Liz bought me one of those genetics tests for Father’s Day. I’ve been waiting for the results since, but they came in today, thus putting to rest the quandary of whether I’m Irish or Scottish. Turns out I’m definitely not Irish, at least not according to the DNA in my saliva.
I assume Great Britain is referring the the isle, as the regional color indicates, which would naturally include the Scots, thereby explaining the Moorhead surname.
This also confirms the German in me, which is no surprise. That’s mom’s side.
I surmised that there was some Scandinavian blood. They had a tendency to spread their genetics all over during the Viking age. So confirmation on that too.
The Iberian genes were somewhat unexpected, but since we’re going back thousands of years, Iberia was Celtic/Gaulic, so that makes sense.
The test also provided me an analysis of to where my people have migrated within the last several generations. Cincinnati isn’t exactly a surprise (again, mom’s side).
Looks like I’m living with my own. No major genetic shockers.
I’m happy that my daughter, despite her girly-girl side, still enjoys getting her nature on. We’ve fished before, and she’s caught her own, but this is the first time that she’s actively fished for an extended period without regular intervention. And she was quite successful at it, too.
She stopped holding them after one got her with a fin spikeBluegill
After the first day, the bluegills started swarming the dock, which made the fishing instantly gratifying–something which might have influenced her prolonged interest.
Like a pack of sharksShe advised me that she caught so many because since her shirt had a fish on it, all the fish trusted her
However, I was more interested in trying to catch a bass. So after I de-hooked her 100th bluegill, I noticed a smallmouth bass near the shoreline. I pointed it out, and told her what it was. In a jokingly dad moment, I asked if she wanted me to catch it for her, and she agreed, so I took her pole and gently completed a perfect cast just in front of the fish. The bass swam over and immediately took the bait, and I pulled it in. It was a perfect setup that momentarily restored her belief in the magical powers of dad. Here it is:
Feisty fish–you can see him fighting for freedom
Ultimately, I had to concede ownership of the fish though, as I was advised since I used her pole, it was her fish.
But the fishing was not without its casualties. I noticed her reel wasn’t working so well anymore, so I took it apart:
It takes talent to do this to a Zebco
I wonder if Zebco has some military background. I disassembled the reel in the field with just a knife.
Even so, I would say this was a successful fishing trip.
When I see an animal, the primitive part of my brain immediately classifies it into one of two categories: threat and not a threat. Once my survival instinct determines I am not in immediate mortal danger, the classifications become a little more diverse, being based on how to interact with the animal instead: avoid, eat, examine, or ignore. After this second classification, the more evolved portion of my brain then begins its own analysis: interesting, gross, scary, indifferent, cute, etc..
And it is in the cute category that I classify these baby toads (encountered during the Wisconsin trip), as they are neither a threat, nor worth eating.
It looks like a standard American toad (Anaxyrus americanus). But I think my cute classification will go unopposed.
My daughter, like any reasonably well-balanced child, holds a general concern for other living creatures. She does not capture and flay squirrels a la Peter Wiggin, which is good, but she also takes issue with her dad threatening to shoot them. The same goes for bunnies.
The she started her own garden. After the bunnies worked their way through two of her plants, her sympathies quickly evaporated. Now, she’s actively asking me to shoot them to save her plants. Maybe I’ll get to teach her hunting after all.
Poster courtesy of the North American Mycological Association
I don’t know what it is about fungi, but it’s creepy. It fits into it’s own kingdom, neither plant nor animal, and that makes it plain weird. Plants too have widely varying degrees of toxicity, so why are mushrooms so terrifying? They strike some odd form of primal fear, evidenced by the fact that there are multiple X-Files episodes wherein the ultimate “villain” turns out to be an unknown fungus. Personally, I think I was scarred by my trenchfoot experience. If you’ve ever had parts of your skin rot and fall off, then break out in these circular fungal formations which turn into holes several millimeters deep into your dermis, then you know what I’m talking about. Do not Google trenchfoot.
But their allure has captivated my daughter, who likes to point out any mushrooms that appear in our yard. There must have been a lot of trees on the lot once, because every time it rains, we get these odd paths of toadstools that pop up, presumably along old roots.
So I, iPhone in hand, and Wikipedia at the ready, decided to record and catalog them:
Mycena inclinata
Wikipedia advised that this species is “doubtfully edible”, which doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence–not that I’d base the decision to eat a mushroom off of Internet knowledge anyway. So many seem to have amatoxin, which leads to renal failure. I’ll pass. I told my daughter to wash her hands.
Next on the list is what I think is an Amanita bisporigera. It looks like something in the Amanita genus anyway. It was kind of hard to get a definitive identification from pictures. Still, more amatoxin, somewhat implied by the fungus’ common name: Destroying Angel. Subtle.
Amanita bisporigeraAmanita bisporigera underside–I keep telling her not to pick themWhy is deadly always pretty?
I still have some nightshade in the gardens, despite my weeding campaign. I dunno if it’s the deadly nightshade, but it does concern me a little. So I have natural sources of amatoxin, atropine, hyoscine, and hyoscamine apparently. Of course, I also have lye, gasoline, antifreeze, bleach, insecticide, and even tea tree oil around the house. Being a parent can be a little scary at times.
This next one was hard, but I’m going with Pleurotus ostreatus, although it looks like a polypore too, so I’m probably wrong.
Pleurotus ostreatus?
This one is supposedly edible, but I’m not confident with the identification.
The last one was very easy to identify though, Trametes versicolor. It’s not only edible, but apparently medicinal as well.
Trametes versicolor
So there you go–a biology post for my family. I am not, as they seem to suspect, completely disengaged from the natural word. Especially since everything around us seems to be waiting to kill my progeny.
