Today, in the Fairy Garden, I've decided to lie on my belly and look around. Dirt-y thoughts whiz through my head. For example, which end of a worm is the one I should concentrate on? I've pondered profundities like this for years. And why do worms often sun themselves atop the Irish moss? They are signature dinners for opportunistic robins, but undaunted, they'll lie there quietly, thinking thoughts ... Worms belong below stairs, but they frequently disagree.
How many times have I watched the vigorous tug-of-war between robin and worm? How does the creature resist? He's slippery, and should slide like butter into that lethal beak, but no. Worm manages to brace himself; the robin must fight for every bite. Amazing. These robust, rubbery, string-bean creatures represent an alien world.
When I was young I'd dash outside after a downpour to rescue soaked worms writhing helplessly on our sidewalk. They seem clueless about the dangers of drenching rains; why haven't they evolved a plan to avoid this frequent calamity? You'd think armies of waterlogged, coughing worms would make an impression on the rest. Maybe they can't remember which end of themselves harbors the wit to work out this perennial problem ...
Down amid the corydalis and Labrador violets is more fascinating stuff -- better than TV, any day. A millipede, carefully disentangling one of its zillion legs from a moss blossom, finds traveling over those minute flowers a challenge. (How in the world does it manage so many feet?)
But, for hilarious fun, I amuse myself poking pillbugs. They bustle about, burrowing under all manner of damp and rotting material; when I expose a colony while neatening, there is general consternation; everyone scrambles for cover, or rolls up and waits, hoping for the best, I suppose. God-like, I can touch one gently, and it immediately rolls into itself, like a doughnut without a hole. If I push it, as I would a bowling ball, it'll roll dizzily along the bricks -- Wait! Does a pillbug get dizzy? These creatures have left fossil imprints of lives lived eons ago; not much has changed regarding design. (If it ain't broke ...)
I've decided they regularly enjoy secret social conventions. Proof is everywhere. Simply flip over a rock. Everyone's there, eating, socializing, and making more pillbugs.
But ants have my deep respect. "Lazy" isn't part of their vocabulary. They are born knowing their jobs; they possess the strength of giants. Homes are elaborate, and future generations are looked after with fanatical dedication. They even capture and milk aphids for sweet treats. These slaves are protected, and probably can imagine a worse fate than being "down under" with their ant-tagonists.
I've seen ants give the "high-five" to fellows; antennas bump together, essential news is exchanged, but no time is wasted gossiping. Ants define "industrious." Not one of their children is maladjusted. Instead, they are cherished, and do their jobs confidently, knowing they're essential to the colony's survival.
We find it impossible to distinguish one from another. Yet, if an absent-minded neighboring ant should forage into their territory, affronted "homeland" ants' noses always know; the invader will smell, well, wrong. Pounce! He'll be dinner.
Here's another mystery. Chippie lives under this stone slab. Do ants crawl all over him at night when he's trying to sleep, or do they bypass the snoring chipmunk, learning eons ago that he is no threat?
Come to think of it, do chipmunks get fleas?
As I lie here pondering, ants march up my pant leg, forcing me to "do the dance." Maybe there's a message here ...
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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