What do you mean, you don’t talk to your six-legged garden friends? How odd. Oh wait, nevermind, I’m just emerging from a three-hour garden session immersed in insect world and it takes me time to get reoriented into ‘human world.’ I forgot that I’m the odd one, not you!

Something wonderful happened today: the red milkweed beetles finally showed up in my garden. I’ve been anxious about what seems to be a very late insect season this year. My native garden has a lull in blooms in June, but even so, there are usually many more insects active than I’ve found in the past several weeks. I only saw my first monarch butterfly yesterday, and I’ve been eager to find the milkweed beetles too. They’ve become my buddies, and every morning I make a beeline to the patch of Sullivant’s milkweed to say hello to the charismatic red and black long-horned beetles.

I knew that I’d seen them on June 21st last year, so when that date passed with no signs of them, I worried. After weeks of having my hopes dashed every day, I almost didn’t look for them today. But then I saw one peeking around the side of a leaf and my entire outlook on life improved instantly! Funny how we can let one little thing take on so much symbolic meaning in our lives. Or am I the only one who does that?

And the overall insect activity in the garden has finally picked up to what feels like a normal state of affairs. Today is the first day I’ve been able to spend hours out there without disappointment. I found lots and lots of fun little friends to whisper my secrets to.

So what do I say when I talk to my bugs? Well today I told this grapevine beetle “thank you!” just for showing up. You can’t go wrong by showing appreciation and acknowledging that they’re here. This one-inch long lunk normally feeds on grapevines but was on Virginia creeper in my garden. These also show up to my lights when I hang a moth sheet occasionally.

This chunky milkweed beetle was running back and forth on a single leaf as if he wasn’t sure where he should go. I whispered, “It’s okay, you’ll figure it out.” And he did.

Like other insects that specialize on toxin-containing milkweeds, this swamp milkweed leaf beetle is wearing the aposematic colors that warn predators of a nasty tummy upset that awaits if they dare to eat it. Think of the orange and black monarch butterfly, and the orange and black large milkweed bug, and the red (and black) milkweed beetle shown at the top of this post. Only a young or color-blind animal is likely to taste these, and probably only one time. It’s a fascinating survival mechanism, isn’t it?

And speaking of warning colors, take a look at this fly who wants you to think he’s a big bad scary bee.

But his black and yellow colors don’t fool a close observer. Among other differences, bees have four wings, flies have two. This is a hover fly, totally harmless to humans, and a valuable pollinator and pest-control agent in the garden. Their larvae eat aphids, making them welcome in most gardens. I write about these hover flies (Syrphidae) often because so many people assume they’re sweat bees because they like to land on us and drink our sweat. Many times I’ve enjoyed watching them taking sustenance from my skin in this way, but I try to shoo them off of me if I’m wearing insect repellent that can hurt them. So remember, bees are bees, and flies are flies. Flies don’t sting. Please don’t slap or squish these cuties! (There definitely are some biting flies, though, and I will definitely slap/squish/dispatch those suckers given half a chance. A couple years ago I was bitten on my calf by a horse fly and had a 6-inch long swollen, itchy lump on my leg for a week. No thank you.)

So what do I say to a hover fly like this one? Nothing at all. I do them the favor of pretending I don’t see them trying to blend in with the color-coordinated black-eyed susans, and let them go about their business. They don’t need to know that I think they’re beautiful in their intricately-patterned bodies. Check out the abdomen pattern on this one:

I confess I don’t have a good suggestion for what to say to a wavy mucksucker, aka Crazy Eyes. Maybe just say his name a few times quickly and try not to laugh?

Wavy mucksuckers are hover flies, in the same family as the yellow and black ones above (Syrphidae), but a different genus. I’ll never forget the first time I saw these in my garden in 2021. Those eyes! Interestingly, those were on rattlesnake master just like this one was. I have two books about these flies and neither of them has information about their relationship with this plant.

I know most people would quickly say “Sayonara!” to this Japanese beetle, but I generally let them go about their business. Sure, they eat holes in some plants (especially the Virginia creeper), but my natives are tough and can easily survive their nibbling. So I just smile and say “Ohayo gozaimasu” (good morning) (おはよう) and “Genki desu ka?” (how are you?). When I lived in Tokyo I always got a kick out of the fact that their word for “good morning” sounds like the state I live in (Ohio).

I don’t want to give the impression that I never kill pests in my garden, but 99% of the time I let them be because they aren’t doing any lasting harm to the native plants. It’s better for my state of mind to let peace reign in my little world than to wage war on bugs and feel frustrated all the time. In fact, I wish I could maintain that “live and let live” attitude with regard to the non-native house sparrows who cause me so much grief. They were brought here from Europe in the mid-1800s to help control insects, but quickly spread across the continent and became a pest. House sparrows kill our native bluebirds and wrens and their babies, entering nest boxes and taking over. Unlike our native birds, house sparrows can have up to FOUR broods every year. And it’s not just their large numbers that upset me, but their large flocks are incredibly noisy, sometimes emitting repetitive chirps for hours at a time. And they’re very aggressive; it’s not unusual to see several of them trying to kill each other, pinning one down and pecking it to death. I don’t like seeing that sort of violence anywhere, and it’s especially upsetting at home. Oh well, let’s not dwell on that now.

This hummingbird clearwing moth has been here a couple times this week feasting on the monarda fistulosa (bee balm). It’s hard to speak to a hummingbird moth because every time I see one of these my breath catches for a moment. I usually get to see them a couple times each summer as soon as the monarda bursts into bloom. This one spent a few minutes visiting many of the light purple tubular blooms, sucking nectar from deep inside using its long proboscis. I always feel gratitude for their fairy-like visits. This little video will help you feel what it’s like to be in their presence:

Unfortunately, my conversations with these bugs are always one-sided. We’re not really communicating anything meaningful. But wouldn’t it be life-changing if we could actually talk to the insects and understand them? Imagine how fast our perspectives might shift regarding these tiny unappreciated beings who sustain all human life on this planet. What a wonderful world it could be. You may think I’m just weird (or lonely!), but I think this is a great way to embrace curiosity, foster empathy, and build a deeper connection with our environment. I’m all in, and I challenge each of you to find a bug to love. Thanks for reading!

“Ooh, it takes every kinda people [insects] to make what life’s about, yeah
Every kinda people [insects] to make the world go ’round”

_{my altered lyrics to “Every Kinda People” with apologies to songwriter Andy Fraser}

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