Dac Crossley's Western Blog

The Grey Ghosts of Hemlock

They march up the side of the mountain, singly or by two or three, the ghosts of dead hemlock trees in the Smokey Mountains, their white boles in stark contrast to the green foliage around them. Their story is a small insect introduced from Asia many years ago, a tiny bug that is killing them all. In a few decades the hemlock ghosts will crash to the ground and decompose. The forest will close around them, welcoming their remains into the thin mountain soils.

We’ve done it before – accidentally released into our forests those pests that change it forever. Think Chestnut Blight. We’ve exterminated forest animals such as Passenger Pigeons. Not deliberately (“There were so many of them. Who knew?), just casually, deeds more dangerous than the axe. The forest survives – but is it the same?

A group of tourists notices a small cloud hanging in a valley. Millions of pixels capture it. Are those people aware that they witness the disappearance of a tree species, perhaps forever?

I pull my Honda off into a quiet glade, roll down the windows and inhale the forest essence. Dark, still, calm and peaceful, it invites me, promises me that it will survive. Foliage is green in September, yet I know that those trees are pulling substance from their leaves, moving it into the boles and roots, preparing for their winter sleep. I welcome the serenity, the silence.

The metaphor reaches out to me but I push it back. I murmur the words of Saint Augustine: “… but not yet.”

Dac Crossley
September 28, 2014

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
“But I have promises to keep…” -- Robert Frost

A Most Unusual Spider

Growing up in South Texas, I had a respect for spiders instilled into me by my uncle, Mitchell Baird. He was a story-teller who could spin yarns about finding scorpions and spiders in his boots, and narrowly escaping death by shaking those boots before pulling then on.

I grew up and learned better about spiders. Those big Texas hairy tarantulas can be scary but they’re entirely harmless. When teaching laboratories at Texas Tech, we’d delight in taking a tarantula into class. Conceal it in your hand while writing on the board, then turn around with it crawling up your collar. Oh, those screams! Remember that, Larry C. and Clyde S.?

It seems that the golden garden spiders grew bigger in South Texas. They hung their webs everyplace. We kids called them “writing spiders.” Sometimes we tormented them. Cautiously. And there were some enormous Wolf Spiders in my yard. My little playmate next door introduced me into pouring water into their holes. Then stand back!

So I didn’t expect Georgia to show me anything new about spiders. But up at the Cabin on Freeman Ridge, one scurried along the porch that made me sit up. It had an ugly body about the size of a Jefferson nickel – and looked like a bird dropping with long skinny legs. It sat down under the porch light and waited. A moth walked right up to the spider and it pulled the moth in.

What I was seeing was a bolas spider. It doesn’t spin a web. It waves a single strand with a droplet at its tip and uses that to catch prey. And, it specializes in male moths. The spider exudes a chemical similar to the pheromone of female moths. So the male moths come visiting. I read that bolas spiders do occur in Texas, but not commonly. Maybe this weekend at the cabin, I can get a picture. I hope it comes back.

About those scorpions Mitchell talked about. They’re common here in Georgia, too. They come in my house here in Athens. Small ones; I’ve never been stung by one. But – at the Cabin on Freeman Ridge I’ve captured two unusually large scorpions.

I don’t know. Maybe, like Uncle Mitchell, I’ll start shaking out my shoes in the mornings.

Dac Crossley
September 19, 2014.

“One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats.” – Iris Murdoch

Wake Me In A Decade

When Mom was slipping away, she asked a favor. “Sonny, I want you to wake me up every ten years and tell me what’s happened.” Mother was a historian with an abiding interest in national and international events. Current history was a life-long passion for Mom. She often lectured to me when I was little, about trends she saw developing. Not so much about local events – Texas politics is still just a long-running sitcom.

So, here goes, a ten-year update for my mother.

“Hello, Mom. Here’s what’s new. We elected a black President. Twice. And he got a form of universal health care through the Congress. Yes, a pair of miracles. Since then, he hasn’t accomplished much. Congress is hopelessly deadlocked and the President has proved to be a hesitant, ineffective leader.

“The Israelis and Arab groups are in a state of perpetual war. Yes, Mom, I remember my Old Testament. The entire Middle East is in conflict of some kind or another, civil wars, religious wars, racial divisions. And Radical Muslims are threatening to behead all Christians. What did you say? Christians kill other Christians?

“The Russian Premier has started to annex adjacent countries; he wants to rebuild the USSR. Europe seems powerless to stop him. We don’t know what to do. Yes, Mom, I remember your lectures back in 1938. History repeats itself.

“Mom, our Country is stagnant. The Government isn’t working. There is no leadership, anyplace. We need help. If you have an opportunity, put in a good word for America. HE always listens to you.

“And say ‘hi’ to Dad.

“See you in another decade,

“Your Sonny.”

And I wonder? Just what will I be able to tell Mom in another decade? Will we begin to join together again? Work for a common goal?

Perhaps I’ll deliver the next message in person…

Dac Crossley
September 10, 2014

“If men were angels, no government would be necessary.” – James Madison.

The Lifeline of the Confederacy

South Texas played a major role in the War Between the States. An economic role, not a military one. Cotton was the currency of the Confederacy, and Europe’s textile mills were buyers.

Lincoln ordered blockades of Southern ports. He couldn’t legally blockade the Mexican ports, however. And thus began the ox-cart treks of cotton bales to the Rio Grande and across to Mexico. Creaking along, they passed the Santa Gertrudis Creek and the new King-Lewis ranch of south Texas, through the sand-hills of the Wild Horse or Mustang Desert, and down into Mexico.

The tiny Mexican Village of Bagdad at the mouth of the Rio Grande became a boom town. Cotton moved from Matamoros by shallow-draft boats of King, Kennedy & Co., down the Rio and out to deep-water vessels waiting in the Gulf of Mexico. Foreign ships took cotton overseas (or in some cases, sold it in New York to US industries).

It was war, and there were fortunes to be made, buying and selling cotton and war materials. Entrepreneurs moved back and forth between Brownsville and Matamoros, including such historic names as Richard King, Mifflin Kennedy, John McAllen and Charles Stillman.

Battles came to both sides of the Border. Federal troops landed at Port Isabel near Brownsville, to try to stop the cotton trade. Fort Brown changed hands several times during the Civil War. And across in Mexico, French invaders worked to establish Maximilian as emperor. He was supported by the Centralist Party in Mexico City but opposed by the Federalist Party and President Benito Juarez. That conflict also spilled back and forth across the Rio.

Cotton traders and others were displaced by the back-and-forth conflicts of armies on both sides of the Border. Business shifted from Brownsville to Matamoros and back again, or simply operated in both cities. Raiders, bandits or patriots depending on your viewpoint, came and went.

These events set the pattern for the Lower Rio Grande Valley that I knew as a youth. Free exchange took place between the two municipalities; businesses served both communities. The Border was essentially open. You shopped freely on both sides of the river. Dual currencies were everyplace.

When I hear some of the rancor in the dialogs of today, I recall the time when the Southern States depended on their southern neighbor. Politics and drugs are the curse of our times.

Dac Crossley
September 4, 2014

“When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.” – Jean-Paul Sartre.