As a youngster, I sought out smooth, round pumpkins for my jack-o-lanterns. Nothing else would do. Nowadays, it seems smooth, round pumpkins have been replaced by a bevy of colorful, misshapen, warty specimens. What the heck?

Turns out, the picture-perfect pumpkins of my youth were the result of selective breeding. Pumpkin growers intentionally weeded out the warts. Now heirloom pumpkins with names like “Knucklehead,” “Gargoyle,” “Goosebumps,” and “Scarface” are all the rage.

Weird little wonders. But we love them, warts and all. And perhaps that’s progress – reveling in the imperfect. Redefining beauty.

An interesting notion. Oliver Cromwell would approve.

The leaves are still mostly green and clinging to the trees. And although the days have cooled, it’s t-shirt weather today. But fall is definitely here. And the egrets know.

When egrets – normally solitary creatures – start gathering in our wetlands, cold weather can’t be far behind. Each year, in late August and September, they assemble to fill their bellies. It’s as if they’ve decided a communal meal of fish and frogs is in order before leaving for warmer climes.

Like Minnesota’s human “snow birds,” they plan to escape the cold. And they know the time is now. No calendar necessary.

Bees and sunflowers are a match made in heaven. Sunflowers have long blooming seasons – midsummer through fall. Their large faces provide bees with perfect landing spots. They supply sweet nectar to bees that help with pollination. It doesn’t get much better than that, right?

Actually, it does. Sunflowers, it turns out, are like little pharmacies for bees with stomach woes. Sunflower pollen reduces a bumblebee gut pathogen called Crithidia Bombi. When sunflowers are abundant, bee colonies are healthier.

Once again, Mother Nature comes through. Gut health for bees this time.

Even better? At this pharmacy, no insurance or co-pay needed.

I moved a lot growing up, so I learned “lexical variances” – regional names for the same thing. Water fountain, drinking fountain, or bubbler? Soda or pop? Lightning bug or firefly?

That’s why I always assumed Black-eyed Susans and Brown-eyed Susans were the same flower, but with two different local names. Turns out, they aren’t. They’re both members of the Rudbeckia genus, but Brown-eyed Susans are taller with short, rounded petals. These Black-eyed Susans are more compact. Their petals are long and plentiful.

Late summer bloomers, they’ll disappear with the first hard frost.

Beautiful, though, no matter what you call them.

It’s that time of year again. No matter how careful I am walking the dogs, one of them ends up with burrs enmeshed in their fur. Extracting burrs is not fun – for me or the dogs. Which made me wonder, what purpose do burrs serve anyway?

Turns out, burrs (burdock) have a history of beneficial uses: medicinal, dietary, beer making. They were even the inspiration for Velcro. Wow!

So, appearances are deceiving, right? Burrs are actually helpful.

Hmmmm . . . maybe. The dogs aren’t convinced. They’ve seen the downside, after all.

In their view, actions speak louder than words.

This past week at the lake it was humid. Nights were foggy and the air was thick. One evening, while reading, I spotted this tiny visitor clinging to my sliding glass door, peering in at me (or so it seemed). I know now it was drawn out by the wet night and the light from my house. A hopeful spring peeper, wearing the reddish orange of summer and gripping the window, hydrated by the condensation on the glass. Hungry and hoping my lamp would summon some sort of winged dinner.

Peeping in at me? Nope. Just swinging by for takeout.

As humans, we have an uncanny ability to move in and completely usurp. We’re skilled at ignoring and displacing other animals. Which means some kids misunderstand nature.

Last week, when I picked up my granddaughter from dance camp, we saw this critter. “It’s a mouse!” the girls squealed.

I raced into nature educator mode. “It’s an opossum, a marsupial. And they eat ticks – how cool is that? They have lots of babies, are skilled tree climbers. They’re shy.”

Not sure how much of it stuck. The girls are 5-year-olds, after all.

But at least they knew it wasn’t a mouse!

My daughters are self-declared spider saviors. When they find spiders in their homes, they catch them and tenderly escort them outside. They didn’t learn that from me. In my house, spiders are unwelcome. There’s no tender escorting.

But outside – where bugs are supposed to be – it’s different. Outside, I welcome seeing spiders, particularly the unusually beautiful ones like this walnut orb weaver that I couldn’t help but photograph. Unfortunately, as I snapped my pic, I scared off a small beetle I think the spider had earmarked as its lunch.

The spider rightfully gave me the stink eye.

Who’s unwelcome now?

I love feeding birds. In the summertime, that means filling hummingbird feeders. Hummers are among my favorites. The tattoo on my forearm attests to that. But July can be a lean time for hummingbird visits. No longer famished from their early summer migration, and not yet preparing to journey south, they are off doing hummingbird things. The feeders were pretty quiet.

Enter these two: a beautiful tortoiseshell butterfly and a less beautiful paper wasp. Unexpected visitors, but thirsty all the same.

I pondered, shrugged, decided. That’s the point, right? Nourish the creatures who nourish my soul?

Indeed. All are welcome.

Orange Sulphur butterflies aren’t grandstanders. They aren’t big. They aren’t wildly patterned or colorful. Some, in fact, are rather washed out and dull. They likely wouldn’t make it as influencers on butterfly social media. Too nondescript. Which, I suspect, is why I like them. I can relate. We can’t all be flash and sizzle.

Watch them, though, and see if you don’t agree. They seem to have figured it out. Seek out sunshine and flowers. Live your best, short butterfly life. Bring a smile to nature loving humans.

The simplest things often bring the most joy. Nothing ordinary about that.

I have a history with wasps. Once I was stung on my eyelid. I resembled Rocky Balboa for a week. Last summer, yellow jackets nested under my deck. My dog was stung by several of them. He wouldn’t go out back for months.

So, when I saw this wasp-like critter, I panicked. “Relax,” my buddy Joyce said, correctly identifying the “wasp” as an Eastern Cicada Killer. Joyce’s sister is an entomologist so Joyce knows a lot about bugs by association. Completely safe, she assured me. (Unless you are a cicada, of course.)

She convinced me, right?

Nope. I skittered past.

I spotted this little guy on my peonies one morning. It was there for breakfast, I presume. It’s been back every day since with a passel of friends.

There’s a bit of old gardening lore that says peony buds need ants to help them open up. Not so. In truth, what’s at play is biological mutualism: the ants get food (sweet “extrafloral nectaries”) and the peonies get protection from harmful aphids and thrips whom the ants sting, bite, and spray with acid!

It’s a short-lived fling. Once the peonies bloom, the ants depart. Dauntless defenders until the sugar runs out.

Is there anything more joyous than tree swallows in flight? The way they skim, soar, and change direction on a dime. They don’t stop for anything. So, I was surprised when this one paused long enough for me to get this photo.

Tree swallows winter in warm climates – Florida, Mexico. They return to Minnesota in the summer when our temps climb and insects abound. That’s what all the zany flying is about – chasing and swallowing insects. Tons of them.

Which, now that I think about it, may be even more joyous to me than their aerial performances.

Eat up, kids!

I drove to the Upper Peninsula last week. Three hundred and sixty inches of snow fell there this past winter and there were still piles of it along the tree line despite the calendar saying it’s mid-May. Brrrrr!!!

But do you know what you get when the Spring sun shines down on all that snow? Marsh Marigolds – thick swaths of bright yellow petals emerging from ice cold puddles.

They’re not true marigolds. Buttercups actually. But they’re crucial sources of early season nectar for precious pollinators. They are the true harbinger of Spring in the UP. Little water-logged wonders. Truly magical!

Spring in Minnesota is cruel. Last week I walked the dogs in a t-shirt and shorts. Today I needed gloves and a heavy coat and wished I had one of the hats I foolishly put away for the season.

Yes, the grass is greening. The redbud and serviceberry trees are in full bloom. And look at the new growth on this evergreen. But come on, it’s freezing!

Eventually it will warm up, I know. But I think we deserve better here.

Begrudgingly, I pull the bin marked “Winter” back down from my closet’s top shelf and dig out a hat.

Say what you will about Canada Geese, there’s no denying they have chutzpah. The dogs and I came across this one the other day and, despite trying to give him a wide berth, he clearly was not pleased with our using his sidewalk. This goose wasn’t just hissing. He was channeling his best Gandalf the Grey. The dogs, for once, managed not to react. If anything, like me, they seemed a little perplexed.

Not sure what made him so cranky. But honestly, I have days like that, too.

I’m just a bit quieter, maybe - and lacking his enviable wingspan.

Oaxaca boasts beautiful gardens, lush with blossoms and flowering trees – plants that grow abundantly with the blessing of unabated sunshine and warmth. In one garden, we found these.

“Bishop’s balls,” our guide replied with a chortle when asked what they were.

Naughty name!

Bishop’s balls are a species of milkweed. Their papery, balloon-like pods are crucial hosts for monarch caterpillars and a great nectar source during butterfly breeding season. They’re essential to the butterflies’ spring return to Minnesota, so I’m a fan.

But that name? Which bishop? And why?

Actually, don’t tell me.

And let’s not tell the butterflies either.

I love desert landscapes: rocks, scrub, thorn-ridden cactus toughing it out in the blazing sun. But I never thought of cactus as food. In Central Mexico, small farms grow and sell prickly pear cactus, a dietary mainstay. And they’re delicious! Sauteed, grilled, or right off the plant, the pads of the prickly pear or “nopal” add a citrusy zing to salads, tacos, soups, and smoothies. Happily, I’ve learned my local mercado in Minnesota has them for sale here, too.

Who was the first brave soul to try eating nopal despite its sinister spines? I don’t know.

But I am grateful!

It happens every year. March starts out beautifully. Fifty-degree days. The grass greens a bit. Then . . . surprise! But not a surprise. Nine inches of fresh snow falls overnight - and it’s still falling.

Are the dogs deterred? Absolutely not. My trusty ten-pounders think they are up for the task.

Begrudgingly, and grumpily, I pull on snowpants, boots, and my sleeping bag size coat. “This is not my idea,” I tell them.

But . . . surprise! I enjoy every minute, laughing as my tiny troopers attack the drifts.

Not really a surprise, though, right?

Nature wins again.

I’ve found it nearly impossible to write the last couple of months. We’ve had a difficult winter in Minnesota – brutal temps, snow, ice . . . so much ICE. Some people create incredible art out of heartbreak. Not me.

But then this chickadee appeared. A reminder maybe. Chickadees are expert at surviving inhospitable circumstances. And they are expert at caring for their own. Within minutes of filling the feeder this one alerted its flock. “Hey, guys. Look here. Plenty for everyone.”

Neighborism among tiny birds. I had to smile.

Minnesotans, in true chickadee fashion, have been doing this all winter.