bugs gracefully dancing in the darkness of the backyard.

It never ceases to amaze me, that split-second burst of brilliance in which I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. I stop, stand stock-still, and wait for the next twinkle, then another over by the edge of the lawn and yet another higher up near the first flash.

My heart soars, and I run inside to alert my family and insist that, they too, come to watch the show. To me it’s as impressive as the Perseid meteor showers that we watch from our roof, because these lights are alive and that seems even more special.

As children, we spent most of June and July with our maternal grandparents. It was our favorite time of year, filled with the freedom that only comes when you’re young and the summer promises to last forever.

My two older sisters took special delight in the pursuit of fireflies on balmy June evenings, carefully capturing them in a jar with tiny holes poked in the lid. Once they’d collected enough flies, they would silently sneak upstairs to my grandparent’s bedroom. Gently they would slip their jars under the light summer sheets and unscrew the tops, releasing the bugs. Then they would turn off the lights and watch as the sheets lit up in a beautiful ever-changing light pattern.

Racing back to their own bed, they would huddle together and attempt to stifle their giggles when my grandparents discovered the “gift” my sisters had left them. Leaving their windows open usually meant that more mosquitoes entered than fireflies escaped.

Bioluminescence is the name scientists give to the ability of living creatures to use body chemistry to produce and emit light. There are two critical purposes behind the firefly light show. Fireflies (actually beetles in one of several genera) use their tail lights, or lanterns, to attract mates and to lure prey. Flashing in their society isn't only encouraged, but necessary for survival.

Males and females identify each other by the timing of their flashes. The pattern of the flash differs for each species, allowing members of that species to recognize each other. However, the females of the genus Photurus have evolved the ability to imitate the flash patterns of female Photinus (another genus of firefly), to attract Photinus males, whereupon she attacks and eats them. Because of this deceptive ability, Photurus females are often described as the femme fatales of the firefly domain.

By consuming a male Photinus, the female Photurus firefly gains both the nutrition from her prey's body and certain compounds (lucibufagins) it contains, which make her unappealing to certain predators such as the Phidippus jumping spider.

With such great survival mechanisms, you’d think that lightning bugs would outlast us all, but I’ve noticed fewer and fewer lightning bugs in my yard over the years. Scientists are concerned about this, too, and their research reveals light pollution as one reason behind their disappearance.

It seems that the artificial light we produce outside our homes at night confuses the fireflies and shuts them down. When they can’t tell day from night they tend to keep their lanterns off. When they stop flashing, the beetles aren’t attracting mates or their much-needed food sources.

Sadly, scientists predict that in certain parts of the country, lightning bugs may be gone in as little as a decade. One simple solution is to cut down on light pollution-but urban sprawl shows no signs of reversing itself.

Still, if you’re fortunate enough to live away from urban bright lights, try turning off your own outdoor lights. You’ll save money and reduce your carbon footprint. Then, when the weather turns warm, turn off your indoor lights, too, take a seat by the window and be patient. With luck, you’ll be rewarded with a beautiful light show that may transport you back.

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

It happened about two weeks ago. My husband and I, our two grown sons, and their young families were standing around the kitchen, preparing a weekend meal, when out the kitchen window I saw a sign from above: the chaff from pine cones and needles now spent with the summer’s heat and rain, slowly drifting down to the lawn and forest floor behind our 1800’s farmhouse.

Everyone agreed, if you could do nothing else but look out the window, you would know: no longer high summer, not autumn yet, but late summer. Perhaps a time to regret opportunities missed before school begins and chilling weather becomes the norm, but for others, time to get out and garden!

In the garden, cooler days mean you don’t feel dehydrated and burned to a crisp by end of day; fewer insects mean less aggravation; you can count on more regular rains. Fewer weeds need pulling—a few hours’ work and a perennial bed returned to a weed-free condition does the gardener’s soul good. Newly planted perennials have time to develop good root systems to make it through the winter. A few more weeks and bulbs will become another item on the list of things to plant, but not yet. Late summer.

The nights have become cooler, dipping into the 50s after weeks of temperatures in the 80s and 90s, a delicious change. Time to dispense with fans and air conditioners, light blankets, and thin cotton pajamas. Time to throw open the windows, pull up an extra blanket, and don the predecessors to the flannels of winter, not quite so thick and warm, but longer and useful when you, the first one up, need warmth to keep you from running back to bed.

The days warm quickly, and often require removing a layer of clothing to keep up with the more summer-like temperatures of the afternoon, but at night, it all goes back to that cool of the evening we associate with this time of year.

Listen! The insects of night also make different sounds: the crickets croon instead of chirp; the saw-whet owl’s raspy metallic call has become more intense somehow; in some areas, the whippoorwill startles you out of sleep, now that fans and such no longer hum a soothing lullaby.

The ferns start to turn; their fronds change from green to gold and bronze. Mosses green and lush have taken over vast areas of our yard, something I never mind. The thick, velvety surfaces make

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener