The other day, I was trying to identify the owner of the nest in the hackberry tree outside my bedroom window. I was hoping to see a painted bunting. Through my binoculars, I saw something else nearby. It was a slightly different color than the other branches. I kept returning to it, adjusting my binoculars, trying to get a better view.

It resembled a walking stick (the plant-eating cousin of the praying mantis), but it was enormous, almost as long as a ruler. Plus, if it actually was a walking stick, it was hanging upside down, which I thought was odd. I kept waiting for it to move. I figured that would answer my question—branch, crumpled up leaf, or insect? But it never did move, not even a little. The mosquitos, on the other hand, were hovering near my ankles, so I headed back inside.


But I was curious. I googled Texas walking stick, and there it was—the longest insect in the United States. Some females have been measured at over seven inches long! I figured the individual in the tree outside my window was a female because, as mentioned, her abdomen appeared to be about the size and thickness of a pencil. Not only that, but I learned that when walking sticks molt, they hang upside down and don’t move. Crazy!

Yesterday I was sitting at my writing desk when a flash of bright blue and fiery red caught my eye. (My husband, B, recently helped me move my desk to the back of the house where I can pay closer attention to the backyard. Thank you.) I grabbed my binoculars and focused on the thorny branch of a huisache tree just beyond the window. I nearly dropped the binoculars; it was a painted bunting.

Buntings are small birds, not much larger than a finch. They live secretive lives and prefer to hide in brush and shrubs. How it is that they hide with such intensely colored feathers remains a mystery to me. I had seen one only once before, the year we moved to the Hill Country. That was seven years ago. But yesterday was a spectacular day. I happened to look out the window at just the right moment, and there he was. Breathtaking.

This summer we won’t be able to make our usual trip to the Maine Coast due to the pandemic. In my forty-seven years, I have only missed one other summer there. ( I was pregnant with our second son.) I wrote about the Maine Coast in a recent essay:

Although I live far away now, this is home. This is where I come from. When I need to remember who I am, this is where I return. This is the place where all of my stories begin.
Instead, I think this will be a good time to gather those stories — to remember those special places when I can’t physically be there, hiking along the forest trails and beaches.

We moved into our new house in the Hill Country in December 2012, and we had a ton of decisions to make, and fast. The front yard was home to a grouping of large, old live oak trees with a few other species mixed in. The back was a patch of overgrazed grassland. One of the biggest challenges was to prepare the yard in time for the spring. Oh, and I was pregnant with our third son. Very pregnant. That doesn’t lend itself to massive do-it-yourself projects.

The first decision we made was to think about our property in terms of different habitats. The front would be the woodland habitat. We put a thin layer of mulch around the trees and let the dead leaves accumulate there. Leaf litter is a wonderful place for overwintering insects, in particular. Two years later, we added nectar plant beds. I also planted pipevine, the host plant for pipevine swallowtail butterflies. Near the front, I seeded for wildflowers and planted several varieties of salvia, one of my favorite all-purpose plants. Since then, frost flowers and antelope horn milkweed have taken up residence there, too. We kept some mowed, grassy areas because we live in a neighborhood and don’t want to offend our neighbors. My husband describes our yard as a mullet—business in the front, party in the back.