- Author: Kathy Keatley Garvey
So here's this female praying mantis, Stagmomantis limbata, camouflaged on a narrow-leaf milkweed, Asclepias fasciculari, in a Vacaville garden.
If she thinks she's going to ambush a monarch, she has another think coming. No monarchs in the garden.
If she thinks she's going to ambush a bee, no way. No bees in the garden early this morning.
If she thinks she's going to munch on oleander aphids (which she probably won't), there are plenty.
Fact is, she doesn't "think" like we do. She will wait, quite patiently, to ambush prey. Even in the pending triple temperatures of the day.
When the heat becomes unbearable, she will slip beneath the leaves, but still maintain a lookout.
Ms. Mantis will be patient. She is always patient.
Patience is her middle name (Stagmomantis "Patience" limbata) and prey is her game.
- Author: Kathy Keatley Garvey
So here's this immature praying mantis, a Stagmomantis limbata, perched on a narrow-leafed milkweed, Asclepias fascicularis, in a Vacaville pollinator garden.
She's camouflaged quite well. She's as green and thin as the leaves.
Me: "Hey, Ms. Mantis, whatcha doin'?"
Ms. Mantis: "Just occupying a spot on this milkweed. Catching some sun, is all."
Me: "Hoping to catch a monarch, Ms. Mantis?"
Ms. Mantis: "No, no, of course not. I would never, ever, catch a monarch! You know me!"
Me: "I do know you. Promise you won't nail a monarch?"
Ms. Mantis: "Sorry, I can't promise if I'm hungry. Now, go away, you're disrupting my choice of menu items."
Me: "How about a stink bug or a lygus bug?"
Ms. Mantis: "I don't take menu orders. What do you think I am? DoorDash? Go away!"
Me: "Hey, I see a katydid nymph over there!"
Ms. Mantis: "Where, where? How far?"
Me: (Pointing to a lower leaf) "Over there!"
With that, Ms. Mantis slipped off the blossom, never to be seen again.
Epilogue: The California scrub jays noisily nesting in the cherry laurel hedges may have snagged a Stagmomantis mantis meal.
They don't take orders, either.
- Author: Kathy Keatley Garvey
The narrowleafed milkweed, Asclepias fascicularis, beckons monarch butterflies (the host plant), aphids, praying mantids and assorted other insects, but once in a while, you'll see a leafcutter bee. Both the plant and the bee are natives.
This male bee (below) spent the afternoon patrolling for females, but it rested in between.
It's a dangerous place to rest when there's a predator (praying mantis) around, but all ended well.
Leafcutter bees, spp., so named because the females cut leaves and petals (perfectly round holes!) to line their nests, are smaller than honey bees--and much faster. They're easily recognizable by the black-white bands on their abdomen.
The females do all the work. They gather pollen and nectar, make the nests from the leaf and petal fragments, and lay eggs. They seal the egg chambers with the leaves or flower petals.
The male's job is to reproduce. And sometimes, you'll see one sunning itself on a milkweed leaf.
Of the 4000 bee species known in the United States, about 1600 reside in California. The leafcutter bee is just one of them. The family, Megachilidae, includes these leafcutting bees, Megachile angelarum, M. fidelis and M. montivaga; the alfalfa leafcutting bee, M. rotundata; the Mason bee, Osmia coloradensis; and the blue orchard bee (BOB), Osmia lignaria propinqua.
For more information on California's bees, read California Bees and Blooms: A Guide for Gardeners and Naturalists (Heyday), the work of UC-affiliated scientists,
- Author: Kathy Keatley Garvey
Where have you been?
For the last several weeks, we've been watching for signs of the first seasonal monarch caterpillar on our narrow-leafed milkweed.
The lush leaves refused to yield any secrets. They looked untouched, undisturbed and intact. But on June 15, there it was, a not-so-little caterpillar munching away as if it had been there all along.
Where have you been?
How it managed to survive is puzzling. A Western scrub jay nest is about two feet away and we can hear the baby birds chirping throughout the day. Then the mother obligingly swoops down into the "supermarket" pollinator garden and grabs fresh food for them. We've seen her--and photographed her--plucking a Gulf Fritillary caterpillar from the passionflower vine. We've seen her perching on a flower pot and nailing bees. We've seen her flying back to her nest.
So, this not-so-little caterpillar, a sole survivor, overcame incredible odds. Butterfly guru Art Shapiro, distinguished professor of evolution and ecology at UC Davis, says that probably fewer than 10 percent make it from egg to adult. (And that's without a bird nest two feet away!)
In the interests of conservation, the monarch caterpillar is now safely housed in our butterfly habitat as we wait for it to form a chrysalis and emerge as an adult. Then we'll release it. It may soar 80 feet in the air, as others have done, or it may linger in the pollinator garden, or it may decline to fly away from our outstretched hand.
The parents will never meet the offspring, and the offspring will never meet its parents.
Nevertheless, Sunday, June 19 is Father's Day. Dad, you did good! And you, too, Mom!
