Resurrection Ferns and the Tulane Herbarium
It does not take much astute observation to notice the live oak trees adorning every sidewalk corner on Tulane University’s campus.[i] In fact, “adorning” might not be the appropriate word. These trees are native to the region, thriving in New Orleans’ humid heat. They are so common that they appear, despite their staggering beauty, quite ordinary.[ii]
However, these giants should not be taken for granted. Nearly every live oak tree on Tulane’s campus is home to the resurrection fern – or Pleopeltis polypodioides.[iii] Although the fern needs a host plant to survive, it gets most of its nutrients and water from the air. The plant gets its name from its unique ability to withstand the loss of up to 75% of its water and come back to “life” when rehydrated.
It is late September in New Orleans, and the past few weeks have been unusually dry.[iv] The resurrection ferns on the live oak trees lining McAlister Place, which I can see as I write this, are dry, brown, and shriveled.[v] But in a week or so, the ferns will become green and lush again, renewed by a much-needed rain and the humidity that will undoubtedly linger in the air for the following days.[vi] The live oaks’ brown bark will briefly be carpeted in green, at least until the ferns dry out again, curl up, and hide away until the next rain.
In the past, the resurrection fern had a presence on Tulane’s campus that was not only found on the live oak trees. The Tulane University Herbarium was home to thousands of plant and fungi specimens, including Pleopeltis polypodioides.[vii] Though unclear when the herbarium was officially founded, much of the important work conducted to grow its collections was done by Professor Reginald W. S. Cocks in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.[viii]
The herbarium was described in one article from The Tulane Hullabaloo as quite unimpressive from the outside. The author wrote that “the casual visitor might be a little disappointed at first, on seeing nothing but a row of green metal cases which resemble nothing so much as filing cabinets, just because of the fact that there is nothing spectacular about it.”[ix] Despite this bleak characterization, the collection held an apparently not-so-dazzling, but quite extensive, array of flora and fungi.
In 2016, Tulane donated the herbarium’s plant collections to the Shirley C. Tucker Herbarium at Louisiana State University.[x] Some specimens were moved to the New York Botanical Garden as well as the Smithsonian Institution.[xi] While we can no longer admire the resurrection ferns in a scientific collection on campus, there is no shortage of the species lining every live oak tree within sight.
Crows
Two crow species are native to the New Orleans area: the American crow and the fish crow.[xii] The birds are quite resourceful in their habitats and feeding patterns, which allow them to thrive in urban landscapes like New Orleans.[xiii] They are opportunist omnivores — they will eat pretty much anything.[xiv] The massive dumpsters near Tulane University student dorms[xv] are undoubtedly a popular attraction for these crows, which are known to mill about in trash receptacles looking for food.[xvi] You might also spot them lurking around popular campus eateries, like PJs or the Lavin-Bernick Center food court. Generally, expect to see many of these birds on campus.
Though some crows migrate southward in late fall or winter, Louisiana’s mild winters allow for a permanent population to remain year-round.[xvii] Late September is still the tail end of summer for this region, so the breeding season has ended.[xviii] But don’t expect the birds to go anywhere this winter: the cooler season will bring about more social, colonial behavior as the population forms into more condensed roosting groups,[xix] which means more noise.[xx] Until a few days ago, a dead crow had been lodged in the nook of a live oak tree by the Décou-Labat dorms.[xxi]It was an unfortunate sight. The bird was precariously balanced in the bend of the tree branch, right above the base of the trunk. Its body was pointed downwards, headfirst — the opposite of a peaceful resting place. It was stiff and contorted, as if in purgatory.
I have seen the crows be quiet, and I have seen them be still, but it is not often that they are both at once. I often see them stalking the sidewalks and walkways, getting too close for comfort, almost as if tempting me to shoo them away. Other times, I don’t see them at all but rather hear their unpleasant yet familiar calls breaking the quietness of the midmorning and afternoon. Mostly, though, I see them in the live oak tree branches, calling out to mates or offspring.
I could not help but feel sympathy for this poor bird, unnaturally quiet and still, and tipping scarily towards the ground. I presume it flew into the oak tree branches and didn’t survive the impact. Or, perhaps, it died alone and quietly in the tree, later falling to the lower branches closer to my line of sight. A few days ago, it finally fell to the ground, and recently, it was removed.[xxii]I felt guilty for my inaction, but I am not sure what I could have done without risking catching an avian disease of some sort. I would hope that the unfortunate bird is in some serene resting place now, though that is unlikely.
Though pesky nuisances, the crows have an undeniable role — although perhaps solely defined by their disturbing presence — on Tulane’s campus. They are impossible to avoid, and the sight of a dead one is unpleasant. So set aside some patience for these creatures, because like us, they are also trying to thrive in the urban landscape.
Cicadas
In the beginning of my sophomore year, as my roommates and I walked across the Berger Family Lawn to the dining hall, I pointed out the cicadas singing in the live oak trees that surrounded the quad. My roommate was surprised. I had just shaken her belief that the noise was not due to insects, but really a network of “pipes” across campus that made noises every afternoon and evening.[xxiii]I can’t really blame her. It is a bit strange, when you think about it. Singing insects?
It is no fairy tale, or pipe conspiracy. But the cicadas that emerge yearly in Louisiana are not to be confused with the more sensational 13 or 17-year cicadas.[xxiv] Depending on the species, those types emerge simultaneously every 13 or 17 years, which is the time required for nymphs to be dormant underground before emerging to mate and molt.
The cicadas that are heard during most warm summer afternoons or evenings in New Orleans are part of the more common annual cicada population that have far shorter life cycles.[xxv] Female cicadas lay eggs inside twigs that they slice open with an appendage on their abdomen. Nymphs burrow underground and feed on root juices before emerging when mature – usually in July and August.[xxvi] The nymph then climbs a vertical object nearby, and somewhere along the way will shed its skin before moving on to find a mate. During the spring and summer, it is common to find empty husks attached to trees or other elevated objects. They are often slightly transparent, light brown, and quite delicate.[xxvii]
The cicada song is not thanks to an insect choir. The chorus is part of a mating ritual to attract female cicada mates. Only the males sing, because they have a special organ on their thorax called the tymbal that creates the sound.[xxviii]It is akin to a clicking noise, but the sound happens so repeatedly and so quickly, which makes it sound more like a buzz. The cicadas will eventually die off a few weeks after emerging from underground.[xxix] Enjoy this late-summer phenomenon, and soak in the chorus before mating season is over.
