Hubris, Weather, and Climate

ProfessorRoush and his lovely wife, Mrs. ProfessorRoush, were in a Topeka restaurant Saturday evening around 4:15 p.m. when the wind-caused whipping undulations of the umbrellas outside the nearby window captured my attention.  Something about their flapping pattern and my years of prairie-honed instincts said "storm", even though the sky out the window was light blue and cloudless.    

I did not recall any forecast chance of rain at all and a quick check of the Manhattan weather on our iPhones, 50 miles west of where we sat, showed no chances of precipitation for the evening, but I was still uneasy and a further look at the regional radar showed a thin squall line of strong storms west of Manhattan and bearing down.  Quickly estimating the speed of advance and distances involved, we paid our food bill and hastened to the Jeep, in which we proceeded, sometimes slightly above the speed limits, to head with all due haste for home.  

A nail-biting and knuckle-white drive commenced.  I glanced repeatedly from radar to road as the western sky darkened in the direction I was driving and the increasing winds rocked the Jeep.  And I'm happy to shorten your suspense and report that we beat the storm, pulling into our driveway just as large drops began to pummel the windshield.  The only one of us, Jeep, driver, or passenger, to suffer the storm was Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who got a quick drenching as she quickly took Bella out to potty before some light hail commenced.

That was it for the time being, 30 minutes of storm and then calmer winds and skies and clear radar from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m.   During the night, though, a repeated series of storms formed directly to our west and periodic rain and thunderstorms crossed over us heading to the northeast throughout the night.  All that time, the weather apps forecast a lack of precipitation or else, while it was raining, the rain ending soon.  The last rain was still falling as I ate breakfast at 7 a.m.     

I relate all this not to gain any admiration for my prediction prowess and impressive weather intuition (I self-admired enough at the time), nor to rant again about the constant surprises of Kansas weather, but merely to point out, despite all the advances of modern science, that experts still can't accurately forecast weather an hour ahead, let alone a day, a week, or a hundred years into the future.  My head is not in the sand and I don't deny the possibility of climate change, but it's a much longer stretch for me to take on faith 100-year or even next-year forecasts when weather forecasters repeatedly fail on the next hour's weather.   

I understand satellite maps and El Niña and El Niño cycles and receding glaciers as well or better than the average educated person, but it takes only a season in Kansas to expose the audacity of anyone who thinks they have all the variables of climate accounted for, the solar cycles and the CO2 levels and the effects of increasing expanses of pavement and population bombs and pandemics.  Millions of predictions can be instantly dispatched by the next unpredicted volcanic eruption which can alternatively either throw up enough dust to shade the planet or expel enough CO2 to shame the entire output of the industrial revolution.  

I swear I am not prone to jumping onto every conspiracy.   In fact, I'm not quick to jump on any wagon at all until I'm certain the axles will hold.  Too many old, rickety, hay wagons have been under my butt in my past life as a farm boy to not remember the bruises.  My words today will not please some of my readers, but I'm bone-tired of experts who can't say "I don't know."   Whether it's COVID spacing or climate change or the dangers of avian influenza, human hubris holds us back from the real truth.  Those in authority should learn to say these important words and mean them; "I don't know, but we'll keep looking."  It's okay to admit uncertainty and we can all handle the truth better than adamant speculations that are ultimately wrong.   And even dangerous. 

 I believe in science, the real science where you can freely question anything and seek truth through experimentation and gain knowledge through experience.  But I'll believe the climate and weather predictions when they can beat the marrow-held instincts of the dirt- and wind-sniffing farm boy.

(Some may be asking, what does all this have to do with the daylilies pictured here?   And the answer is: "Nothing.  They are just pretty pictures to keep you calm and happy."  Which makes me just one more person who can't say "I don't know. but it seemed like a good explanation at the time.")  

Rant over....now back to your regular programming.  I hope, as someone just told me, you could hear the smile in my voice" while I ranted. 

Weed of the Week

If ProfessorRoush can endorse the prairie's choice of a "Plant of the Week," he can also surely endorse a "Weed of the Week," although this one was selected not through the collective wisdom and brutal natural selection processes of the prairie, but at the hand of the less-demanding and less-discerning Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  Isn't it just wonderful how these blog entries sometimes seem to write themselves?

You see, Mrs. ProfessorRoush texted me with a picture of this plant last Saturday afternoon while I was on the lawn-mower, busily engaged in my weekly Saturday work chores.  She had found it while taking Bella for a walk down the road and although it takes an exceptional floral display to attract her attention, this plant had "understood the instructions," as the "fly" youngsters say.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush wanted me to identify the plant for her and although her "snap" was a less focused and composed photo than the photograph above, I was happy to immediately fulfill her expectation of my omniscience in regards to plant identification and simply texted back this weblink:  https://kswildflower.org/flower_details.php?flowerID=90, thus temporarily meeting her minimal expectations of my usefulness.   As women in general, and especially Mrs. ProfessorRoush, are often left less-than-impressed by my prowess in this and many other areas, I then said a quick prayer of thanks to the benevolent floral gods before resuming mowing.

While it can put on an impressive floral display in June and July, Crownvetch or Purple Crown Vetch (classified as Coronilla varia or Securigera varia, as there is some current dispute over the taxonomy) is certainly an invasive foreign species here on the Kansas prairie and my placement of it into the "weed" category is not just a literary liberty.   This leguminous vine, a native of Africa, Asia and Europe, is planted for erosion control and roadside plantings due to its aggressive nature, deep interwoven root system and drought-resistant leaves, and it has now naturalized in most of these continental US states.  As a veterinarian, I'm also aware that while it provides a valuable protein-rich feed source for ruminants, its high nitroglycoside content makes it toxic for horses and other non-ruminants, so its invasive nature is a threat to more than just neighboring plants struggling to compete for light, space and water.

For the time-being, clumps of Crownvetch are blooming nearly everywhere on the prairie in my vicinity, pleasing less-discriminating plant connoisseurs such as Mrs. ProfessorRoush and vexing those like me whose sense of natural balance is disturbed by nonnative plant species in our landscapes.   I must concede that it provides a colorful and pleasing display, although the hue, while predominantly light pink, is just a little too purple for my unequivocal liking.   Happily, although Crownvetch loves disturbed soil, this is not a weed that requires considerable time to keep out of my garden beds, so I can stay silent and allow Mrs. ProfessorRoush her appreciation and enjoyment of it along the roadsides and cow pastures of our local prairie, all while I bask in her justified admiration of me as her personal plant encyclopedia. 

Plant of the Week

Black Sampson echinacea

The weekly lawn-mowing occurred on schedule today, a necessary Saturday chore that ProfessorRoush routinely approaches with resignation combined with mild boredom.  I allegedly mow because the alternative to mowing (NOT-MOWing) leads ultimately to chaos in the garden and results in disdainful glances and shaking fists from passing neighbors and even threats of visits from authorities who have bestowed themselves with the ability to levy fines and prison sentences and the like. But truthfully, not really caring about the public reaction, I tolerate mowing because it gives me an opportunity to see all of the garden when I mow round and round and round about it, noting the species and cultivars in bloom or lamenting the loss of others even while I sunburn and sweat my youth away.

This week it was evident  to me that the garden gave up waiting on the judgement of the gardener and chose a Plant of the Week on its own, bestowing the honor on the Black Sampson echinacea, Echinacea angustifolia, now in bloom all over the garden.   My decision to NOT-MOW parts of the garden, ostensively to create a "rain garden" but in full disclosure just to mow less space and to spend less time doing it, has resulted in a slow increase in the native forbs as I intended, and now I'm "reaping the echinacea," as it were. 

The garden has welcomed Black Sampson within it, and sheltered it from storm, scorching sun, and snow, but its selection as Plant of the Week is also endorsed and promoted by the fauna of the garden, favored as it is by some sort of horrid little black beetles crawling on it and leaving holes in the petals (the same beetles also seem to be simultaneously merrily attacking the native Western Yarrow, Achillea millefolium), but also desired, and more to my personal joy, by native prairie butterflies, who are happily feeding on the spiky Black Sampson.

Variegated Fritillary, Euptoieta claudia

I am not a butterfly expert by anyone's estimation, least of all my own, but I believe I have correctly identified this one as a Variegated Fritillary, Euptoieta claudia, common to the region and a perfect match for web images and descriptions of the species, right down to the "pale yellow median band crossing both wings."  "Claudia", as I quickly nicknamed her, didn't seem to mind the lack of petals on this fading echinacea bloom as she moved rapidly around the spikes gathering nectar.

I am far less sure about  the identity of this white skipper shown at the right, but I was delighted to capture this clear and focused silhouette photo of its proboscis extended into the flower.  It is likely a Common Checkered-Skipper, Pyrgus communis, but while the folded wings look perfectly like other web images of the species, the unfolded wings of "my" skipper didn't have near the gray/brown coloration on the upper surfaces, nor the characteristic "blue-green sheen on upper body hairs" noted by experts  It resembles nothing else, however, in the Kansas butterfly guide that I chose as a reference.

Who really knows about skippers anyway?  There is evidently a White-Checkered Skipper that is quite similar,  the latter stated to be the only white skipper found in neighboring Missouri, but yet published distribution maps of the White-Checkered Skipper don't show it anywhere north of southern Oklahoma.  Another reference gave the Common-Checkered Skipper a different classification entirely, listing it as Burnsius communis (Grote, 1872), and stated "This species is separated from the White-Checkered Skipper with confidence only by dissection and examination of the male genitalia."   Since I have little or no confidence in my ability to assess male skipper genitalia, let alone find them, I'll have to just live on without knowing, won't I?

In the meantime, however, it's very nice to find the echinacea and the skippers and fritillaries engaged in the normal activities and seasonal pairings of the Kansas prairie.   My dislike of  mowing just fades fast away when I find native butterflies enjoying the garden that the prairie allows me to call "mine."

Red Roses and PinCushions

'Red Cascade'

 This week's lawn scalping, while always a chore and most especially during our "rainy season" when ProfessorRoush feels obligated to mow the entire yard at weekly intervals, had its pleasantries still as the rose are fading and other flowers come on to fill the borders with color.   Two of the "reds", vivid red roses, caught my eye particularly, one by itself ('Emily Carr') and one by contrast ('Red Cascade') with a neighboring perennial.  I use the word "contrast" lightly here because a color expert would almost certainly say that the vivid red of 'Red Cascade' and the burgundy of my Knautia macedonica 'Mars Midget' are complimentary hues, not contrasting. 

Knautia macedonica 'Mars Midget'

I apologize for the informality of their impromptu picture here, poised above some yet-to-be-opened bags of mulch, the latter keeping 'Red Cascade' from showing you its cascading river of red down the stone, but I was racing against the sun and heat and not inclined to stop the lawnmower, get off, move the bags, and rearrange 'Red Cascade' to capture it at its best.   A broader picture here also wouldn't show you any more rose, but it would reveal that the Knautia cultivar dominates my front landscape and is trying to escape by self-seeding into the buffalograss.   Sometimes the message is aided by the framing.

I've had this specimen of 'Red Cascade' since 1999, and have written of her before, but in fact she's a transplant from a previous house.  This 1976 introduction by the breeder, Ralph Moore, and his Sequoia Nursery has had ups and downs in my garden, but if I pay it only a little attention, it's an ironclad rose in my Kansas climate, cane-hardy in winter and disease-free in summer.  While the individual blooms are small and unremarkable, the overall effect is one of bounty and beauty, especially when she's at her peak.

I've also written before about 'Emily Carr',

'Emily Carr'

 but I felt I should update you on her survival and presence in my garden.  I obtained 'Emily Carr' in 2019, and she struggled for a couple of years, but now in her 5th season I can affirm her health and winter hardiness with some confidence.  She has always surprised me with her height (canes reaching 5 feet here in a summer) and with the vivid and almost non-fading scarlet of her barely semidouble blooms.  Opening to show golden stamens, the photo at the left shows those blooms in all stages, from unopened to petals falling, beautiful in all phases of her brief showiness.

'Emily Carr'

As a bush, 'Emily Carr' is lanky, and upright, healthy and robust, sending gangly canes up in a solid clump.   She requires no spraying and might exhibit a little blackspot on lower leaves in the most moist of summers.  Right now, fresh from bi-weekly two-inch rains for the past month, you can see she gets a little too much moisture in the clay cauldron of soggy soil at her feet, but she still shows only minimal damage and is returning the welcome rain in a burst of red happiness.  She's a Canadian of late introduction (2007) but a keeper in my garden.