Category Archives: Nature News

January 2024, Nature News

Spanish Moss: Mysterious, misunderstood, and more useful than we imagined.

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By Burt Glover
January 21, 2024


As I sit here on a blustery January day, avoiding doing all of the things that REALLY should be done, I look out the window. What do I see? Spanish moss, hanging from the bald cypress tree out front…. Spanish moss, billowing in the wind …. Spanish moss … what exactly is this plant? My chores will just have to wait.

Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides) is a native perennial herb that grows on trees. It is neither Spanish nor is it a moss. It is a species of the Bromeliad family, which includes the pineapple and many of the potted plants found in homes and offices. It is classified as an epiphyte, which is a plant that grows on the surface of another plant. It has no roots. Contrary to popular belief, it takes nothing from the plant that it grows on. It does not kill trees. Rather, it has scales (called trichomes) along its body that collect and store water from rain and fog, and nutrients from the atmosphere. Much of these come from the dead cells that are continually shed from trees, along with other dust and debris floating around in the atmosphere. Atmospheric debris and sunlight: that is all it needs to live. 

Close-up views of Spanish moss

So how did the myth start that Spanish moss damages or kills trees? Here is a theory. Because older trees tend to shed more dead cells than young trees, and with dying trees shedding even more, these trees provide a more nutrient-rich atmosphere for an epiphyte than younger trees. It’s not that the Spanish moss causes trees to be old or die; the epiphyte is merely thriving in favorable conditions.

I was surprised to learn that Spanish moss is an actual flowering plant — just like any other bromeliad. (I’ll have to be more observant.) In springtime, its inconspicuous yellow-to-green blossoms appear, lasting around four days. On warm, humid evenings, you may be able to smell their delicate fragrance. The resulting seeds have feathery appendages, somewhat resembling those of the dandelion. Those seeds are released into the wind to float around and hopefully land into a tree with suitable habitat, where they will grow and flourish. Most likely, though, Spanish moss will spread through “festoons.” These are broken-off pieces of the original plant that are spread around by animals or the wind and readily grow in their new locations. 

Spanish moss flowers in springtime

Spanish moss is native to the tropical and subtropical regions of South America, Central America, Mexico, and the southeastern US. When French colonizers first arrived in what is now the southern US, they asked “What is this?”

Indigenous peoples told them it was Itla-okla (tree hair). The French colonists renamed it barbe espagnol, or Spanish beard, because it reminded them of the long beards of the Spanish explorers. Spanish colonists, in turn, renamed it cabello francais, or French hair.  As time passed, the “Spanish” part of the  name stuck, but the “beard” part transitioned to “moss.”  

Spanish moss in its native setting in the wild.

How has this plant figured into human history? Well, Native Americans of the southeast, including the Natchez and the Seminoles, would gather large quantities and soak it in shallow bodies of water until the outer layer of the strands rotted away, leaving behind the tough black inner fibers of the plant. Those fibers were used to make a coarse fabric for blankets, clothing and floor mats. The fibers were also twisted into rope and cords for making fishing nets and lashing poles together for housing structures. 

Closer to home and, as the crow flies, only about 30 minutes from downtown Aiken, is Stallings Island, a site where Spanish moss was used in pottery-making some 4,000-5,000 years ago. Located in the middle of the Savannah River above Augusta, Georgia, Stallings Island is said to be home to the earliest pottery sherds in North America.1

In 2008, a group of clay artists in Augusta, Georgia held a workshop to replicate the Stallings Island method of pottery construction and pit-firing. As workshop leader, Gary Dexter, described it, “These pots were made from indigenous clay with Spanish moss mixed into it to temper the clay. By temper, I mean it opens the clay body up some and allows it to dry and fire over open flame without cracking.”

Without the Spanish moss or some other material to make the clay body porous, the pieces would shrink and dry unevenly and crack. Of course, the Spanish moss would burn up in the fire, leaving behind its impressions in the clay body. Below are some photos from the two firings in the 2008 pottery workshop. 

TOP: Stallings-type pot bathed by fire.
BELOW: Stallings pots cooling down after the firings.

Utilitarian uses of Spanish moss were not limited to ancient cultures. These uses continued through the ages and into the mid-20th century. In addition to its uses in bedding, weaving and rope-making, it has been used as a building material for insulation from the cold and as a useful additive to mud chinking to fill in the gaps of log cabins and other structures. More recently (well, still centuries ago), Spanish moss was used as a filler and stuffing for pillows and mattresses. Moths are not attracted to it. Called “vegetable horsehair,” it gained favor over wool in furniture upholstery. In the mid-19th century, it was woven to make horse blankets and pads. Contemporary artisans and weavers have helped revive the demand for horse blankets and other goods woven from Spanish moss. 

In the early 20th century, South Carolina had several moss gins. At the time, it sure was hard to beat a cool and comfy Spanish moss-stuffed mattress on a sultry, summer night. Believe it or not, a rudimentary air conditioner was once made from fanning air through a mesh of moist Spanish moss, cooling the air. Automaker Henry Ford used it as a filler in the seats and headliners of his Model T in the early 20th century.

Medicinally, a tea was made from it to be used for chills and fever. The plant does contain inulin, which has shown some promise, combined with other agents, in diabetes treatment. Some people enjoy keeping Spanish moss indoors (google it for images). Articles abound on indoor care and culture, and plant makes for an easy houseguest.

Spanish moss fits nicely into the natural world. Many birds and animals utilize its fibers– bald eagles, ospreys, owls, hawks and many others use it to cushion and insulate their nests. Northern parula warblers build their nests directly in the moss. Several species of bat roost in it, as well. Examine a mass of it and you may find any number of animals using it for shelter– tree frogs, snakes and lizards to name a few. One jumping spider (Pelegrina tillandsia) occurs only in Spanish moss. The one organism that you WILL NOT find there is the chigger. This fact has been confirmed in many entomological studies. The idea that Spanish moss stored on the ground gathers chiggers also appears to be the stuff of myth. 

TOP: Spanish moss growing on power lines.
BELOW: Spanish moss festooning live oak trees in formal gardens in Charleston, SC.

Though it can grow on almost any surface, including fences and power lines, Spanish moss seems to grow best on oak and cypress trees. As I was driving around my hometown of Aiken yesterday, I could find no instances of it growing on oaks, cypresses, or any other trees. Aiken is included in its native range. Local gardeners increasingly incorporate palmetto trees and other coastal-region plantings to their landscapes … why not Spanish moss? I will meditate on that thought as I watch mine wafting in the January breeze. 

Spanish moss festooning in the bald cypress tree in my yard.

Contributor Burt Glover became an accidental naturalist during his earliest childhood days exploring the dirt roads, backyards, polo field and barns of the Magnolia-Knox-Mead neighborhood of 1950s Aiken. Birds are his first love, and he can identify an impressive range by song alone. He asserts that he is an observer, not an expert, on the topics of his writings, which range from birds, box turtles, frogs and foraging, to wasps, weeds, weather and beyond.

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For reference:

  1. Johnson, Josephine, “Share an apple with a donkey on the prehistoric grounds of Stallings Island,” Savannah Now. March, 29, 2022.

January 2024, Nature News

The Aiken Camellia Show — A Tradition to Keep

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2026 UPDATE: This year’s Aiken Camellia Show will be held on Saturday, January 17, 2026 at the First Presbyterian Church at 224 Barnwell Ave. NW from 1:00 p.m. – 4:30 p.m. Want to attend or enter a bloom? See full details here. Now for a bit more about camellias, the Aiken Camellia Show, and why you should go. But first, this disclaimer.

Disclaimer: I am no expert on camellias or camellia shows, just an enthusiastic bystander and child of the South, where one picks up a few things. Please let me know if there are corrections to be made.

About Camellias

The two most commonly grown camellia species in our area are Camellia sasanqua (native to southern Japan) and Camellia japonica (native to China, Korea and Japan). Both are evergreens and faithful, cool-season bloomers. As a rule, sasanquas tend to have smaller leaves, and they bloom earlier, beginning in autumn. The japonica, which is generally more prized by camellia fanciers, tends to have larger leaves, and it blooms later, beginning in early winter. The japonica makes a fine cut flower, whereas many of the sasanquas tend to drop their petals faster than you get them into a vase. Depending on the variety, a camellia may bloom for one to three months or longer.

Above: Sasanqua ‘Setsugekka.’ A lovely, long-blooming shrub that scatters a festive confetti of petals onto the lawn.

Above: Japonicas hold their petals and will stay fresh-looking for days. This is a japonica ‘Lady Laura’ from my brother’s garden.

There are hundreds of camellia species and thousands of camellia varieties, or cultivars. We have three camellia species in our yard — sasanquas, japonicas, and a single sinensis, the latter of which is the source plant for green tea and matcha. Throughout autumn, the sinensis produces dozens upon dozens of small, cream-colored flowers utterly laden with pollen. A single blossom can occupy a bee for several minutes collecting bundles of pollen.

Between the three species, we have about two dozen cultivars in our yard. Some sound like they stepped off either the society page or a Clue game board — Marie Bracey, Professor Sargent, Marjorie Magnificent, Mrs. Charles Cobb, and Dr. Tinsley. Others have more descriptive names, such as Yuletide, Alba Plena, Debutante, White Empress, and Taylor’s Pink Perfection.

Above: An arrangement of my mother’s favorites. Dr. Tinsley is at the center, surrounded by (clockwise, starting at 1:00) Marjorie Magnificent, Herme, Marie Bracey, Mrs. Charles Cobb and Professor Sargent.

Once you become acquainted with camellias, it’s impossible to have just one favorite among the many cultivars. Two of my longtime favorites are Dr. Tinsley (an intriguing beauty that exudes a mysterious, sweet nectar), and the perfectly decorated, pink, rose and white Herme, which was said to be the favorite of author Eudora Welty. There are always new favorites to discover, which is one of the many delights of attending a camellia show.

Life for a camellia in Aiken is about as close to heaven as it gets, between our warm and humid climate, our temperate winters, and the acidic soil. Plant camellias in an understory of pine trees, and they will reward you with a lifetime of relatively carefree growth and a long bloom season of colorful pink, coral, rose, red and/or white flowers ranging from delicate, graceful and ethereal, to showy and festive.

Above: In our yard, the sasanqua ‘Yuletide’ blooms from October to December. Unlike many sasanquas, a cut flower will last several days in a bud vase

About the Camellia Show

The earliest camellia show in our area may have been an Augusta show that was hosted by the Sand Hill Garden Club in 1932. Annual Augusta camellia shows commenced, which drew Aiken Garden Club members and other camellia fanciers across the region who vied for ribbons, silver bowls, and best bloom awards. Local camellia show attendees of that era included well-known Aiken names and garden club legends such as Phelps, Wilds, Henderson, Salley, McLean, Crosland, and Woolsey. 

The very first Aiken Camellia Show may have been the one held by the Aiken Garden Club in 1934 at the home of Mrs. Robert H. Wilds on Hayne Avenue. Additional shows were sporadically held by various garden clubs over the next 20 years until 1954, when the shows became an annual Aiken tradition. 

This year marks 70 years of the annual Aiken Camellia Show. During the 1950s, the show was held at the Aiken Municipal auditorium. A few of these shows were canceled due to cold-weather damage to the blooms and buds — a hazard for camellia shows. During the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s the shows were held in the Kennedy Junior High gymnasium. Since the mid-1980s, the shows have been held at various other venues, including USC-Aiken, the Aiken Mall, and area church gymnasiums. 

While there have been a number of changes to the show over the years, two stand out as prominent in my mind. One is “gibbing,” the use of gibberellic acid to increase flower size and induce early blooming. The other is that, because increasing numbers of growers utilize greenhouses, a blast of winter freeze is no longer the death knell for a camellia show.

Above: A japonica ‘Herme’ with icicles and sleet.

Camellias under glass

I used to delight in visiting the greenhouse of a family friend and camellia grower in the 1970s-80s who kept camellias both outdoors and “under glass.” A camellia greenhouse is not a hothouse, but a cold greenhouse that protects from severe conditions. Attendees to the Aiken Camellia Show will notice that the blooms are categorized by numerous classes, most of which are further categorized according to whether the blooms were grown protected (under glass) or non-protected, which are defined as “those grown in natural surroundings without any man-made protection from the elements.”

My mother’s camellias

My mother, a hardworking, lifelong gardener of everything from kiwis to cabbages to calamondins — who, for decades kept a summer garden large enough to fill both the freezer and the canning pantry every year — also happens to love camellias. She’s entered a number of camellia shows over the past 50 years, but has also lost out to weather some years. Her most recent show was in 2019 at the age of ninety.

On the morning of the show, she went out into the yard at first light to select the best blooms. After labeling them and carefully packing them for transport, she took them to town to register them, then returned home to await the show later that day.

Above: My mother’s preparations for the Aiken Camellia Show.

Her odds of winning a ribbon would seem slim, given the caliber of competition and the fact that all of her blooms are grown outdoors and without the benefit of gibberellic acid. Much to her delight, four of her camellias won 1st place, and two won 3rd place. One of her camellias, a Herme, won a special award. 

Even if she’d won nothing, attending the show was, as always, a special occasion. We oohed and ahhed over the lovely blooms and discussed which ones we might one day plant in our yard. We also enjoyed the flower arrangement part of the show, which featured contemplative and artful Japanese floral arrangements, called Ikebana. 

Above: From the 2019 Aiken Camellia Show, held in the gymnasium of the First Presbyterian Church.

While there have been many changes to the Aiken Camellia Show over the years, the experience of attending a camellia show today is much like I remember from my early childhood.  Whether you’d like to enter your camellias in the show, or simply enjoy browsing the dazzling variety of blooms, the Aiken Camellia Show is a pleasure to attend. Chances are, you’ll leave with a list of favorites. As traditions go, this one’s a keeper. 

— Click here to get acquainted with the Aiken Camellia Society at their Facebook page:  

— Click here to learn about Hopelands Garden’s special section of Aiken cultivars, including ‘Miss Aiken,’ a cultivar created by natural pollination and registered in 1975 by local nurseryman Mr. George M. Owens.

— Click here to view a photo of the ‘Miss Aiken’ camellia at Brookgreen Gardens in Murrells Inlet, SC

In parting, a few words on the “Miss Aiken,” camellia. I don’t have a copyright free image of one, but you can see photos at the Brookgreen Gardens link, above, or visit one in person this February at the railroad depot at Union and Park this February. Or visit the one in Hopelands. I know of another ‘Miss Aiken’ in a southside yard, whose owners passed away about 20 year ago. This house has since seen two other owners. The latest owners likely don’t know about the treasure planted at the corner of their house. I breathe a sigh of relief whenever I drive by and see she’s there. One day I should stop by, introduce myself, and tell them the history of their ‘Miss Aiken.’

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Below: The newest addition to our camellia family, a sasanqua ‘October Magic Orchid’ which grows in a container beside the front door.

Nature News, November 2023, Trees and Deforestation

Snowbirds

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My grandparents were snowbirds. Every year in late October, they departed from their home in New York, ahead of snow season, and drove south. During the earlier years, they stayed with us in our newly-purchased home, Whitehall, whose overgrown grounds kept my grandfather busy doing what he loved most — gardening. After we moved from Whitehall, my grandparents rented furnished cottages along South Boundary and Colleton Avenue and the streets in-between, which contained a number of seasonal rentals.

They stayed until April, which coincided with the end of polo season. My grandfather was an avid polo fan, and the Whitney polo field was about a block’s distance from home so, most Sundays, I walked over and visited with them during the game or, as was sometimes the case, amused myself while they visited with friends. My grandfather was a gregarious man with a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Sometimes I got lucky and caught an out-of-bounds polo ball. These dented-up specimens were eagerly bought up by spectators, selling for fifty cents. Autographed balls commanded a higher price. Either way, there was usually enough to buy a hotdog, an orange Fanta, and a Reese’s cup from the concession stand. Two of my brothers also spent Sunday afternoons at the polo game. One walked the ponies to cool them down after chukkers; the other worked with setting up the ropes before the game and helping the scorekeeper. 

During the week, my grandmother busied herself with her bridge club and garden tea room events. In between, she knitted sweaters for me and my brothers. My grandfather spent his days gardening, visiting with friends, going on long walks in Hitchcock Woods, and feeding the ducks at Aiken State Park. Some Saturdays, we all went to the woods. My grandfather was retired, but he worked as a gardener on a number of the winter estates. I never knew when I might happen upon him working in one of the yards while I was out walking with friends. He was ever amenable to setting aside his work and visiting with me for a while. In parting, he always gave me a lifesaver — either licorice or butter rum. 

Autumn

Autumn in 1960s Aiken was a vividly-felt, sensory feast between the arrivals of the snowbirds, the horses, and “the horse people,” as we called the Winter Colony residents, and the sight of winter residences coming to life with their indescribably green rye-grass lawns; of neatly-raked sidewalks lined in purple and yellow pansies; of white doves, pink sasanquas and golden afternoons scented with tea olive. Stirred into the cooler nights and changing leaves was the the excitement over the annual Halloween Carnival at Eustis Park and entering the poster contest that preceded it. Among my favorite autumn memories was the precise moment my grandparents’ arrived from the north. My brothers and I, after hours of anticipation, would race to the driveway to greet them. My grandfather always brought bags upon bags of apples — Northern Spies, his favorite — and my grandmother always brought us a batch of her sugar and nutmeg tea cakes. When the car door was flung open, we were greeted by this wondrous bouquet of scents, backdropped by just a hint of mothballs — woolen clothes being, to us, a northern peculiarity.

Recently, I found myself recalling all of this, and more, while I was sitting on the back porch. I kept hearing this persistent chirping coming from the Rose of Sharon. It took me a minute, but I finally located the source — a single sparrow, visible only as a silhouette in the branches. “The first sparrow of the season!” I declared to my eldest brother, who was on the step visiting.

I explained how the white-throated sparrows arrive like clockwork every year on Halloween or November 1st. But this was November 2, a little later than usual. I watched the bird as it continued to chirp, its tone almost urgent. After a minute or so, it flew over to a bush near the stump of a maple tree that we’d been compelled to cut down this summer.  More plaintive chirping. Then the bird flitted to another bush, its urgent chirping directed toward the empty space where the maple tree once stood. 

The Maple Tree

The decision to cut down that tree was a difficult one. We struggled over it for years after the tree developed an enormous hollow in the center of its trunk. The rest of the tree was full and leafy — a veritable mother tree for resident birds and migrating passers-through, along with skinks, black racers, wrens and warblers that summered in the branches.

The last photos of the maple tree, taken the morning the tree was cut down. Top: The tallest tree is the maple. To its left is the Rose of Sharon in full bloom. The stump of the tulip poplar, taken a few years earlier, is visible in the lower right corner. Below: Two views of the tree hollow with pokeweed growing out of it.

While my brother and I mused over the lost maple and the chirping sparrow, a large flock of sparrows arrived to the Rose of Sharon, chattering and fluttering about. There must have been about three dozen of them. It was difficult to identify them among the leaves, but it looked to be a mix of several different species of sparrow. You could feel it in their chattering, this palpable sense of relief — something with which most long-distance travelers can probably relate. I expected the birds, hungry from their long journey, to mob the feeders but, oddly, they didn’t. Nor did they settle into the inner thickets of the pittosporum bush under the kitchen window, as is their custom every year. They just disappeared. I didn’t see them again for three days.

Among our many deliberations before taking down the maple tree, we had considered an elaborate cabling of the tree so that, if it failed, it wouldn’t crash onto the house. Ultimately, the idea was so impractical as to be impossible. The loss of that tree was made more painful arriving on the heels of another loss — a nearby giant tulip poplar a few years earlier — the first tree my father planted on this property nearly 50 years earlier. With these two trees fell entire constellations of habitat for birds, with the sudden disappearance of beetles, caterpillars, spiders and seeds for eating; leaves, sticks and webs for nest building; nooks and crevices filled with secret pools of water; leafy boughs for exploring, shelter, rest and safe haven. 

The species and habits of birds in the backyard have noticeably changed since we lost the maple. For one, the Coopers Hawk spends a lot more time on the premises, his coming and goings marked by scatterings of feathers, usually from a dove. For another, the feeders, usually bustling with activity, are utterly still for much of the day. The former variety of birds at the feeders has been replaced primarily by cardinals, which live as a colony of 16 or more on our property. It hadn’t occurred to me, until the arrival of that chirping sparrow, the maple’s importance for the arrival of these migrating birds. For three days, I listened for the first strains of that plaintive song that white-throated sparrows bring to the autumn landscape — but there was just the silence. 

Most of us keep busy enough that the arrivals and departures of migrating birds are not on our radar. Once we do notice, however, the arrivals of the hummingbirds, painted buntings, wood thrushes, and redstarts in the springtime and — in autumn — the arrivals of the sparrows, juncos, and other snowbirds become special occasions to look forward to every year.

White throated sparrow.

Grow or Die

Our “normal” white-throated sparrow population is about two dozen birds, most of them roosting in the pittosporum thicket. This, in addition to at least one song sparrow, a scattering of chipping sparrows, and the occasional fox sparrow that visit the feeders. I spent the three days from November 2nd through the 5th watching the backyard for the sparrows. Their absence made me wonder: Where do birds go when they arrive in spring or autumn and discover their home places have disappeared? How do they find food when they arrive to find only asphalt and rooftops where once stood canopies of trees, leafy thickets, and wild fields edged in autumn flowers, grasses, berries, and seeds? 

Even I, a wingless being in this changing landscape, understand how it feels to watch your homeplace disappear plot by plot, leaf by leaf, ant by ant, year by year. The impact from the loss of a single tree is profound and impossible to fully calculate in terms of the affected moths, beetles, spiders, butterflies, bats, flying squirrels, owls, lizards, snakes, mice and birds, not to mention the larger animals, including us humans. Expand this equation to a small parcel of woods, or a forest, or an entire landscape reduced to a patchwork of subdivisions, urban sprawl, clear-cuts, and pine plantations. 

Considering the impact from the destruction of single maple, it is not difficult to grasp the role of habitat loss and fragmentation in the decline of so many species. Here in South Carolina, where the rate of deforestation rivals that of the Amazon rainforest, we have front-row seats to the consequences of the runaway development and industry. Newcomers may not be cognizant of the losses, but those of us who spent our lives traveling the back roads by heart to the mountains and the coast increasingly find ourselves in terra incognita. Real estate developers have a sales pitch they use to justify transitioning a landscape from woods and fields to strip malls, high-density housing, and traffic gridlock: “We must keep growing or we’ll die.”

These words came to mind as I watched the sparrow hopping from bush to bush chirping at the empty space where the maple tree once stood. Were it possible to translate the persistent chirping of a single sparrow, we might better hear the folly of the developers’ mantra.

The white-throated sparrows reappeared after three days. The first one arrived to the jasmine thicket, then another to the grassy weeds near the feeders. Another joined, and then another. There are maybe five in all. They’ve since settled in. Even when out of sight, I can see their presence in the tips of the pittosporum branches, which stir and tremble as the birds hop about below. It’s now mid-November. The nights have grown cooler and the days shorter. The skies are bluer now, and leaves on the trees are turning color and falling. To borrow from Robert Browning, “All’s right with the world.” 

Almost, anyway. I’m still left to wonder at the ongoing silence. 



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Below: A small sampling of songs from our local migratory birds.

Nature News, October 2023

Trick or Treat! It’s the Bradford Pear

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By Burt Glover
October 29, 2023

It may be the tree that I love to hate. Then again, maybe it is the tree I hate to love. When it comes to the Bradford pear, it all comes down to the season. Now, with autumn creeping in, I feel a certain excitement starting to build whenever I drive by one the grander specimens. This week, I saw the first color emerging in the tops of the trees. Soon, these Bradford pears will explode with stunning shades of mahogany-red, crimson, and orange-red, tinged with yellow. I will try to keep my car on the road as I drive by these beauties, slack-jawed and amazed; likewise in springtime, when witnessing their masses of delicate white flowers, usually one of the first to emerge after a barren, cold winter. So, why do I feel the urge to carry a chainsaw around to cut down every Bradford pear that I see? Why is the sale of this tree increasingly being banned by so many states? Is it the devil tree that it is now made out to be?

To make sense of it all, you must know how a Bradford pear is made. Yes, it is made. The process begins with the Callery pear, Pyrus calleryana, native to Western China and Vietnam. The Callery pear is a very vigorous tree, able to grow in arid lands, standing water, shade, sun, rich soil and poor, (some say it will even grow in concrete). It is fast-growing and resistant to the diseases that plague other pears, however, it tends to produce long, sharp, thorns along the stems and branches, which make for a very undesirable tree. Graft a more desirable pear cultivar onto the rootstock of the Callery pear, and you have a winner. That is what horticulturists did in the 1950s upon discovery of a single specimen of a Callery pear that was characteristically lovely in leaf and flower, yet uncharacteristically thornless. They took scions from this Callery pear tree — which would be named “Bradford” — and grafted them to common Callery rootstock. Every Bradford pear they “made” was a genetically-identical clone of that original cultivar. Because Callery pears cannot self-pollinate, the trees were sterile — incapable of producing viable seeds.

These Bradford clones were brought to market at garden centers and big box stores across the southern and eastern U.S. The trees were inexpensive, fast growing, and eagerly snapped up by landscapers and homeowners, who planted them as singular specimens and in picturesque rows along city streets, rural driveways, in parking lots, apartment complexes, schools, churches, front yards and backyards everywhere. Entire subdivisions were planted with them. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Bradford pears were the most commonly planted tree in South Carolina.

The problems arose after plant breeders started making “improvements” to the original. Bradfords will grow 50 feet tall, if allowed. What about a shorter tree? Let’s see some more foliage colors. Wouldn’t a narrower crown be nice? Whatever. Consumer demand led to the production of more cultivars — Aristocrat, Autumn Blaze, Capital, Redspire, and many others. The problem with these trees is that they were no longer genetically identical to the Bradford stock, which meant they were only a bee’s flight from producing viable seeds. The birds did their part by eating the fruits of these trees and pooping the seeds throughout the countryside. Thus began the invasion.

ABOVE: A country lane on Aiken’s southside, sprouted with dozens of Bradford pears. These trees are among the earliest to show color in autumn. Spot them by the red leaves.

The seeds produced from these unions produced all manner of variations, including, notably, trees with the characteristic Callery “thorns.” These thorns can be wicked, often growing upwards of 3-inches long and easily capable of penetrating shoe leather and tractor tires.

ABOVE: Callery pear thorns are spaced about one-inch apart along the stem and can be quite long.

Clemson University deems them as one of the most aggressive invasive plants we have in South Carolina. They establish themselves in fields, forests, roadsides, right-of-ways and take over by means of newly-produced seeds or root sprouts, crowding out any other plant in their path.

ABOVE: Dilapidated Bradford pears in the parking lot behind South Aiken High, the green tree in the left photo a thorny Callery pear sprouted from the rootstock.

BELOW: Nearby are the telltale thickets of Bradford pears, perhaps the offspring from the trees above, sprouting into the landscape.

Deer and any other animal that might feed on their leaves avoid them due to the thorns. Being an introduced species, they are free of the insects and caterpillars that attack native trees, making Bradford thickets food deserts to insect-eating birds and animals. The Callery pear rootstock exudes chemicals that suppress other plant species that grow in their vicinity. They spread/escape to fields, forests and untended waste areas, growing in dense impenetrable stands that outcompete and crowd out native plants for light, water and nutrients.

You may wonder, how can this scourge be contained? We’ll slash and burn them out — yeah! For every stem of this plant that is burned, four more stems sprout in its place. Cutting them down only causes the vigorous Callery rootstock to burst into action. The Callery pear is the South’s equivalent of kudzu, occurring in the 21st century. The best hope for eradication is one tree at at a time — stop selling Bradford pears, stop planting them, and quickly phase out any existing trees in our landscapes, pretty as they may be at certain times of the year.

Love/hate? I’m still trying to decide which side of the coin I’m on. This is, after all, an invasive species of plant. I lived for a while in one of those apartment complexes that originally planted them to shade the parking lot . Come springtime came their beautiful flowers, smelling of….. rotted fish? Baby poop? Seems that Bradford pears evolved to attract fly pollinators with this stinky scent, rather than bees. Ours produced large fruits that collected and rotted in the parking lot. Walking from car to door was like walking in through a minefield of dog doo. Over time, heavy winds and ice storms shattered theirfragile branches, which crashed onto fences, cars, clotheslines…. the apartment building itself. 

Bradford pears? The original invention seemed like such a grand idea. But those unintended consequences… ouch! Let me get my chainsaw. Better, still, a camera. It is probably more effective than a chainsaw and an infinitely more pleasant way to spend a Sunday morning.

Nature News, October 2023

The Ants at Our Feet

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By Burt Glover
October 1, 2023

I have not written much in the past few weeks, the reason being that I have been overwhelmed. It all started innocently one day, while sitting in my backyard scanning the treetops for birds, I happened to look down at the (ahem!) slightly overgrown lawn at my feet, and there they were… ants. Ants of various colors and sizes; ants scurrying over every blade of grass; ants feeding on small wildflowers; ants scouring the ground.

Taking an afternoon walk, I photographed some of the ant mounds along the sidewalk in my neighborhood. My big mistake was pondering, “I wonder what kind of ants these are?” Since then, my mind has been in a tizzy.

As it turns out, it’s difficult to find information about ants, unless you’re looking for one of the hundreds of articles on fire ants. There are apparently hundreds of other ant species in the southeastern U.S., but the lion’s share of university research and information is is on fire ants and how to kill them.

Don’t get me wrong. I did find some articles on non-fire ants. These articles explained whether my ants were monomorphic or polymorphic, analysis of male genitalia, whether they are monogynous or polygynous, etc. This was, maybe, a little more than I was looking for. 

In the South, talk of ants usually leads straight to, “Fire ants… kill!” It is the same for any ant that may happen into kitchen, lawn or garden. “Kill!”

Pest control companies respond by drenching house and garden with insecticide poisons. According to popular belief, there is no such thing as a good ant. To be an ant is, in itself, akin to an act of war. Mention of this draws me into memories of the 1960’s. Like, wow, man. 

It was in early May of 1967 when the B-17s descended on Aiken. Simultaneously, orange-red balloons were strategically placed above the fields adjacent to Kennedy Jr. High. The students milled around on the playground, doing what adolescent teens do on a barren playground during their lunch period. Suddenly, the air filled with a deafening roar and the ground shook.

A giant B-17 bomber appeared overhead, flying at treetop level as it dropped its payload — insecticide bait, Mirex, targeted to kill fire ants. One student who witnessed this spectacle recalled years later, “The bait rained down. It smelled nasty- a chemical scent- but it wasn’t enough to make anyone go inside. I watched, hoping the plane would hit the balloons. It was cool!”

All in all, this poisoned bait was broadcast over at least 100,000 acres in the CSRA that May, followed by subsequent applications months later, and then more in the following years, up into the 1970’s.

In 1967, very few people had ever heard of, or even seen a fire ant. Clemson and USDA representatives had to hold county meetings to apprise farmers and landowners of the dangers of this ant. “Over 13% of our land has been overtaken by fire ants. We must eradicate them completely.”

Mirex was purported to target only the invasive fire ant, and be totally harmless to native ant species, wildlife, and humans. It was an easy sell. Despite their efforts, or maybe because of them, fire ant populations exploded in our state.

After dropping 550,000 lbs. of Mirex on Southern lands over those years, the results of this pesticide use were beginning to be known. Surprise! This poison is long-lived in the soil, the water, and in the bodies of animals who are exposed, or eat other animals who are exposed. Turtles, fish, birds, people, bears, coyotes, shrimp, crabs…. you name it — all with dangerous levels in their bodies. The pesticide accumulates and stays in fat cells for decades, affecting liver health and reproductive success. It was banned by the EPA in 1976, then unanimously banned by convention worldwide as one of the 12 worst pesticides in 1978.

So, what did the massive kill campaign of the 60’s-70’s accomplish? Well, the claims of “not hurting native ant species” turned out to be totally wrong. Yes, fire ants are bad guys who can dominate indigenous species — but only if they can gain a foothold. In my opinion, the 1960s era poison campaigns carried unintended consequences, wiping out the only reliable check on their spread: native, indigenous ants. It was the extirpating of native ants that fully opened the door for fire ant invasion.

I realize that fire ants are a problem. They can and sometimes do kill anything and everything in their path — turtles, alligators, baby bunnies, baby birds, lizards and their eggs, butterfly larvae…. everything! And as anyone who has ever stepped on a fire and nest could attest, it takes less than 2 seconds to rouse a stinging rebuke.

Step on a fire ant mound and see what happens.

Fire ants also inflict large-scale damage to agricultural crops. The damage can be seen on a smaller scale in home gardens. In my mother’s garden, fire ants chew holes in the okra flowers. The also farm aphids on the plants, which suck juices from the young fruit, producing hard nodules on the pods. Fire ants also frequent the flowers in her yard, with heavy visits to her “Dr. Tinsley” camellias, which sometimes exude copious nectar.

In my extensive reading over the past three weeks, I have found what may be effective in both the short and long term — spot control. It seems that selective treatment is key. By killing or subduing only the individual colony, rather than all the ants on the property, enables native ants to gain control and, over the longer term, keep the invasive populations in check.

Spot control can be done with boiling water– maybe 3 gallons worth– poured over a mound in your yard. Another spot control method used with success is an extremely dilute solution of D-limonene doused/sprayed onto the mound or trail. D-limonene is derived from citrus peels and can be bought as a food additive or cleaner on Amazon. 

Eliminating your fire ant colonies may give you a chance to pat yourself on the back and give a hardy “Har, har, har.” But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for. There are other introduced ants that may fill the void left by fire ants. Argentine ants? Maybe. Crazy ants? Oh lord, you’ll be wishing for good ol’ fire ants after the crazy ants take control.

Watching the numerous ant species in my yard, I suddenly realized that there were no fire ants in the mix. Only a coalition of co-existing other ants, hopefully not invasive, competing for their space. I managed to identify two native species in my yard and learn about their life cycles and habits. This led me to wonder how ants fit into the larger scheme of things. Researching this, my eyes were opened wide. My next question became, “Could our ecosystem survive without ants?”

The short answer is “No.”

Ants are natural “farmers” in our forests, fields and yards. They build their extensive nests, sometimes as deep as 25 feet, multiple times per year; in the process they cycle the inaccessible soil nutrients to the surface, making them more available to plants and trees. This effect is the equivalent of turning over 1.36 tons of soil per acre per year.

Additionally, their tunnels provide needed channels for air and water to access the roots of those plants and trees. If that were not enough, their waste products and the food products they scavenge add to the fertility of the soil. These actions by ants have been determined to be superior to those provided by earthworms. Some human cultures introduce ants to their agricultural fields for just this purpose. It doesn’t hurt that these ants prey upon the pests that feed upon their crops. 

Whenever the health of any ecosystem is evaluated, ant diversity is always a factor. Ants are at the base of the food chain. They are a source of protein for so many other organisms. Baby bears love to feed on them. Woodpeckers rely on them heavily. Turkeys, hummingbirds, coyotes, spiders (especially the wolf and jumping species), fish, lizards, snakes, dragonflies, toads, and so many other animals, eat ants as a source of sustenance.

On the flip side, ants prey on those species that plague us humans– ticks, termites, stink bugs, chiggers, caterpillars, housefly larvae, etc. They dispose of dead organisms that would otherwise amass in our own habitat. Ants move plant seeds to their nests, and some plants rely on this for seed dispersal. Some of the seeds are eaten; yet others germinate in the rich soil of their nests.

As of this evening, I am no longer in a tizzy. I never would have believed it, but I stand in awe of ants. They have been in existence for at least 140 million years and have established themselves into the ecological balance of nature. Human intervention has served to severely disrupt this balance, and we are seeing the effects. I am somewhat optimistic that maybe that balance may someday be reattained. And, I am optimistic, also, that, one of these days, I will be able to identify all of the fascinating ants that are scouring my yard. 

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Contributor Burt Glover became an accidental naturalist during his earliest childhood days exploring the dirt roads, backyards, polo field and barns of the Magnolia-Knox-Mead neighborhood of 1950s Aiken. Birds are his first love, and he can identify an impressive range by song alone. He asserts that he is an observer, not an expert, on the topics of his writings, which range from birds, box turtles, frogs and foraging, to wasps, weeds, weather and beyond.