Sculpting the Woods

Sculpting the Woods

Why don't you just hire a dozer to clear the Yaupon thickets from your property?

Garden Glade

It's a question I am often asked and even ask myself.  But, if I gave a dozer driver instructions to take only Yaupon and leave other native species of shrubs and trees that I wish to keep, would he be able to do that?  I don't think so.  It would require that he leave the seat of his dozer before dozing every shrub to make sure it is not a Possum Haw, Swamp Privit, American Beautyberry, Mulberry, Rusty Blackhaw, Eastern Red Cedar, Texas Sophora, Holly, Basswood, Mexican plum or Black Cherry that I wish to keep.  So, why do I wish to keep these species?  Well, it's because I view my property as a private park -- not a ranch or farm -- and I really enjoy trees, grasses and shrubs.   As a matter of fact, the sign posted on a tree inside our gate identifies this property as "Pat's National Park" -- named after my wife Pat.

When we first bought this woody property over 50 years ago, one of my goals was to keep it as "natural" as was reasonable.  We had 20 acres of heavily wooded thickets that we could hardly walk through without considerable effort and bloodshed.  But, it was loaded with wildlife and potential.  The folks that sold us this property had dozed the vegetation on the property line in order to build a fence.  So when we came from our city dwelling to visit our property, we could drive our cars  in along this cleared fence-line without disturbing the woodlands.  But, over the years, "natural" changed to "semi-natural" as we opened a driveway through the woods into the center of the property.  After our children left home, we sold our home in  College Station and lived full-time in motorhomes.  During the winter, we often parked our motorhome on this property for various periods of time while we took our yearly medical checkups and dental appointments.  After about a week or so, in these woods, it was necessary to drive into College Station to dump sewage and fill our water tank.  But, running the electrical generator every time we needed electricity became very onerous, so we had the local electric service install a line into the property.  So much for a completely natural system.

 

Yaupon Thicket

 

Driveway

Once upon a time, before there were fences in this country, wildfires likely killed much of the Yaupon -- so that describing this area of Texas as a Post Oak Savannah was appropriate.  A savanna consists of a mixture of woods and grasslands.  At some point, the local authorities issued burn bans during very dry periods and intentional burning of understory shrubs, vines and grass became illegal due to the hazard of fires spreading onto neighbor's properties. Without wildfires, the Yaupon became so thick that it was difficult see the beautiful big oaks, elms, ashes, birch, bamboo, and basswood trees that all together shaded out many of the native grasses.  But, of course, Youpon is not the enemy -- it just needed to be managed to open up the savanna part.  Consequently, several years ago I began to clear some areas.  In 2010, a severe drought killed many of the trees.  One of the first to die was a huge Black Jack oak.  It left a big hole in the canopy so I decided that it provided a good place to start a garden.  I cranked up my chain saw and cleared that dead tree and 1/10th of an acre of under-story and roots for a garden.  Removing the above-ground parts was easier than removing all the roots.  Pat helped with this big job.  So now we could stop clearing the trees, vines, shrubs etc.  Right?

No way!  The vegetation that died from the drought did not all die at once.  My initial thought was that I would simply let the dead trees decay and fall on their own -- thus, creating habitat for various plants and animals.  But, it soon became obvious that this process was creating an abundance of dead wood that would provide the fuel for potential forest fires.  Because our home was now located in the center of these woods, wildfires could be a great hazard to our cozy abode.  But, they could also spread into our neighbor's woods, so I have also cleared fire breaks on both the north and south sides of the property to minimize the risk to our neighbors or from our neighbors.  But, it was never my intention  to clear the entire 20 acres -- an almost impossible job for one old man with a chain-saw.  However, due to circumstances that cause trees to die and my desire to re-create a savanna, I have cleared much, much more than I ever intended.  Oh, well.

About 50 yards northwest of our home, another huge tree fell which pulled down several others -- all linked together with grape vines and briers.  It was a huge mess and constituted a major fire hazard.  I climbed into the center of the pile with a chain saw and started clearing enough space for a small fire.  As I expanded this space by cutting the logs, vines, and branches around me, I added everything I cut to the center fire.  After a couple of weeks of cutting every day, I realized that it provided an open space in the woods, large enough for a small orchard.  So, I fenced it in to keep out the ever-present deer and planted three peach trees, two apple trees and a persimmon.

Surprise!  When I clear a mot of native yaupon, I am often surprised by the beauty of the large trees and blue skies that I was previously unable to see through the thicket.  I can even sometimes see sunrises and sunsets -- although still through the trees.  With a solid yaupon thicket, we could never see these sights.  Also, summer breezes now grace our porches with relief from summer heat.  But the downside is that cold winter winds now penetrate to places they could not before. 

Sunrise Through the Trees

As I finally realized, this property had far too many shrubs and trees.  It was fundamentally a 20 acre thicket, so I decided that a savanna might be a more pleasant place for frolicking than a thicket. 

As I cleared out dead trees and shrubbery in spots, I decided to provide them with names -- such as glens, glades, groves, trails, senderos, mots and a creek.  Then, to distinguish between, them, I identified a shady glen, a blackhaw glade, a pecan grove, a dogwood grove, a bamboo grove, a cedar grove, a farkleberry grove, a tunnel trail, a cross trail, a main sendero, a creek trail, and miles of other unnamed trails.  Often I left patches (mots) of yaupon for wildlife cover and diversity.

Shady Glen

Wickson Creek

Dogwood Grove

 

Sendero Glade

Bamboo Grove

Then, last year a wind storm toppled whole trees and limbs over much of the acreage.  Sawing and burning these has been a time-consuming activity this year.  Several trails, groves and glades were blocked by piles of this stuff.  However, all trails, groves, glades, and senderos were now open.  At least until 4-inchs of heavy, wet snow fell on January12th or 2021 which broke many limbs that blocked the driveway and many trails.  Oh, no!  Here I go again.

Snow Storm Damage

As I tried to simulate a natural savanna, I was also interfering with nature.  What I was really doing was sculpting my woodlands to make it fit my mental model of a savanna.  I was playing God with these woodlands -- and it was fun.  You know, like politicians play God with our civilization.

This year, the Covid epidemic forced us to remain at home for most of the time, so I am sculpting more woodlands than normal  this year (2020-2021).   Cutting and hauling wood and limbs is good exercise.  Sore muscles in my arms and back at the end of a work-day are testament to the number of logs and limbs carried.

And, it's only a slight exaggeration to rename these sculpted woods "Pat's National Park."  Right?

Pat's National Park

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

River Otter Rodeo

River Otter Rodeo

December 14, 2020

Having grown up watching cowboy movies and living on a cattle ranch, I sometimes enjoy some old cowboy classics. So, today I was watching John Wayne in “Stagecoach,” when out of the corner of my eye I saw some movement out on the my lawn. I expected to see a squirrel, fawn, rabbit, or possum, but on closer examination, they were about possum-size but with long tails. There were three of them with a larger one in the lead and two slightly smaller ones running behind. 

 

Now my study/office occupies the north-east corner of our home and has one window on the east and another on the north. I first saw these animals run past the east window. They looked like large rats and ran in a kind of loping manner.

 

They were running in a westerly direction, so I knew that they would pass in front of my other window. I bounded out of my desk chair to my north window where I keep a camera ready on a tripod for such occasions. By now I recognized them as river otters — likely a mother and two almost grown offspring. They were moving too fast to capture their photos on my camera but were heading toward my pond which contained my two pet goldfish. I immediately had visions of those pesky river otters crunching those goldfish — that swim toward me every day when I feed them. I actually ran out the back door, and down the hill toward the pond to scare those otters away and protect my fish.

 

River Otter

By the time I reached the pond, the otters were long gone and my fish were safe. Several times, I have watched river otters chasing fish in our creek, so I know they are excellent fish hunters. Whew!

 

Our creek is about 1/4 mile down the hill and through the woods, so that is where these otters were likely heading. Maybe I’ll see them there tomorrow.

 

In about 50 years that we have owned this property, I have never seen an otter so far from water. I can’t imagine what would have caused a mother otter to take off across the land as these three did. They were very exposed to coyotes, dogs, and bobcats. It was a very unexpected event.

 

When I returned to the study, I found that in my hurry to see the otters, I had not stopped the "Stagecoach" movie and it was still running. John Wayne was lying on top of the vehicle shooting Apache Indians as they chased the stagecoach across Arizona. How he could accurately shoot Apaches who were riding full speed on their horses about 100 yards away from that bouncing stagecoach was simply amazing. John was young then and exhibited few acting skills but he was still a commanding presence.  He got the girl and rode happily into the sunset.  Oops!  Did I just give away the ending?

 

Anyway, I guess it’s these kinds of mini-adventures and a few unbelievable movies that keep my life interesting in these Covid-infested, lockdown times.

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Gdansk Museum in Poland

 

Gdansk Museum in Poland

Stalin and Hitler simply decided to criminally divide Poland between them.with the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.  But, Hitler cheated and attacked Poland unilaterally to begin WWII.  The polish people were then ravaged and murdered by both the Germans and the Russians.  A WWII museum in Gdansk documents these and other atrocities.  The following are photos I took while visiting this museum with my son, Jimmy in 2018.  It is an excellent museum and very worthy of a visit if you ever get a chance.

Gdansk WWII Museum

 

Main Hallway 

Killing Jews Inevitable

Marxist and Nazi Terror

Mass Murders

Holocaust

Stalin-Hitler Collusion

Hitler's Lies

Greatest Catastrophe

German Territory After Invasion

FASCISM IN ITALY

JEWS MURDERED IN UKRAINE

EUROPE HEADS FOR WAR

BOMB SHELTER

EXTERMINATION OF JEWS

DEAD IN THE STREETS

CRIMES AGAINST POW'S

JEWISH BODIES AT BABI YAR

LARGEST MASS EXECUTION

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Wealth or Destitution

Wealth or Destitution

May 12, 2019

If you are fearful that the new generation of voters don’t get it, read this article written by Alyssa Ahlgren. I think her analysis of why they think the way they do is fundamentally correct. 

 

“I’m sitting in a small coffee shop near Nokomis trying to think of what to write about. I scroll through my newsfeed on my phone looking at the latest headlines of Democratic candidates calling for policies to “fix” the so-called injustices of capitalism. I put my phone down and continue to look around. I see people talking freely, working on their MacBook’s, ordering food they get in an instant, seeing cars go by outside, and it dawned on me. We live in the most privileged time in the most prosperous nation and we’ve become completely blind to it. Vehicles, food, technology, freedom to associate with whom we choose. These things are so ingrained in our American way of life we don’t give them a second thought. We are so well off here in the United States that our poverty line begins 31 times above the global average. Thirty. One. Times. Virtually no one in the United States is considered poor by global standards. Yet, in a time where we can order a product off Amazon with one click and have it at our doorstep the next day, we are unappreciative, unsatisfied, and ungrateful.

 

Our unappreciation is evident as the popularity of socialist policies among my generation continues to grow. Democratic Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez recently said to Newsweek talking about the millennial generation, “An entire generation, which is now becoming one of the largest electorates in America, came of age and never saw American prosperity.”

 

Never saw American prosperity. Let that sink in. When I first read that statement, I thought to myself, that was quite literally the most entitled and factually illiterate thing I’ve ever heard in my 26 years on this earth. Now, I’m not attributing Miss Ocasio-Cortez’s words to outright dishonesty. I do think she whole-heartedly believes the words she said to be true. Many young people agree with her, which is entirely misguided. My generation is being indoctrinated by a mainstream narrative to actually believe we have never seen prosperity. I know this first hand, I went to college, let’s just say I didn’t have the popular opinion, but I digress.

 

Let me lay down some universal truths really quick. The United States of America has lifted more people out of abject poverty, spread more freedom and democracy, and has created more innovation in technology and medicine than any other nation in human history. Not only that but our citizenry continually breaks world records with charitable donations, the rags to riches story is not only possible in America but not uncommon, we have the strongest purchasing power on earth, and we encompass 25% of the world’s GDP. The list goes on. However, these universal truths don’t matter. We are told that income inequality is an existential crisis (even though this is not an indicator of prosperity, some of the poorest countries in the world have low-income inequality), we are told that we are oppressed by capitalism (even though it’s brought about more freedom and wealth to the most people than any other system in world history), we are told that the only way we will acquire the benefits of true prosperity is through socialism and centralization of federal power (even though history has proven time and again this only brings tyranny and suffering).

 

Why then, with all of the overwhelming evidence around us, evidence that I can even see sitting at a coffee shop, do we not view this as prosperity? We have people who are dying to get into our country. People around the world destitute and truly impoverished. Yet, we have a young generation convinced they’ve never seen prosperity, and as a result, elect politicians dead set on taking steps towards abolishing capitalism. Why? The answer is this, my generation has ONLY seen prosperity. We have no contrast. We didn’t live in the great depression, or live through two world wars, or see the rise and fall of socialism and communism. We don’t know what it’s like not to live without the internet, without cars, without smartphones. We don’t have a lack of prosperity problem. We have an entitlement problem, an ungratefulness problem, and it’s spreading like a plague.

 

With the current political climate giving rise to the misguided idea of a socialist utopia, will we see the light? Or will we have to lose it all to realize that what we have now is true prosperity? Destroying the free market will undo what millions of people have died to achieve.

 

My generation is becoming the largest voting bloc in the country. We have an opportunity to continue to propel us forward with the gifts capitalism and democracy has given us. The other option is that we can fall into the trap of entitlement and relapse into restrictive socialist destitution. The choice doesn’t seem too hard, does it?” Amen and Amen!

 

Alyssa Ahlgren

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

A Good Day

 A Good Day

November 20, 2014

 

I met a young, black, truck driver in the parking lot of gas station in the tiny, cross-roads town of Roans Prairie, TX.   Our eyes met and he said, “How are you?”

 

“Good,” I replied. “How are you?”

 

“Very good,” he said.

 

I entered the store, found an experimental, feta cheese-spinach hot roll to snack on while driving toward Huntsville. There were a couple of guys in line in front of the cash register and I joined the line. A young, white guy came walking by from behind who was also ready to check out.   He looked at me and said “The girl at the other cash register is free.” OK, here was a fellow who could have simply gone to the other resister ahead of me and I would never have though much about it.  But he showed the kind of courtesy one often finds in small towns and offered for me go first.  I was in no big hurry, but I think that folks who do you a favor usually feel good about their act of kindness, so I chose not to deny him his pleasure. 

 

The lady at the second cash register had been calling to me to explain that she could check me out -- but I didn’t hear her.  So when I bellied up to her checkout counter, I explained that "I’m a slightly deaf fellow and didn’t hear you call.”

 

She smiled and said, “I understand.” Then she proceeded to pull a hearing aid out of her ear, and said “It drives me nuts when the microwave alarm goes off.” 

 

I hurried to finish the checkout because the courteous fellow was standing in line behind me and it did not seem right to keep him waiting any longer then necessary. I smiled at him as I passed and said “Thanks.”   He smiled back.

 

I followed a tall, handsome Mexican-looking fellow to the door and he held the door open for me.

 

So, in the spate of maybe 10 minutes, I experienced pleasant interactions with four different people. Knowing that there are plenty of unpleasant folks somewhere down the road, I cherish these simple acts of civilized people.  I try as best I can to reciprocate.  I realize that my advanced age has something to do with their behavior — but what the heck — that’s OK.

 

Pat found a preferred small, country road on the map so that we could leave the very busy, two-lane, Highway 30 that connects Bryan to Huntsville. Our new route took our little motorhome through the Sam Houston National Forest and we soon found a gravel side-road that led to a parking lot at the head of a forest walking trail. We understand that sitting for extended periods of time while driving is unhealthy, so we decided to take a walk. But first, a short nap was essential. I woke to the mellow sound of a breeze blowing through pine trees and all was well in the world -- especially after we cranked up the generator and microwaved a bag of hot, tasty popcorn.

 

We tried to walk reasonably fast so as to get some exercise, but we kept getting side-tracked. “Look at this tiny, pretty, white flower,” Pat said. 

 

Then “What is this tree with the leaf showing three lobes,” I asked.

 

“Let me think,” Pat replied. “Is it a Sassafras?”

 

“I think you got it. Good for you,” I said.

 

We wondered if we could grow this fern in our forest or if that shrub is a myrtle. It slowed our walk, but made it interesting. 

 

After walking and enjoying nature for maybe 30 minutes, we decided to return. “I’m gonna walk fast,” Pat said. I tried to keep up with her, but failed.

 

We drove a few miles further till we found a handsome, well maintained, country cemetery on the top of a hill. For us, a cemetery is like a kind of museum where interesting stories can be found. And, of course, they are a place where it is easy to imagine the incredible sorrow of families burying their dead. In this cemetery, the story that we found of most interest was that of Hezekiah Faris. He came to Texas in 1835, fought at the battle of San Jacinto, and for his service, received 640 acres of the land on which this cemetery is found. Many headstones in this cemetery are testament to the fact that the Faris family have lived continuously in this community ever since Hezekian cut down his first pine tree here.

 

Later, after eating some tasty pot roast at the Golden Corral in Huntsville, we checked into Huntsville State Park, had a long, one-sided, conversation with a fisherman about the 10-pound black bass that he almost caught there one time, the best state parks in Texas, the alligators that will eat your fish on your stringer, the demise of horned toads — and such. 

 

Finally, we retired to our cozy motorhome. 

 

It was a good day today. What new gentle adventures await tomorrow?

 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Racing the Texas Rain

Racing the Texas Rain

After a couple of days driving a wide loop around Waco, Pat and I decided to start heading back home to Bryan.  But, first we wished to see some old Norwegian historic buildings that we had missed the previous day.   About half way between Clifton and Cranfills Gap, we were reading the roadside historical marker about this isolated, country Ringness Museum, when the wind picked up and the leaves began to blow.  (According to reports, the legendary disk plow was invented here.)

Ringness House Museum

We knew that a Texas Blue Norther was arriving soon, but we had hoped to get out in front and beat it to Bryan.  Our "Dark Sky" iPhone app predicted about one hour of solid rain, so we did not wish to either drive in the rain or wait another hour for it to stop.  Since cold fronts generally advance at speeds of 20 to 25 miles an hour, we reasoned that we could stay ahead of this rain if we drove the speed limit.  They are named "Northers" for a reason -- so, if we could drive primarily in a southern direction, we should easily stay ahead.  Unfortunately, my hurried calculation did not include the fact that Bryan is not south of where we were; it is primarily east-south-east.  So, the norther was approaching from an angle, not directly from behind.

Three-day Loop

 

 

As we approached Cranfills Gap, we left the front behind.  But soon after leaving town, the front with heavy rain and high winds hit us full-force from the right side.  It was then that we noticed that instead of heading south, we were heading mostly west -- in order to reach Hwy 36 which would take us in a SE direction toward home.  

Blue Norther Near

 

The funky Horny Taod is legendary among motor bikers and brings them in large numbers to Cranfills Gap

Anyway, we drove in the heavy rain most of the way to Gatesville before we were able to outrun that onry, impatient, frontal system.  A quick stop for coffee took longer than expected, so by the time we started again, the leaves and dust had started swirling.  But, we quickly outran it before the rain started.  We traveled rain-free through Temple, but while waiting at a one-lane road repair stop light, we could see the front rapidly approaching.

Cold Front in the Blacklands

A detour slowed us more, but we drove rain-free to Hearne where we met clouds of dust as the front blasted through town.  We narrowly avoided the rain as we escaped toward Bryan,  But, somehow the frontal system outraced us to Bryan, where we again encountered heavy rain.  As we left town, the rain stopped and then started again.  It seemed likely that I would be opening our gate in a downpour and be soaked upon arrival at the house.  But, the rain stopped and did not hit again until we drove into the garage.  I got soaked while unlocking the front door.  Oh well!

As I reflect on this race that we won and then lost several times, I must admit that even driving in the wind and rain was not all bad -- even though somewhat dangerous.  In fact, it was a bit of adventure that we octogenarians experience less and less frequently as we mature.  That although our trip away from Bryan was enjoyable, our race back home was mostly fun.  

When the rain subsided we realized that it had only lasted about 30 minutes, so anywhere on this trip we could probably have simply stopped and waited for the storm to pass.  But, then we would have missed the adventure.  Right?  So, maybe we really won one of life's minor victories after all.

Table of Contents:  https://tinyurl.com/2p92uwe5

Hank and Jeb

Hank and Jeb

While hitting the high spots on Arkansas Scenic Highway 7, we happened upon a pullout containing one cement picnic table that was located high on Ola mountaintop above Lake Nimrod.  A couple of fellows were standing behind their two old Chevy pickups.  One of them was using the hitch on his blue truck as a footstool and the other was leaning against the side of the truck bed, and they appeared to be involved in some serious jawboning and drinking Cokes.

Because there are relatively few pullouts on Arkansas mountain roads, Pat and I stopped when one came available -- to view the scenery, take photos and chat with susceptible victims.  The two fellows looked up as I passed so I said "How you doing?"

"OK," they replied.  "How are you?"

So, now that I had their attention, I could not pass the chance to learn a little about their story.  Everybody has a story, right?  "Do you fellows live around these parts?" I asked.

But, before I get to their story, let me introduce them.

 The fellow on the left is Hank and the other is Jeb.  They have been friends ever since they were kids.  Hank lives on the north side of Ola Mountain and Jeb on the south side.  They both have separate vegetable gardens where they grow tomatoes, beans, carrots, corn and such.  "There's not much to see in our gardens now because our Spring crops are over and Fall crops have not yet been planted."

"Would you guys do me a big favor?"  I asked.  "Would you pose for a photo?"

"Sure," they said.  And, that's how I got the above photo.  Hank with his toothless grin and Jeb squinting like the sun hurt his eyes.  

"Can't help liking these earthy guys," I thought.

 Jeb volunteered that he sometimes fishes commercially for trash fish on nearby Lake Nimrod.  They are both avid hunters.  "Deer season will start on September 18th," said Jeb.

"So, you have already been hunting for two days?" I asked.

"No," said Hank.  "What day is today?"

"Today is September 20th," I replied.

"How do you know that?" Hank inquired.

"Well, the 18th was my birthday and my watch says today is the 20th."

I guess they found my reasons convincing.

Our conversation was interrupted by a sleek, black Harley bike that pulled off Hwy. 7 and parked nearby.  Its passengers consisted of a handsome, 40ish couple dressed in matching all black leather jackets with black helmets, boots and face-masks.  "Are you guys train robbers?" I asked.

They gave me a slightly amused look without comment.  The man stayed seated on his bike and the woman dismounted and strolled over in her biker boots.  "Tell you what," I said, "What would you take to climb up on that picnic table and sing us a song?"  She smiled, walked over to the table and climbed on top -- but did not sing a note.

 

After taking a couple of photos of Lake Nimrod and environs, she hopped down and said, "Now it's your turn." 

OK, now I felt a little trapped but obliged to continue the game.  

I somehow managed to drag my old bones up onto that table, but was at a loss about what song to sing.  The song that finally came to mind was "Aya en el Rancho Grande" -- so I croaked out maybe half of the first verse.  

"Enough is enough," I thought as I descended from those giddy heights.  The lady strode up to me, said some words in some foreign language that I could not understand, gave me a big hug then jumped back on her bike and in a cloud of dust, they disappeared south on Arkansas Scenic Highway 7.  Probably destined to rob a bank somewhere else.

 

"Well, events like that don't happen every day," I thought.

Bye the way, the guys were not really named Hank and Jeb.  I made that up.  Just seemed to fit.

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

 

 

 

 

Topping It Off

Topping it Off

Without ever really thinking about it, one of my unspoken goals in any location is to find some high place where I can get a lay-of-the land.   When driving into a new town, park, or whatever, I seek out the road that will lead to the highest hill in the vicinity where I can obtain a clear view of the landscape.  So, that is what I mean when using the expression "Topping it Off".  This expression was suggested by a sign on a recent trip along scenic highway 7 through Arkansas.

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Lonesome Fawn

Lonesome Fawn

August 16, 2020

“Lonesome” was born about May 31 this year near our fenced-in orchard.  It’s fenced to keep critters like Lonesome from eating the peaches, pears, apples and persimmons that grow there.  

I first glimpsed Lonesome when it was hiding among the Brown-eyed Susans outside the orchard — as newborn fawns hide instinctively.  It remained in this position until I got too close for its comfort and it took off like a shot.  

Usually, deer moving through our neighborhood maintain some kind of home range that extends over the properties of our neighbors.  Thus, we often see the same deer as they make their rounds through the neighborhood.  But, this fawn and its mother stayed mostly in our back yard where there is food, water and shade.  

We quickly noticed that the mother limped when walking.  Closer examination revealed that she had a serious wound on her right, front leg close to the knee. (See photo).  My first thought was that maybe she had accidentally run into some barbed wire, but who knows what caused the injury.

Over several weeks, we watched this mother and her fawn grazing in our back yard.  The fawn would run and play, but the mother would not join in — likely because her leg was too painful.  She could run on 3 legs, but could only hobble when walking.

I found it of interest that they did not leave, but stayed nearby so that we saw them almost every day.  After maybe a month, we still saw the fawn, but the doe was nowhere in sight.  She had disappeared.  For a doe to abandon a fawn would be very, very unusual, so we assumed that she likely had died — maybe from her infected knee or some predator got her.  It was obvious that Lonesome was now an orphan — a poor little lonesome orphan.  Anyway, Lonesome appeared to have lost it's interest in play.

The fawn — that we later named Lonesome — still remained in our yard or surrounding woods — and we watched it almost every day.  Pat would get excited when I told her that the fawn was back out in the open.  She would come watch in a hurry.

When it was younger, it was very wild.  If I happened to walk up on it hiding in the grass, it would jump up and run for its life until it was out of sight.  But, as it grew older, it would not always run away, but might watch us from a distance without running away.  Gradually, that distance became less and less so that it would continue grazing even if we were only maybe 30 yards away.  We had no intention of trying to tame the little animal.  Wild animals should remain wild — we opined.

Sometimes it would lie down and rest where we could see it.  Herds of other deer would pass through the yard and Lonesome never joined them.  Maybe because the does in the herd would chase Lonesome away.  

After its mother disappeared, we wondered if Lonesome was old enough to survive without its mother’s milk.  It is possible that this fawn might be a little stunted from the lack of this rich source of protein, but it seems to be healthy enough on forage alone.

We assumed that Lonesome was a young buck until we watched it squat to pee.  I'm not certain that this method is dependable for assessing gender, but it's our best guess for now.  Anyway "she" will soon lose her spots and likely leave for more interesting places, but that’s OK.  However, she has provided a fascinating distraction during this time of Covid-19 disruption to our normal, summer travel plans.  

It is doubtful that it will ever become emotionally attached to either Pat or me, even though we both try to stimulate conversations with it.  Pat talks to it in her “baby” voice, calling it “sweet thing” or whatever.  I have also been known to sing a few notes to it from some song that is running through my head at the time.  Lonesome shows no sign of liking our voices, but neither does she run away from our chatter.

Maybe the best that I can say is that this little critter provides us with some degree of solace and entertainment in these trying,  Covid-lockdown, times.  So, thank you Lonesome and we will miss you when you are gone.

 

But in April, 2021, we think we spotted her again.  She was now a nearly-grown doe, alone and laid down is two places she had favored as a fawn.  Thinking she might remember me, I went outside where she could see me and gently talked to her.  She watched from about 50 yards away, but suddenly bolted and was gone again.  Oh well! 

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

Roberto's Nigasoota

Roberto's Nigasoota

January 14, 2001

Roberto Garcia was a "wetback" or "mojado".  We were both about 10 years old when I first met him – sometime about 1946. His father, Juan, worked for my father on the Reising-Sterling Ranch west of Edinburg, Texas.  For the next few years, Roberto was probably my closest companion.  I felt comfortable in his company, maybe because we shared similar personalities and interests.  Neither of us exhibited a particular fondness for school and much preferred to be hunting than imprisoned in some classroom.  Roberto exuded a calm, friendly and fairly confident demeanor.  I feel certain that I learned more from Roberto than he learned from me.  Likely, he picked up some words in English from me, but I don’t remember any great problem with communication.  I knew some Spanish (mostly cuss words) and Roberto knew some English and what we could not communicate with hand signs must not have been all that important.

Roberto, and his little brother, Ruben were accomplished hunters.  I likely learned more hunting skills from Roberto than I did the rest of my life.  He taught me by example.  He explained that in Mexico, hunting was a very important source of food.  Often, the only meat on the table came from hunting.  He had a very keen eye, had a fairly clear understanding of animal behavior and was a great shot.  His weapon used, and about the only one he could afford, was what was commonly called a “nigger shooter”-- pronounced something like “nigasoota.”  "Resortera" was the name most frequently used in Mexico.

Roberto’s nigasoota was a work of art.  He invested greatly in the selection of materials and craftsmanship.  Maybe the most important component was the selection of rubber.  Not just any kind of rubber was suitable.  The old inner tube must be made of red rubber that had the appropriate elastic properties.  It must not be too old, or cracks would appear in the rubber causing it to weaken rapidly when used.  In about 1946, there was a shortage of real red rubber because WWII interfered with rubber production in Southeast Asia.  That awful, black, synthetic rubber was plentiful, but it lacked the elastic punch needed for a quality nigasoota.  I really don’t remember the source of the red rubber inner tubes that we used, but likely Roberto searched mightily among the local tire companies in Edinburg for a prize specimen.  Of course, Roberto’s family was poor – though fairly rich compared to some of his friends who remained back in Mexico – so quality scissors were in short supply.  To cut the rubber bands for a quality nigasoota required a sharp pair of scissors.  Any small nick along the edges of the rubber bands, or if the bandwidth was not maintained within certain limits, a weakness resulted that was certain to be the place the band would break.  There were few greater frustrations than to have a nigasoota fail during a critical phase of the hunt.  A good hunter required a quality weapon and Roberto knew how to make them.  Anyway, Roberto could use a sharp knife to cut the bands, but a sharp pair of scissors was better.  The best scissors in the neighborhood could be found in my mother’s sewing basket.  However, they did not remain the best for long, because cutting rubber was not conducive to maintaining a sharp edge on the scissors.  “Winfield, have you been using my scissors again?” Mom would complain.  

“Well, maybe a little,” I might reply.  My mom did not believe in punishment so a new pair of scissors would appear in her basket and the process repeated.  After all, what was more important, a quality nigasoota or a sharp pair of scissors for cutting cloth?  

Roberto was also amazingly skilled at cutting the rubber band sized strips of rubber needed for wrapping the two large rubber strips to the wooden stalk.  He could cut and wrap these strips so that they were comparable in esthetic appearance to the precision needlework of my Aunt Augusta.

Next came the leather rock holder.  The soft, malleable leather from a tongue of leather boots was best.  There always seemed to be a shortage of such leather, but we managed.  When my older brother, Bruce came home from the Army and asked who had cut the tongues out of his favorite pair of boots, I could not admit to the crime.  I think maybe he blamed my younger brother, Scott.  I had experienced his wrath as a younger boy and found lying much easier than whippings.  God and Jesus would just have to understand.  

Roberto was also consistent when cutting the leather rock holder.   Cut the two holes too close to the edge and they would break.  Make the holder too large and it would be noisy when shot so that birds would hear it and fly before the missile reached them.  Make it too small and it would not hold as many rock sizes.  The shape was also critical. Not square or pointed, but oblong with equilateral sides.  Best done by first cutting a rectangular piece, then bending it in the middle so that the two sides and the end were cut simultaneously.  The symmetry of Roberto’s rock holders were near perfection.  They were strong, durable and aerodynamic, but supple enough so that the rock inside could be felt, held and released with precision.  The rough side of the leather formed the inside of the holder, which held the rock, and the slick side was held by the fingers.  When launching the rock, it was best to aim carefully and gradually release the grip on the holder, so that the rock was launched as smoothly as possible.  This ensured the greatest accuracy.  But snap shooting was most common.

The stock was selected with great care.  Usually, mesquite was chosen because the limbs in a fork often formed a more perfect V-shape than other types of tree wood available to us.  This gave the nigasoota a near perfect balance.  Considerable attention was given to stripping the bark and whittling the two arms and the handle to precise lengths.  Too long and the handle would be unwieldy; too short and it would not fit the hand.  The main problem with mesquite was that when it dried, it tended to split.  

Size and shape of ammunition was critical.  Almost all rocks curve when shot and, unlike a baseball, the direction of the curve is unpredictable.  A rock with a flat side or projections will curve excessively when shot and almost never hit the target.  Rocks which approached the shape of a marble were the most accurate.  In the sandy country west of Edinburg, there were few rocks from natural sources.  The primary source of rocks was from gravel roads.  However, some of the best rocks were obtained from those used to mix with cement for building concrete structures.  Often these rocks were obtained from old river beds, where the rocks had been bounced down rocky creek beds during floods so that the rough edges had been worn off.  Of course, the best ammunition was marbles or ball bearings, but who could afford those?  We spend hours on our hands and knees selecting only the best rocks.  If we were lucky, we left for a hunt with a plentiful supply of free ammunition.  The pockets in our Levis would bulge with ammunition so that some days the outside of my upper leg would become sore from the weight of all those rocks scraping on tender, very white, skin.  (Skin color was most apparent when we swam naked in the canals.  We never talked about swimming naked, it was just the way swimming was done.  No girls were ever invited – at least at that age.  I was a little shocked one day when my Dad caught us swimming in the big canal.  With little hesitation, he also shed his clothes and joined us.  It was neat!)  Anyway, the Garcia boys had this beautiful, brown skin and mine was almost snow white and covered with freckles.  “Aye, que pecoso” (how freckled) they would say in jest.  “Bolillo” was another term applied to us gringos because our skin was as white as the white bolillo bread they ate.  My nose was always red and peeling and Roberto could go most of the day without a hat and not burn.  Life was just not fair!

For me, hunting was mostly just for fun.  However, it sometimes provided a little meat for my dogs (Thunderhead, Lady and Little Lady).  But when hunting with Roberto, the doves, quail, rabbits, grackles, redwings and meadowlarks we killed often found their way into Mrs. Garcia’s stews.  My mouth still waters when I think of her stews.  The combination of wild game, potatoes, tomatoes, chiles, garlic, salt, and pepper scooped up with fresh, rolled up flour tortillas was one of my childhood joys. Cooking over the raised fireplace in the kitchen in the small, three-room brick home that the Ranch provided to its workers, added the tantalizing aroma of mesquite smoke.  The attention of Roberto’s pretty, dark-eyed sister, Rebecca did not detract from the experience. There were incentives to be proficient with our weapons.  

Hunters

To bring home the most meat, it was wise to think like a hawk or coyote.  Take easy prey!  A whitewing dove on the nest made an easy target.  Low-flying whitewings in large flocks could sometimes be shot out of the air.  Mourning doves in large groups feeding around the silage troughs during winter were susceptible to a large bouncing rock.  A bobwhite quail flushed into an ebony tree could be approached more closely than one on the ground.  A sound made to simulate a baby red-winged blackbird in distress would bring the adults within easy range.  Wildlife conservation was not a high priority.

But our nigasootas were not used exclusively for hunting.  We spent many hours engaged in shooting contests.  The favorite was to see who could break the most bottles tossed into the air. The thunk sound of a rock hitting a tin can and seeing it change it downward trajectory was also very satisfying.  But going to war with nigasootas was the greatest challenge.  Chinaberries were used as ammunition because they would not kill or usually maim a human.  But they really hurt!  We divided into gangs: the Ageila negras (Black eagles) and the Calaveras (those who lead a wild life).  When on the attack, the opponent could be intimidated if the aggressor yelled “ageila negra” at the top of his voice.  But to claim that this was a harmless adventure would be wrong.  Two of my brothers suffered life-long eye injuries to these little green berries of Chinese origin.  I shot lots of gringos and Mexicans with a nigasoota, but never once shot a single black person.  So why in the heck were they called nigger shooters?  I’ve been shot so often that maybe they  should be called “gringo shooters.”

 

We also played marbles and "concados" using tops with a sharpened point designed to split the other guys top as it laid on the ground.

One of my jobs was weighing cotton

I have very fond memories of growing up with Roberto and his younger brother, Ruben.  (My mom called them the Black clouds for some unknown reason).  But, as luck would have it, our lives changed and became much more serious.  My dad thought I should become more useful, so every summer I worked with Leocadio, Bejamar, Benito, Charlie Reyes and others carrying irrigation pipes, rounding up crossbred cattle, shoveling silage, weighing cotton or driving a tractor for $20 a week.  Rebecca turned 16 or so and to my great disappointment married one of the Reyes boys.  They had a great wedding under the mesquite, ebony and huisache trees at the ranch.  The blood pudding and cow brains were a little hard to take but they were served with white lace tablecloths.  The air was filled with accordion music and there was dancing on the packed earth.

The pouch on my belt held rocks more comfortably than a pocket

I later graduated to BB guns and then 22 rifles for hunting.  School became somewhat more important.  The Reising Construction Company went bankrupt, which required that the Reising-Sterling Ranch be sold to pay off debts.  Roberto and his family moved to Washington to pick cherries.  

Now, after a life of near workaholic behavior, I have retired.  Maybe it is time to craft another of Roberto’s nigasootas and find some more Mexican friends.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/6813612681836200616?hl=en&tab=jj