Yesterday I sat in on a session of friendly naturalists – “Natural History and Nature Writing.“ We examined a three-page list of books devoted to describing the flora and fauna and human reactions to them. Some familiar names were on the list: Rachel Carson (for The Sea Around Us, not for Silent Spring). Aldo Leopold (A Sand County Almanac). Gene Stratton Porter (A Girl of the Limberlost). Some authors were vague childhood memories; others were new to me.
After all, much of nature writing comes from the Eastern Forests or the Far West – the Rockies and California. Those of us who grew up in South Texas might have a different list. Roy Bedichek (Adventures with a Texas Naturalist). J. Frank Dobie (A Vaquero of the Brush Country). Frank X. Tolbert. Américo Paredes. J. Evitts Haley. And Walter Prescott Webb.
No, those of us who lived south of San Antonio didn’t have those vast expanses of forest, or mountain vistas, or waves of grass, or encounters with friendly animals. We grew up with mesquite and huisache, Javelinas and tarantulas, coyotes and scorpions. And read about them, and heard the legends from the old timers, and watched it all slip away. I recall my father waking me one night to listen to coyotes bark. Dad thought they were doomed by the encroachment of cities and agriculture. Well...
Nature writing for me was foiund in our little library in Kingsville, Texas. The adventures of Osa and Martin Johnson in Africa. Frank Buck and “Bring ‘em back alive.” Of course that led to Edgar Rice Burroughs and a completely false view of the African jungle. But what the heck! It was fun.
Dac Crossley
September 30, 2015
“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” – Benjamin Franklin.