Early buttercup (Ranunculus fascicularis) with sleeping bee
After a long day of foraging, what bee wouldn’t enjoy the opportunity to take its ease on a buttercup’s petals, or to indulge in complimentary pollen once it awoke?
This bee continued to sleep until increasing sunlight and warmth caused it to stir, shake its wings, and fly off. Perhaps it had reservations at an equally elegant and well-appointed buttercup down the road.
Pollen strands of a pink evening primrose ~ Oenothera speciosaThe Oenothera genus contains about 125 species of flowering plants; pink evening primrose, beach evening primrose, and sundrops are especially common in Texas. Their flowers open primarily in the evening, and are pollinated by a variety of bees and moths.
Because the pollen grains of these flowers are loosely linked by threads of a substance called viscin, only bees with specialized pollen-transporting hairs can gather their pollen effectively. Viscin, a clear, tasteless, sticky substance not only holds the pollen grains together, it also helps attach the pollen to visiting insects.
Some botanists theorize the plants evolved in this way to allow the pollen to stick onto insects that aren’t necessarily designed to carry pollen—especially nearly hairless creatures such as beetles. Other plants in the Onagraceae also have viscin threads, although some—like those found in Fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium) — can only be seen with magnification.
Pollen strands of a beach evening primrose ~ Oenothera drummondiiBeyond the viscous pollen strings Oenothera species have developed to aid their pollination, at least one of their kind has evolved another trick for tempting insects to stop by. Scientists have found that Oenothera drummondii, the pretty beach evening primrose, can increase the sugar content of its nectar within three minutes of its flowers being vibrated by visiting bees.
How the scientists figured that out I can’t say, but its very improbability makes me smile. It seems some flowers actively invite bees to drop by for a sip of nectar, as well as a little packet of pollen to go.
Of course the so-called Obedient Plant never will be as obedient as a dog — it’s not going to roll over or fetch — but there’s a reason for its name. Bent, twisted, or arranged around the stalk, individual flowers tend to stay put; arranged in parallel rows, the effect can be charming.
These Spring Obedient Plants (Physostegia intermedia) found near the San Bernard Wildlife Refuge will bloom until late June or July; the so-called Fall Obedient Plant (Physostegia virginiana) appears here from August to October. While the doubled stem shown above is unusual, the curves of the developing flowers always are attractive.
The flowers open from bottom to top along the stem, and visiting bees seem to move in the same direction. Tubular, two-lipped blooms offer a handy ‘landing pad’ for the bees; entering one flower after another to gather nectar, the bees then back out, carrying pollen with them as they go.
The plants are less obedient in the garden. A member of the mint family, Physotegia spreads easily; like mint, it can fill flower beds if not contained. Still, that same tendency to naturalize allows it to provide great sweeps of color across the landscape. Whether straight and tall as the snapdragons it resembles, or delicate and curved in development, it’s a welcome sign of spring’s continued unfolding.
Tall Poppy Mallow ~ Gonzales County, TexasSeveral species popularly known as winecup or poppy mallow bloom in Texas. In my area, the Purple Poppy Mallow (Callirhoe involucrata) spreads along the ground, forming low, dense mats across prairies, fields, and roadsides. Its deep magenta, cup-shaped flowers are common from mid-spring to fall.
The closely-related Tall Poppy Mallow (Callirhoe leiocarpa), a spindly, erect plant of the hill country that often reaches a height of two to three feet, produces single blooms atop long, leafless stems like the one shown above. Its dark purplish-red to wine colored flowers close each evening, and remain permanently shut after pollination.
When I found a few Tall Poppy Mallows re-opening on the morning of April 5 outside Cost, Texas, one held a surprise. The small flower, less than an inch across, held an even smaller sleeping bee that had checked into the Winecup Hotel for the night. As I looked into the tiny cup, the bee awoke and stirred, then peered over the edge of the petals. Perhaps it was hoping for room service.
Dwarf palmetto leaf with gold yaupon ~ Artist Boat, Galveston IslandAs the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, we mark the move from one year to the next with ringing bells, fireworks, and more-or-less accomplished versions of “Auld Lang Syne.” On New Year’s Day, different human conventions hold sway. We change calendars, make resolutions, and eat special foods to ensure luck or money in the coming year.
But these are human foibles. Nature hangs no calendar and watches no clock. Old and new keep comfortable company at year’s end, and at the Artist Boat on Galveston Island, I found a lovely year-end mix.
The golden yaupon shown above — probably the cultivar known as Saratoga Gold — is a new addition to the Artist Boat landscape. Several trees line the boardwalk leading to the bird observatory now, and the birds obviously enjoy the berries.
On the other side of the boardwalk, a relative of the better-known silverleaf nightshade, known as eastern black nightshade or West Indian nightshade, bloomed prolifically. Despite its common name, it’s a Texas native, with tiny flowers only a half-inch wide when fully opened.
The day I found it blooming, great clouds of bees skillfully “buzzed” the banana-like anthers, vibrating the flowers with their bodies to encourage the flowers’ pollen to fall from the anthers’ tips.
Lovely Gaillardias were everywhere, in every stage of bud, bloom, and decline.
At least two native plants in Texas carry the name Spanish needles: Bidens bipinnata, and this lovely Bidens pilosa (also known as Bidens alba). I don’t remember finding these before, and was delighted to discover a few in a corner of the preserve.
When I noticed this striking seedhead forming, it took me a minute to realize it was the same Macartney rose I’d shown blooming in a previous post. As pretty as the flower is, this seemed even more striking to me: a summery, sunny glow at the turning of the year.
Lagniappe 