The trumpet vine growing up the utility pole at Georgetown and Yorktown is starting to bloom, which is a real treat for birds, bees, and people. The trunk—and, yes, I do mean trunk—of the vine is approximately as big around as the utility pole itself. The foliage is so thick that it hides untold numbers of sparrows, who cheep and carry on from deep within the vegetation. They feel so protected in there that they may or may not bother to fly away when someone walks by, inches away. Hummingbirds, Baltimore orioles, and other pollinators love to visit the big, orange flowers. We humans just enjoy looking at them and the life they support. The flowers are even pretty when they fall off and decorate the sidewalk.
Also decorating the sidewalk today were the large, gorgeous fore- and hindwings of a polyphemus moth. Conspicuously absent was any sign of the body, which must have disappeared down the gullet of one of the moth’s predators last night. The wings were strewn about, patterns prominent. Our parents used to let us collect chrysalises when we were kids. We’d carry them, and whatever they were hanging from, home and place them in a terrarium. Then we’d wait for the butterflies or moths to come out and dry their wings, and we’d set them free. I don’t remember whether or not we ever had a polyphemus chrysalis. But it’s pleasant to think that, maybe, some child rejoiced over this moth, or may yet rejoice over finding its lovely wings.
A young girl was pretty pleased with our dog, this morning. The girl was riding her bike to the neighborhood pool for swim team practice. Weekday programming there starts with swim team, and it’s quite normal, in the summer, to see children pedaling poolward in bathing suits, flip-flops, and bicycle helmets.
I saw this child coming down the Georgetown hill, and moved off the sidewalk to let her pass. But, instead of passing, she stopped to chat. “I know this dog,” she told me. His owner’s name is Ed.” “That’s right,” I said. “Are you . . . married to him?” she asked, puzzling out what I could legitimately be doing with someone else’s dog. “Yup,” I said.
“Well, I’ve known this dog a long time,” she continued. “I’ve known him since he was born.” “Amazing,” I responded, and it was. Rascal was an already an adult when he came to live with us. We haven’t even known him that long. Also, he’s fifteen years old, which might well be double this youngster’s age. I didn’t question what she said; she clearly believed it. Besides, I was tickled with the whole encounter. It’s good to know the girl has Rascal’s back.
Elsewhere along the sidewalk is a bright yellow blob that Sue tells me is slime mold. It’s not really a fungus, she told me, but a mycetozoan, and single-celled like an amoeba. Google mentions a handful of additional descriptors. The most accurate, to my eye, is dog vomit slime mold. Coming in second is scrambled egg slime mold, but that name doesn’t really capture the shade of yellow. The blob currently hanging out along Bluett takes the shape of a fish. A grouper, actually, with a whimsical twist to the tail. Google also says that slime mold can move around to find nutrients, albeit very slowly. Sue and I noticed nary a twitch.
Sue has a plant-identification app on her phone that we consult frequently. The app put a name to the fragrant trees now in bloom all around our neighborhood: Japanese lilac trees. Got to be a mistake, we thought, and tried the app again. Same answer. We took a closer look at the leaves. They were, now that we thought about it, shaped like lilac leaves. We sniffed the frothy, ivory flowers. They smelled like lilacs, with a little edge to the scent. What a fine surprise. Japanese lilac trees, and blooming now when their familiar counterparts are finished. What clever trees. What a great app.
We used it again on another mystery tree. This time, we were immediately pleased with the result: American hop-hornbeam. We could certainly see where this name came from. The tree was covered, in abundance, with fruit that looks very much like hops.
You just never know what you’ll discover along the sidewalks. A thriving vine the size of a utility pole. Japanese lilac and American hop-hornbeam trees that the city planted for generations to enjoy. An amoebic blob that goes walkabout. The still-glorious pieces of a Polyphemus-that-was. Or a child looking out for your dog’s best interests.
23 June 2024