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A repost from 2005 in honor of the late Neil Armstrong:
A friend and I saw the Omnimax film Magnificent Desolation: Walking on the Moon narrated by Tom Hanks. The beginning and ending sandwich premise is overdone, but the middle is wonderfully evocative of the era in which I grew up — the era of the Apollo missions.
To my parents, the Apollo missions were major events, and I remember watching at least a few of them. It didn’t matter that much of the television footage was of the launcher on the pad or of the men at Mission Control monitoring grey, flickering screens. We didn’t want to miss the critical moment: “10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . liftoff! We have liftoff!” We sat on the edge of our seats at home and counted along with Mission Control, trying not to get ahead in our excitement and impatience.
Liftoff, that fiery, roaring, thunderous, glowing moment that the television of the day could not do justice to, always signaled the beginning of a letdown to me. There was so much buildup to that emotionally intense moment — and then it was over. The craft would get smaller and smaller, and after the last of the launcher broke away, I felt a sense of both completion and anticlimax.
Even when Neil Armstrong took his first historic steps on the lunar surface, I didn’t feel the same sense of relief, accomplishment, and pride that I think many if not most adults did. I was simply too young to understand. Countdowns and liftoffs made sense to my single-digit mind; the historical significance and the national sense of pride did not. Now I can look back and appreciate what I was privileged to witness — a daring experiment that millions of us simultaneously viewed and discussed, each launch an event that brought together people of all politics, faiths, ages, and avocations for “one brief shining moment,” glued to our television sets (some of which were still black and white!).
I watched the launch of the first shuttle, but emotionally it wasn’t the same experience. The space program had come under scrutiny, many wanted to cut or eliminate the expense, many didn’t understand the benefits, the battle with the Soviets had changed, and I was older and perhaps a bit jaded. Maybe we all were.
I was at work when the Challenger exploded; like everyone else, I was stunned as I saw the footage replayed again and again on the news. But I wonder, at that time of day, how many people were watching the launch, how many had planned their day around it, how many would have talked of it for days afterward had it been successful, that is, a routine launch. By then, the sense of wonder had passed, and sending astronauts into space had become so commonplace that all of us began taking it for granted.
At the beginning of Magnificent Desolation: Walking on the Moon, several children are asked to name any of the Apollo astronauts. They can’t (although they come up with some amusing current cultural references). As James Loewen notes in Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your High School History Textbook Got Wrong, even the most recent history can be the first forgotten. Once, Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon inspired generations of viewers. Now, even NASA itself seems determined to downplay the achievements of the Apollo crews and to undermine our memories of wonder, just as the countdown to the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11 should be beginning. The following is from NASA’s Web site:
“Before the end of the next decade, NASA astronauts will again explore the surface of the moon. And this time, we’re going to stay, building outposts and paving the way for eventual journeys to Mars and beyond. There are echoes of the iconic images of the past, but it won’t be your grandfather’s moon shot.”
There’s nothing wrong with “your grandfather’s moon shot.” There had never been anything like it before for Americans, and may not be again for a very long time. It was a moment that helped to define us, as World War II defined my father’s generation. Rather than downplaying Apollo in their marketing hype, NASA should be reveling in it, taking full advantage of its remarkable emotive and historical power to excite us about future exploration. (Note to NASA: “Building outposts” isn’t exactly the most compelling goal or prose imaginable. Take a lesson from Armstrong.)
Let’s never allow space or space travel to become ordinary, or NASA to transform it into another dull commodity. “Out there” may be our last repository of mystery and awe.
Plovers (Charardriidae) are plumpish small to medium-sized shorebirds, ranging in size from 14–41 cm to 34–296 g. Males are usually slightly larger than females. They are found virtually worldwide except for areas that are permanently frozen.
Plovers inhabit coastal, marshland, inland, river, and grassland to mountain and tundra regions. Their underparts are usually light colored, often with striking features on the head and neck. Despite its bold color patterns, their plumage is disruptive, and individuals blend into the background when they stand still. Body feathers molt twice a year, once after breeding season, with flight feathers molting once.
They have rounded heads and large eyes. Their legs, which can be black, flesh-colored, red, or yellow, are medium to long, and they are quick runners and strong fliers. The hind toe is small or absent. Most species have short, unwebbed front toes. There are 62 species in 10 genera.
The plover diet consists of terrestrial and aquatic invertebrates (including adult and larval insects, crustaceans, mollusks, and worms) and occasionally berries. For migratory species, the wintering ground diet differs widely from the breeding ground diet. With only one exception, the white-tailed lapwing, plovers do not wade in water in the same way or to the same extent as other shorebirds; most walk in damp areas or along the water’s edge, while some species are adapted for feeding in more arid areas away from water altogether. They use their keen eyesight to spot prey, then quickly run forward to catch it.
Plovers pair on or shortly after arrival at their feeding grounds. Some species nest in colonies of several hundred pairs, while others nest in small groups and defend relatively large territories. Displays are important in courtship, as evidenced by ornaments such as crests; prominent, colorful facial wattles; and well-developed wing spurs in some species. In the air, they twist, plunge, dive, and hover, while on the ground they run, wing-drop, tail-fan, and bow and curtsey, especially the males during scrape making, accompanied by much vocalization. The male creates scrapes on open, bare or slightly vegetated ground, and the female chooses one in which to lay.
Typically, with a few exceptions, four large, pear-shaped eggs representing 50–70 percent of the female’s body weight are laid over one-and-a-half to four days. Both parents usually incubate the clutch, beginning with the last egg laid. For smaller species, incubation is 18–22 days; for larger, it is 28-38 days. Both eggs and young are well camouflaged and are vigorously defended by the parents. Plovers are noted for their broken-wing display, by which the adult feigns a broken wing in an attempt to lure potential predators away from the nest. Natural threats to nests include flooding, especially if the nest is close to the water, and predation. The young are precocial and fledge at 21–42 days. Juveniles molt a few weeks after fledging.
Within a species, northern populations tend to migrate, while southern populations are virtually sedentary. Plovers migrate in flocks of thousands. Before migration, they acquire lots of subcutaneous body fat.
Exhibit and Collection History
The sand, or true, plovers (Charadrius), which are at the lower end of the size range, are found along sandy or muddy shores, along rivers, and inland in fields. Most true plovers feature a black chest band, black forehead, and black band from eye to bill. Sand plovers in zoos include the endangered shore plover of New Zealand (C. novaeseelandiae); the endangered piping plover of Canada and the U.S. (C. melodus and C. melodus circumcinctus); the killdeer of southern Canada-northern Chile (C. vociferus); the snowy/Kentish plover worldwide (C. alexandrinus); the Kentish plover of Mexico, Peru, and Chile (C. nivosus); the ringed plover of the Old World (C. hiaticula); Kittlitz’s sandplover of east, central, and south Africa (C. pecuarius); the Australian plover of south Australia and Tasmania (C. rubricollis); the semipalmated plover of Alaska (USA)–Argentina (C. semipalmatus); and the chestnut-banded sand plover of Kenya and Tanzania (C. venustus).
Vanellus plovers, or lapwings, are medium-sized plovers found primarily inland in most tropical and temperate regions, except North America. Lapwings often have a crest, wattles, and/or wing spurs. Vanellus plovers can be found in zoos worldwide and generally seem to breed well in captivity. Representative zoo species include the white-headed plover of south and west Africa (V. albiceps); the grey-headed lapwing of Siberia-India and Southeast Asia (V. cinereus); the northern lapwing of northern Africa and Eurasia (V. vanellus); the southern lapwing of South America (V. chilensis); the crowned lapwing of southern Africa (V. coronatus); the crowned plover of Ethiopia-Angola (V. coronatus coronatus); the long-toed lapwing of Sudan-Zimbabwe (V. crassirostris); the red-wattled lapwing of Southeast Asia and India (V. indicus and V. indicus atronuchalis); the masked lapwing of Australia, New Guinea, and New Zealand (V. miles); the banded plover of Australia and Tasmania (V. tricolor); and the spur-winged lapwing of northern Africa-Southeast Asia (V. spinosus).
The Pluvialis plovers are the largest. They breed at freshwater marshes and grasslands in upland and tundra regions of the Northern Hemisphere. The American plover, P. dominica dominca, is known for its long migration from the Arctic across the Atlantic to Argentina and across the Pacific to Australia. One population flies from Alaska to Hawaii, a distance of 4,500 km. Pluvialis plovers found in zoos include the greater golden plover of Europe and Asia (P. apricaria); the lesser golden plover, found virtually worldwide (P. dominca); the aforementioned American golden plover; the Pacific golden plover of northern Siberia-Australia (P. fulva); the New Zealand dotterel (P. obscura); and the black-bellied plover, worldwide (P. squatarola).
A species not in these genuses found in several zoos around the world is the blacksmith plover of south Angola-Kenya and Natal (Anitibyx armatus), which had been classified previously as a Vanellus plover.
Conservation Organizations and Partnerships
Past threats to plovers have included egg collecting and trapping of adults after breeding season, especially in Europe, and hunting. Current threats to plovers include loss and degradation of habitat, development of nesting areas, human disturbance of nests (for example, destruction by recreational vehicles), and hazards such as flooding.
In 1986, the Great Lakes population of the piping plover was listed as endangered, while the Northern Great Plains and Atlantic Coast populations were listed as threatened in the same year. The Northern Great Plains population became a front-page story (and a commemorative U.S. postage stamp) in the mid-1990s when Lincoln Park Zoo (Chicago, Illinois, USA) and the Milwaukee County Zoo (Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA) were asked to participate in an egg rescue from plover nesting grounds in the upper Missouri River Basin after near record precipitation and above-normal mountain snow pack caused high basin runoff and threatened the loss of an entire breeding season.
Under the direction of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 30 eggs were collected in North and South Dakota. Detailed records were kept on each egg that would help keep track of the birds throughout their lives.
At this time, four adults hatched from those eggs reside at Lincoln Park Zoo. Two offspring, both female, one from each pair, have been sent to the Milwaukee County Zoo to be paired with piping plovers there. The successful reproduction of this species in captivity provides hope that zoos will learn enough about plover management and husbandry to save and preserve not only the piping plover, but other declining plover species as well.
Further reading: Johnsgard, Paul A. The Plovers, Sandpipers, and Snipes of the World. University of Nebraska Press. Lincoln and London, 1981.
Perrins, Dr. Christopher M. and Dr. Alex L. A. Middleton. The Encyclopedia of Birds. Facts on File. Oxford and New York, 1985.
ISIS abstracts.
“Lincoln Park Zoo helps the Piping Plover.”
2001 An edited version of this article was published in Encyclopedia of the World’s Zoos, April, 1, 2001, winner of the Outstanding Reference Source award for 2001 from the American Library Association.
The Mauritius kestrel (Falco punctatus), endemic to Mauritius in the Indian Ocean and the island’s only bird of prey, is the world’s rarest falcon. Its known population had been reduced to two breeding pairs by the early 1970s, when it became the world’s rarest bird. It has been studied since 1973, when conservation efforts began to prevent its extinction.
The Mauritius kestrel is a distinct island form, with males averaging 130–140g and females 160–170g. Adult females and immatures are indistinguishable by plumage. The kestrel occupies a niche similar to that of accipiters in its natural habitat of mature evergreen subtropical forests. With short, rounded wings and a dashing hunting technique, its morphology and behavior also demonstrate convergence with accipiters. Diet appears to be partly variable, depending on interrelated factors such as habitat, availability of prey, and season, as well as the ability, experience, preference, age, and sex of the individual. Its nickname, “mangeur des poules,” is inaccurate. Intensive studies in the 1970s revealed that prey includes lizards (primarily Phelsuma geckos), birds (primarily grey white-eyes, Zosterops borbonicus, and introduced common waxbills, Estrilda astrild), and insects (primarily dragonflies and cicadas, along with cockroaches and crickets). Although grey white-eyes were considered the single most important prey, geckos were thought to form 50 percent of the diet, and, during October/November 1981, 94 percent of 218 identified prey items brought to one nest were geckos.
Pairs appear to require a territory of up to 150 ha. Courtship activity begins in September and October, with eggs (usually three) being laid between October and January in a cliff hole. Most first clutches occur in late October. The female is the primary incubator, and the eggs hatch after about 30 days. The young remain in the nest until about five and a half weeks old and are partly dependent on their parents for several months, longer than is typical in temperate-zone kestrels. Parents tolerate young birds until the next breeding season, when they are driven away. Both sexes are mature at one year old, but do not necessarily breed.
The Mauritius kestrel was never abundant, although it was reported in the 1850s that it was “plentiful wherever the indigenous woods exist.” Before Mauritius was discovered, it probably occurred throughout the island. Between 1820 and 1840, it was found mainly in the extensive forests of the island’s center as well as in southwestern coastal areas. Its range continued to contract and, by the 1950s, it was restricted to the remote forests of the southwestern plateau. They are now restricted to an area no greater than 50 square kilometers in the southwest, which features cliffs and ravines.
There are many causes for the kestrel’s decline, including chronic loss of native forest habitat and the degeneration of remaining forests as introduced plants invade them, their seeds spread by native and nonnative frugivorous birds and mammals. The kestrel’s favored prey items, including insects, geckos, and passerines, all have declined; the density of Phelsuma geckos depends largely on the density of native trees and shrubs. Grey white-eyes, an ecologically generalized species, are less common in the remaining native forest than in more disturbed areas of mixed vegetation. Introduced diseases, predation by introduced species, human persecution, pesticide contamination and natural disasters such as cyclones have probably taken their toll as well. Inbreeding in such a small population is also a concern.
Exhibit and Collection History
Mauritius kestrels can be found at the North of England Zoological Society’s Zoological Gardens, Upton-by-Chester, U.K. (one male, one female); Paradise Park at Cornwall’s Conservation Park, Cornwall, U.K. (one female); Durrell Wildlife Preservation Trust, Jersey, U.K. (five males, four females, and one offspring); and Paignton Zoological & Botanical Garden, Devon, U.K. (one female), and The Hawk Conservancy, Hampshire, U.K. (one female), for a total of six males, eight females, and one unsexed offspring.
The Mauritius kestrel has not always done well in captivity. As an island species, it is susceptible to alien pathogens. Necropsies performed on captive individuals have revealed problems such as sinus infections, hepatic lesions, respiratory infections, oviduct conditions and infections, and the presence of DDE, a metabolite of DDT. Genetic deterioration may also be a factor.
Conservation Organizations and Partnerships
In 1973, a World Wildlife Fund (WWF) project, managed by the International Council for Bird Preservation (ICBP) and with the financial support of the New York Zoological Society (NYZS), was begun to study the kestrel and to attempt to save it from what must have seemed like certain extinction. The project has operated in conjunction with the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust (JWPT) and with the active participation of the Government of Mauritius. In 1984, the project became part of the Mauritius Wildlife Research and Conservation Programme (MWRCP). The Peregrine Fund also plays an active role in conservation of the kestrel.
Conservation measures have included captive breeding and reintroduction, legal protection, public education and awareness programs, and habitat preservation in the form of the Macabé/Bel Ombre Nature Reserve, created in 1974 and covering 3,594 ha. The Mauritius kestrel is listed on Appendix I of CITES, to which Mauritius is a party.
Techniques used to promote the kestrel’s survival have included removing fertile eggs from the wild, substituting plastic dummies, and returning the hatchlings to the mother; supplementary feedings of mice to maximize egg production; and double clutching (removing the first clutch to encourage production of a second, a strategy that proved to work well with American kestrels).
In 1994 on the Ile Aux Aigrettes off the coast of Mauritius, in what must have been a frustrating moment of irony for conservationists, a Mauritius kestrel ate a newly hatched offspring of a recently reintroduced pair of Mauritius pink pigeons, the world’s rarest pigeon. The kestrel was captured and removed to a forest site on Mauritius.
From a low of two breeding pairs in the 1970s, the Mauritius kestrel now numbers a wild population of 350 individuals. Releases of captive birds have ended, thanks to the program’s success and the dedicated efforts of many organizations and individuals. The population is monitored carefully during the summer breeding season, and monkeyproof, cycloneproof artificial nesting boxes are placed in selected areas. Young are tagged and measured. The kestrel is still a highly endangered species; to ensure its survival, its population will have to be managed carefully for the foreseeable future.
Further reading:
Collar, N. J. and S. N. Stuart. Threatened Birds of Africa and Related Islands: The ICBP/IUCN Red Data Book, Part 1, third edition. Cambridge, U.K. and Gland, Switzerland, 1985.
Newton, I. and R. D. Chancellor, Conservation Studies on Raptors, based on the proceedings of the Second World Conference on Birds of Prey, April 1982, ICBP Technical Publication No. 5. Norwich, England, 1985.
The Mauritius Wildlife Foundation. http://www.maurinet.com/wildlife.html.
ISIS Abstract. September 1999.
Chicago Tribune. “Botanists Battle to Avert Repeat of Dodo’s Demise,” 2 December 1988, and “Rare Falcon Likes His Pigeon Rare, Too,” 10 October 1994.
2000
An edited version of this article was published in Encyclopedia of the World’s Zoos, April, 1, 2001, winner of the Outstanding Reference Source award for 2001 from the American Library Association.
Red-winged blackbird in spring, back from migration
Thanks to greeting card artists, the birds most of us associate with the holidays are the beautiful northern cardinal and the comical black-capped chickadee. That’s no coincidence — while many of their feathered brethren take off for warmer climes in search of a steady food supply, cardinals and chickadees are among many species of birds that can tolerate a white Christmas.
This should surprise us — after all, in docent training and basic biology, we learned that a small body size means a relatively large surface area, which in turn means that smaller warm-blooded animals need to eat a lot to maintain their body temperatures. Cardinals and chickadees certainly qualify as small. How do they (and other snowbirds) survive the cold?
The answer is simple and amazing at the same time — through a tremendous variety of adaptations. Let’s look at some of them.
Check out the chassis. We know birds are designed for flight, but many of their structural adaptations also help to conserve heat. How many times have you pointed out to your tour groups that, while fennec foxes of the desert have large ears to allow excess heat to escape, Arctic foxes’ tiny ears help them to preserve their body heat? Birds have taken this one step further — no external ears from which to lose heat. Their tails consist of feathers, not flesh. Their lower legs and feet are tendinous, meaning no exposed fleshy parts. Even their bills are made of horn rather than skin. And don’t forget their feathers. Not only essential for flight, feathers, when fluffed, trap an insulating layer of air (one method our chickadee friends use to stay warm on bitterly cold days).
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Many northern species have more feathers in winter than in summer. Smaller birds have more feathers per unit of body weight than their larger compadres.
Eating like a bird. You may remember that a calorie is actually a unit of heat. Because birds have a high metabolism (high rate of heat and energy production), their foods of choice tend to be rich, e.g., seeds, insects, rodents, fruit, and nectar. Their blood glucose level is about twice that of a healthy human, which induces their higher metabolism. A bird, especially in cold weather, would not do well on a low-cal, low-fat, low-sugar diet. And, of course, some birds, like penguins (some species of which survive the extreme cold of the Antarctic), have a thick, insulating layer of body fat, but this doesn’t mean they’re fat, per se. Think about it — have you ever seen an obese bird?
Excuse me. Is this spot taken? You’ve no doubt seen a branchful of dark-eyed juncos, feathers fluffed, huddled tightly together, and thought, “How sweet” or “How cute.” But the juncos aren’t being cuddly or sociable. They’re simply joining forces to combine and conserve body heat. Chickadees, woodpeckers, and nuthatches (all common winter residents in Chicagoland) sleep in holes or hollows in trees for shelter; a dozen or more bluebirds will cram into a nesting box to sleep. Evening grosbeaks, cardinals, and crossbills roost in coniferous trees, taking advantage of densely needled branches. And birds such as ptarmigans, ruffed grouse, and snow buntings will sleep under loose snow. While that may not make sense to the casual observer (after all, snow is cold), the temperature two feet under the snow may be significantly warmer than air temperature. In Alaska, if the air temperature is -50ºC, the temperature under the snow may be a relatively balmy -5ºC. That’s still cold, but a bird is more likely to survive at that warmer temperature.
Nap time. Well, not exactly, but when it becomes chilly, some species, including hummingbirds, swifts, and poor-wills, will become torpid at night — conserving food energy supplies by lowering body temperature and rate of metabolism. (Mourning doves, during bitter cold or storms when they’re unable to feed, don’t become torpid, but may lower their body temperatures.) Torpor is not without its dangers — a torpid bird is more vulnerable to predators since it can’t react quickly to danger, and coming out of torpor requires a lot of energy.
Keep your cold feet to yourself! When it’s cold, birds frequently perch with one foot tucked in their belly feathers. (Not only does this keep that foot warm, but it means that much less exposed to the cold.) Ducks will sit on ice with their feet underneath them, protecting their bodies from heat losses. Many birds tuck their horny bills into their feathers during bitter cold, and have air sacs under their skin that may keep them warm with a layer of insulating air.
Brrr. You shiver when it’s cold; so do birds. Most birds, including chickadees and pigeons, shiver as a short-term adaptation to cold. Shivering converts muscular energy into heat. Of course, there’s a problem with that, too — the bird has to replace the lost energy at some point by eating.
Isn’t that special? Many birds have special adaptations to cold. The arteries and veins of the feet in ducks and geese lie right next to each other. The outgoing arterial blood warms the incoming venous blood, so the blood returning to the bird’s core is already warmed. Penguins also have this adaptation in their flippers (wings) and legs.
Mine mine mine. Some northern finches, like evening grosbeaks, can store large amounts of seeds in their well-developed crops, thus helping them to maintain their high metabolism overnight. Just before dark, hoary and common redpolls will fill a special storage pouch in their esophagus so they can digest the food (usually a particularly rich item, like birch seeds) overnight. Their high rate of energy intake means they can survive colder temperatures better than any other passerines (perching birds or songbirds).
Birds are marvelously adapted for what our climate throws at them, but not all birds can tolerate cold — at least not for very long. Between the combination of cold and lack of food, migrating birds caught in sudden cold weather may suffer a mass die-off. Stories are told of people and animal protection organizations collecting stricken European barn swallows en masse, feeding them mealworms, and shipping them by air and rail over the Alps to sunny Italy, so they could continue their journey southward on their own. That’s why we aren’t doing hummingbirds a favor by providing them with food past Labor Day — if they’re enticed by an easy, generous food supply to stay here too long, they won’t be able to escape weather that’s too cold for them. Even torpor can’t save them from a chilly autumn in Chicago.
Sources:
Ehrlich, Paul R.; Dobkin, David S.; and Wheye, Darryl. The Birder’s Handbook: A Field Guide to the Natural History of North American Birds. 1988.
Perrins, Dr. Christopher M. and Middleton, Dr. Alex L. A., eds. The Encyclopedia of Birds. 1985.
Terres, John K. The Audubon Society Encyclopedia of North American Birds. 1991.
Docents frequently ask me, “What is the difference between a pigeon and a dove?” In my usual helpful way, I always reply, “Two letters.”
“Pigeon” is derived from a Middle French word meaning “young bird”; “dove” is assumed to be derived from (via Old and Middle English) an Old High German word meaning “dove.” There is a tendency to call smaller pigeons doves (jambu fruit dove) and larger birds pigeons (Mauritius pink pigeon). The point is, these common names do not signify a difference in taxonomic classification between pigeons and doves. For example, the common city birds we call pigeons are also known as rock doves.
The American robin is a good example of how birds are named and why common names are confusing. The European robin is a small thrush with a bright red breast that it displays to frighten or startle predators. The English fondly call this bird “Robin Redbreast” (Robin is a diminutive form of the name Robert). When the English emigrated to America, they named our larger thrush robin, too, although it is clearly not the same bird. In fact, homesick Britons throughout the world call any bird with a red breast a robin, whether it’s a thrush or not. (The English in America also missed their hedgehogs, which may explain why they called the woodchuck a “groundhog.”)
In the same vein, European settlers applied the name “bunting” to the cardinal grosbeaks, which are not particularly closely related to buntings. Ironically, most of the New World’s true buntings are called sparrows.
Another example of confusing names are the warblers. The warbler family is native to the Old World. In general, they are small, very plain birds with musical songs (hence, “warbler”). On the other hand, the wood warblers, found in the New World, are often very colorful when in their nuptial plumage ( for example, yellow warbler, cerulean warbler, American redstart), but their songs would not, shall we say, win a Grammy.
Of course, you have the opposite situation, too. When an American thinks of a solitary lake in Minnesota and its haunting sounds, the beautiful common loon instantly comes to mind. Upon hearing the very same cries, a Brit thinks of the common diver. Guess what? The common loon and the common diver are same species — they, like great gray owls, reindeer (caribou), and many other animals, are found along similar latitudes in both hemispheres and are familiar to many transcontinental cultures. In this case, the British name is more accurate; the loon’s adaptations for diving are second only to those of the penguins. The loon is so specialized for diving that adults cannot walk on land (they have to maneuver along on their breasts), and they require a long runway to take off. The bigger (and deeper) the lake, the better. Incidentally, the word “loon” is of Scandanavian origin (and is no relation to the Middle English word “loon,” meaning “crazy” or “foolish”). Given the number of Scandanavians who settled in Minnesota and other northerly parts, it’s not surprising that the North American bird has been dubbed with a Scandanavian name.
The bottom line is, don’t worry too much about those common names. After all, is the pronghorn antelope really an antelope?1
It’s from one and one-half to two inches long (not counting the antennae, which are longer than the body) and is a beautiful dark golden brown in color. It’s one of Chicago’s most numerous (if nontaxpaying) residents. It’s the American cockroach.
Cockroaches are found virtually everywhere. The first time I saw an American cockroach, my reaction (which I suspect is typical) was, “That’s it! I’m finding a place where I will never have to see one of these things again!” A little research revealed that even a move to the research stations of Antarctica would not be far enough — the scientists, no doubt inadvertently, brought Periplaneta americana with them. Roaches have even trekked to Greenland. So much for getting away from them. Research has shown people will tolerate as many as five American cockroaches in their homes per week. (I would like to know who the subjects of that research were!)
Most of us think of cockroaches as dark, disease-carrying, scuttering insects that should be obliterated. Because they are more active at night and in dark places, we attribute all kinds of nasty traits to them, including evil. The truth is, the cockroach is simply a biological organism and has certain environmental and nutritional needs, just as more charismatic nocturnal animals do. After all, white-tailed deer are active mainly at night and provide a home for deer ticks, which in turn carry debilitating Lyme disease. Yet, when you see a deer, chances are you still say, “Awww, isn’t that cute?”
Let’s debunk a couple of these myths, by the way:
Myth: Cockroaches are afraid of light. Reality: Cockroaches prefer darkness, but are not afraid of light. They do run when you wake up and turn on a light, but not because of the light. They are extremely sensitive to surface vibrations; they can detect a movement of less than one-millionth of a millimeter. They are reacting to the air currents and surface vibrations caused by your movement, not to the light.
Myth: All cockroaches are filthy, disease-carrying bugs. Reality: Cockroaches carry many diseases only because they tend to congregate in warm, damp places like sewers and pipes where they pick up disease organisms. A cockroach like the Madagascar hissing cockroach, which lives in a natural habitat, is not the same threat to other animals as our Chicago friends. According to the Audubon Field Guide to Insects and Spiders, it is a myth that cockroaches transmit diseases to humans.
Of the thousands of cockroach species, only a handful, including P.a., are considered to be pests. Most cockroaches (for example, the Madagascan hissing cockroach mentioned above) live in natural environments, filling a niche in their habitat, and rarely have contact with humans. The Madagascan lives under the detritus of the forest floor, munching away on decayed organic material, a niche that is very similar to that of the millipede.
Our Chicago varieties are for the most part pests. There is the German cockroach, which is small, numerous, and often visible. The Oriental cockroach is a black, one-inch insect and does not seem to be as common as the German and American. By the way, the names of cockroaches generally are incorrect. The Oriental and American cockroach most likely originated in Africa or South Asia. The German cockroach probably emigrated from West Africa. Another of the American cockroach’s common names does provide a clue as to how they became so widespread — ship cockroach (Captain Bligh described techniques used for killing them on the Bounty). Another nickname for the American cockroach is the Bombay canary! The most famous name for the American cockroach may be that publicized by humorist Dave Barry in his weekly column — the state “bird” of Florida. In spite of these names comparing P.a. to a bird, the American cockroach is only medium-sized when compared to some other species.
All three species consume foodstuffs and crops, act as vectors of various diseases, and carry parasitic organisms that are dangerous to man and domestic animals. They leave a noxious odor on the food they contaminate with their feces; they cause allergic reactions in humans through four means:
Direct contact
Inhalant
Injectant (from bites)
Ingestant (from ingesting food that has been partially eaten by cockroaches)
That said, however, the main problem people have with cockroaches is emotional. Other insects, for example, fleas and mosquitoes, are far more serious vectors of disease in man and livestock. Locusts cause far more damage to crops.
Why do cockroaches live with us in this love-hate relationship? They require warm temperatures and high relative humidity (between 40 and 50%). Even in climates like Chicago’s, our homes provide both in abundance. They are omnivorous, eating bark, fruit, vegetables, termites, young bedbugs, and parasitic mites. At one aquarium, they ate reptile eggs. They’ve been known to gnaw on people’s feet, hands, and more delicate areas, causing abrasions and allergic reactions. Under overcrowded or stressful conditions, cockroaches will even eat each other, usually recently molted nymphs, copulating pairs, and injured adults — in other words, the most vulnerable. The contents of our cupboards suit them just fine. If you are one of those people who believe that a good housekeeper who keeps food tightly sealed and crumbs cleaned up will never have roaches, think about the following table, which shows how long (in days) American cockroaches can survive without food and/or water:
Males
Females
No food or water
28
42
Dry food, no water
27
40
Water, no food
44
90
Researchers believe the female survives longer than the male due to greater fat reserves (perhaps at least one thing we as humans can relate to!). The point is, no one can avoid cockroaches simply by trying to be immaculate. The cockroach’s food requirements are simply too minimal.
Although cockroaches may bother us, they have their problems, too. Several animals prey on cockroaches and their larvae and eggs, including some spiders, parasitic mites, beetles, ants, amphibians, reptiles (primarily geckos and anoles), birds, and mammals. One Peruvian bird, Troglodytes audex, is known as the cucarachero because of its cockroach consumption. The bird removes the head and wings to down the insect. Believe it or not, man is another cockroach predator. Cockroaches and their eggs are consumed by people in Australia, Thailand, China, Japan, and other parts of the Far East. They are eaten as food and for medicinal reasons.
As in other insects, many tissues of the cockroach can regenerate themselves, including eyes, antennae, cerci, and exoskeletal features, all of which regenerate over a number of molting cycles. The American cockroach is used in endocrine research because they can regenerate their prothoracic gland, a useful feature.
Cockroaches are unique among insects in that they can regenerate their legs in “all-or-none” fashion in a single instar (an instar is the period between molts). In other words, the leg either regenerates in one shot, so to speak, or it doesn’t. The new leg is not a replica — it is smaller and has only four segments rather than the original five. As the cockroach goes through several molts, the new leg does grow larger. This is a good adaptation for the cockroach, because two points along its leg yield easily to tension. (By the way, the only other insect that is known to regenerate a body part in all-or-none fashion is the butterfly, which can regenerates its wing imaginal discs.)
You’re no doubt curious about the love life of the American cockroach. In a three-dimensional vertical space (between your walls comes to mind), males live above the females. When the female is ready, she emits a sex pheromone, which makes the male come a-runnin’, so to speak. The stronger the scent, the straighter his path toward her. The female exhibits a calling pose — she lowers her abdomen slightly and spreads her 8th and 9th terga (dorsal plates) so the underlying tissues are exposed. When the male antennates her, she assumes a motionless stance. The male turns 180º, raises and flutters his wings, and moves backwards. The female must be receptive — courtship is a conflict situation in which there is a high potential for aggressive responses. (In addition, remember that mating cockroaches are vulnerable to the cannibalistic tendencies of their cronies.) In some encounters, the female mounts and the male attempts copulation; in others, the male attempts copulation without female stimulation. During her four-year lifetime, the American cockroach can produce 1,000 offspring. Cockroach nymphs are well developed when they hatch, resembling miniature adults, but it takes a full year and several molts before they reach maturity.
You probably don’t like cockroaches any more than you did before, but maybe you can look at them a little more objectively — they breathe, they eat, they drink, and they produce young, just like any other animal, all the while paying us the ultimate compliment of sharing our taste in both food and housing.
Sources:
The American Cockroach. William J. Bell and K.G. Adiyodi, editors. Chapman and Hall Ltd.: London 1982.
The Biology of the Cockroach. D. M. Guthrie and A. R. Tindall, editors. St. Martin’s Press: New York 1968.
A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. New York: Broadway Books. 2003. 560 pages.
To me, the sciences are fascinating but elusive. The concepts are marvelous and compelling, but the details are difficult and tedious, especially if your grasp of mathematics is as tenuous as mine. I grew up with a love for what I knew of astronomy and the underlying physics, and an interest in such things as geology, paleontology, and meteorology. These subjects are taught badly, if taught at all, and I never understood them well enough for my curiosity to deepen into understanding.
That’s where The Short History of Nearly Everything comes in. Bill Bryson explains much of what we know and how we came to know it through an abundance of examples and similes, not through formulas and theories. Not surprisingly, he’s at his weakest in the most difficult areas. He tries to explain particle physics but is forced to fall back, fairly enough, on, “The fact is, there is a great deal, even at quite a fundamental level, that we don’t know . . . The upshot of all this is that we live in a universe whose age we can’t quite compute, surrounded by stars whose distances we don’t altogether know, filled with matter we can’t identify, operating in conformance with physical laws whose properties we don’t truly understand.” When it comes to string theory, he throws up his hands helplessly, which is understandable since most physicists seem to find it nearly impossible to articulate. Bryson is on firmer ground with Einstein’s theories, which make more sense to me now — gravity is not a force, per se, but “a product of the bending of spacetime . . . no longer so much a thing as an outcome.” Even here, though, he admits, “Our brains can take us only so far because it is nearly impossible to envision a dimension comprising three parts space to one part time, all interwoven like the threads in a plaid fabric.”
Where Bryson shines brightest is on terra firma, geology and the earth as well as ocean sciences. As Bryson shows in numerous cases, once upon a time, science wasn’t just for scientists. Charles Smithson of The French Lieutenant’s Woman was not just a figment of author John Fowles’ imagination, but representative of a Victorian spirit of scientific interest and discovery. Even Einstein, at the time he published his special theory of relativity, had attended only a four-year course “designed to churn out high school science teachers” and was working in the Swiss patent office — not exactly the type of credentials associated with today’s Nobel Prize winners. The 1800s were an especially fruitful time for dedicated amateurs represented in literature by characters such as Smithson and Roger Hamley of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters. There was Roderick Murchison, who “became with rather astonishing swiftness a titan of geological thinking,” or fossil collector and seller Mary Anning, who was the first to discover a plesiosaurus (not, as Bryson puts it, to “find the first plesiosaurus”) and who “could extract [fossils] with the greatest delicacy and without damage.” Lest we think the entrepreneurial spirit of science dead, however, Bryson introduces Reverend Robert Evans, who, from his home in Australia, had as of early 2003 discovered 36 supernovae. To help the reader comprehend the magnitude of this feat, Bryson provides ample context.
Science is often focused on the numbers, but it’s difficult for the human mind to grasp the very large and the very small that are well outside our physical perception. If my teachers had used comparisons and analogies like Bryson’s and his sources, I and my classmates might have understood the significance of all those swirling numbers and formulae. For example, most of us have seen the typical solar system chart neatly tucked into a textbook or displayed on a poster. But the planets don’t come one after the other at “neighborly intervals.” If Earth were the diameter of a pea, “Jupiter would be over a thousand feet away and Pluto would be a mile and a half distant (and about the size of a bacterium, so you wouldn’t be able to see it anyway”). Bryson adds that the nearest star, Proxima Centauri, would be nearly 10,000 miles away at this scale. It’s easier to appreciate the size and wonder of the universe when presented in a tangible way rather than as a bunch of 10s with superscripts.
Bryson covers a lot of territory — astronomy, earth science, oceanography, physics, chemistry, biology, evolution, origins of man, and even the microbes that keep us healthy and make us miserable. Earth and its life depend on delicately balanced systems and processes, with the potential for natural or man-made disaster ever present. The chapter on the Yellowstone supervolcano (“Dangerous Beauty”) would keep any nervous soul up a few nights, while humbling chapters like “Lonely Planet” reveal how much of what we rely on is beyond our control — the molten nature of Earth’s interior, our moon that is just the right size and orbit to keep our planet stabilized, the position of the Earth relative to the sun (five percent closer or 15 percent farther, and we would cease to exist as we know ourselves). Bryson reminds us that we are a hair’s breadth from unpredictable and/or unpreventable disaster, whether from space or from within our own home.
As we live day to day, going to work, shopping, eating, sleeping, spending time with friends, even vacationing with the family at Yellowstone, it’s easy to forget that we’re part of more than a neighborhood, a city, or even a country. We’re also part of the complex systems that sustain us, our planet Earth, and the universe around us. If you have, A Short HIstory of Nearly Everything may help you to recall the wonder and the fragility of it all.
A friend and I saw the Omnimax film Magnificent Desolation: Walking on the Moon narrated by Tom Hanks. The beginning and ending sandwich premise is overdone, butt the middle is wonderfully evocative of the era in which I grew up — the era of the Apollo missions.
To my parents, the Apollo missions were major events, and I remember watching at least a few of them. It didn’t matter that much of the television footage was of the launcher on the pad or of the men at Mission Control monitoring grey, flickering screens. We didn’t want to miss the critical moment: “10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . liftoff! We have liftoff!” We sat on the edge of our seats at home and counted along with Mission Control, trying not to get ahead in our excitement and impatience.
Liftoff, that fiery, roaring, thunderous, glowing moment that the television of the day could not do justice to, always signaled the beginning of a letdown to me. There was so much buildup to that emotionally intense moment — and then it was over. The craft would get smaller and smaller, and after the last of the launcher broke away, I felt a sense of both completion and anticlimax.
Even when Neil Armstrong took his first historic steps on the lunar surface, I didn’t feel the same sense of relief, accomplishment, and pride that I think many if not most adults did. I was simply too young to understand. Countdowns and liftoffs made sense to my single-digit mind; the historical significance and the national sense of pride did not. Now I can look back and appreciate what I was privileged to witness — a daring experiment that millions of us simultaneously viewed and discussed, each launch an event that brought together people of all politics, faiths, ages, and avocations for “one brief shining moment,” glued to our television sets (some of which were still black and white!).
I watched the launch of the first shuttle, but emotionally it wasn’t the same experience. The space program had come under scrutiny, many wanted to cut or eliminate the expense, many didn’t understand the benefits, the battle with the Soviets had changed, and I was older and perhaps a bit jaded. Maybe we all were.
I was at work when the Challenger exploded; like everyone else, I was stunned as I saw the footage replayed again and again on the news. But I wonder, at that time of day, how many people were watching the launch, how many had planned their day around it, how many would have talked of it for days afterward had it been successful, that is, a routine launch. By then, the sense of wonder had passed, and sending astronauts into space had become so commonplace that all of us began taking it for granted.
At the beginning of Magnificent Desolation: Walking on the Moon, several children are asked to name any of the Apollo astronauts. They can’t (although they come up with some amusing current cultural references). As James Loewen notes in Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your High School History Textbook Got Wrong, even the most recent history can be the first forgotten. Once, Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon inspired generations of viewers. Now, even NASA itself seems determined to downplay the achievements of the Apollo crews and to undermine our memories of wonder, just as the countdown to the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11 should be beginning. The following is from NASA’s Web site:
“Before the end of the next decade, NASA astronauts will again explore the surface of the moon. And this time, we’re going to stay, building outposts and paving the way for eventual journeys to Mars and beyond. There are echoes of the iconic images of the past, but it won’t be your grandfather’s moon shot.”
There’s nothing wrong with “your grandfather’s moon shot.” There had never been anything like it before for Americans, and may not be again for a very long time. It was a moment that helped to define us, as World War II defined my father’s generation. Rather than downplaying Apollo in their marketing hype, NASA should be reveling in it, taking full advantage of its remarkable emotive and historical power to excite us about future exploration. (Note to NASA: “Building outposts” isn’t exactly the most compelling goal or prose imaginable. Take a lesson from Armstrong.)
Let’s never allow space or space travel to become ordinary, or NASA to transform it into another dull commodity. “Out there” may be our last repository of mystery and awe.
