More Oak Apples!

  Maybe I am just more observant now than when I was younger but I never noticed the galls hanging on oak limbs when I was a kid.  In fact, I never noticed them until a few years ago.  After Hurricane Zeta slammed us, thousands of "wooden" balls littered the ground.  They were not only here but everywhere.  Folks all over the Coast were finding these odd balls and were wondering what they were.  The balls were about 1 1/2 inch in diameter, perfectly round and were firmly attached to oak twigs.  At the time, I figured they were a type of gall housing a critter larva but was not sure just what.  Researching led me to find that the galls are often called oak apples because of their appearance and they do, indeed, house a larva.  These balls are created to protect the larvae of an oak gall wasp.  The wasp, as an adult, is a wee thing that most people would view as a "gnat" or "fruit fly".  It is neither.  It is a true wasp.  That wasp spends most of its life inside the gall.  It only comes out for a few weeks to mate and lay eggs so the cycle can repeat.  Once we figured out just what the balls were, they were promptly forgotten and cleanup after the storm continued.

  A quick hike around the hillside today was invigorating.  There was a slight misty rain and the winds were chilly.  At one point, my leather moccasin rolled slightly to one side as if I had stepped on a stone.  Nope.  It was not a stone at all.  I had stepped on an oak apple!  I picked it up and was amazed at the sturdiness even after being on the ground for quite some time.  Then I realized dozens of the galls were on the ground!  Pondering this, it suddenly came to me that the squirrels were lining their nests with the small, leafy twigs from the oak trees.  Obviously, as the squirrels were gnawing on the branches, the galls were tumbling to the ground.  A few had the telltale pinholes where the gall wasp had emerged but most were still intact.  

  Folks, if you see these oak apples dangling from the twigs in your oak trees, do not despair.  The wasp larvae do not harm the tree whatsoever and the adult wasps have no inclination to sting.  Leave them be and make up some grand tale to explain your ability to grow apples on your oak trees!  I have a grand one stirring around in my brain to befuddle visitors to the Bayou!

Fishing, a Spaceship and a Priest

  I had a very fitful night of tossing and turning due to a backache.  I awoke at midnight in a fit of agony and only got intermittent sleep thereafter.  Well, there was nothing to do but get out of bed at 4am and head to my happy place, the pier. Walking seems to be the best remedy for any type backache so walking is what I did.  Since it was still quite dark outside, the pier seemed to be the safest place to do any sort of hiking.  Being several hundred feet long and well above the marsh, I felt relatively safe from stepping on a moccasin.  The pier planks seem to grasp any bit of moonlight and are a lot brighter than any path under the trees.  Back and forth, I hiked the length of the pier twenty times and soon was feeling some better.  It was while I was on the pier that things took a turn to the wild side!

  Once I stepped up on the ramp going to the main pier, it became obvious that a heavy fog had laid in overnight.  Ahh, my favorite hiking time!  Things seem so different when cloaked in fog.  The mistiness can sure make things look kind of creepy but. at the same time, beautiful.  This morning, things were slightly different than our usual, winter fog days.  Now, there were leaves that filled out trees making them appear to be huge monsters but, monsters aside, it was that spaceship that caught my eye!

  Yep, the spaceship is what got my full focus once I was on the end of the pier.  It is not often that you can have an actual sighting!  In reality, the "spaceship" was merely the gazebo across the Bayou but it looked a whole lot different when shrouded by fog.  The imagination ran wild and memories were brought back into the open after being stowed away in the dark corners of the brain.  A story about fishing, a spaceship and a priest.  Does it get any better than that?

  One day after an early morning fishing trip, Pop came home with a pretty wild tale.  This was when I was a youngster and before all of the homes and gazebos were built.  As Pop was fishing from his skiff, his good friend arrived to fish near him.  This friend was a priest from the local church.  The story was related of how they were catching flounders and talking when suddenly on the horizon, there appeared a strange craft.  This "spaceship" came toward them and stopped to hover several hundred feet away.  Pop said it was round, had lots of lights but never made a sound.  After it hovered for about ten minutes, the lights started flashing and it shot straight up in the air until it was out of sight.  Pop went on to tell how his friend, the priest, was shaken and asked if it was a spaceship.  Pop, trying to be strong and reassuring, said he did not know but it sure may have been.  Both fishermen decided to ease their way closer to the old pier and wait until sunrise before venturing any further.  

  To this day, there has been no explanation as to what Pop and the priest had seen.  It could have been anything but it left them both with ideas of it being aliens.  This morning's "spaceship" did not fly off into the wild, blue yonder but sat grounded.  I guess my imagination went a little overboard.  But...that Godzilla like creature that was as tall as the trees sure looked real to me!  

Witch's Butter or just another Tall Tale?

  Just when I think I cannot come across anything new here on the Bayou, the place surprises me with something I have never seen before.  Folks often ask if I ever get bored here but, to be honest, I have yet to find the time.  There is too much to do...too much to see...too much to experience to be bored.  

  This morning, the old dog and I took our morning hike in the mistiness of the Bayou.  I have yet to decide if it was a heavy fog or drizzly rain but Mr. PJ did not appreciate getting his fur wet.  Since he had been feeling poorly during the night, I kept the walk short, let him do his business then let him retreat to his warm, comfy bed.  This was not before I had eyed something curious, however, and my hike did not end with his.  I just had to go back to the marsh edge to investigate a rather lovely fungi growing there.  It was perhaps the brightest orange mushroom (or fungus) I have ever seen!  The lovely, tidbit of a thing was growing on a fallen pine branch which is why I noticed it in the first place.  I gather small twigs to be used as fire starter as I hike about the hillside.  When I went to grab the pine branch, I noticed the mushrooms.  

  Not knowing the type had me curious.  While I could spend hours searching for the correct orange mushroom, I chose to ask several of my "go-to" folks for an answer.  I figured that would be quicker.  They did give answers but I got several different answers!  One was the intellectual identification that is probably correct but since I could not pronounce it, I could not spell it to check.  One of the other identifications intrigued me to the point that I want my fungus to be that one...Witches' Butter!  Who names a fungus Witches' Butter?  I dared to ask about the story behind the name.

  "Well, first, Witches' Butter only grows on dead pine wood.  Story has it that back in the day before all of this treated lumber, folks made their houses out of whatever wood was available and pine was the choice of many.  That pine would eventually start to rot and mushrooms would grow on it.  If the Witch's Butter grew on some one's house, it meant that that family was put under a spell by a local witch.  This was a terrible thing so folks would check their houses regularly for any sign of the mushroom. All was not in vain, though, because the spell could be broken quite easily.  The head of the family had to poke at that mushroom with a sharp knife until it died then the spell would be gone." 

  Hmmm, now.  That is quite the fanciful tale and I am still not sure if my cousin was making this up as he told it or if there really is something called Witches' Butter.  I guess I really will be spending some time researching.  Personally, I think it looks more like some type or orange coral than butter but it was growing on pine wood so maybe?  (I really liked the tale, however, and will probably always refer to the bright orange mushrooms as Witches' Butter!  It makes for an interesting tale!

In the Marsh or in the Swamp...Just not in the Graveyard!

  If you ever listen to the "old-timers" down here...ok, so that includes me...but if you ever listen to the tales that are told while sitting at dusk on some porch, you are bound to hear a few epic stories about rabbits. Tales of exploits long ago "when I was a youngster" abound and grow with each telling.  Some are pure fiction while others, at some point, may have had a shred of truth.  Back in the day (the usual method of starting one of these wild stories), I used to hunt rabbits with my brother.  (Yep, I am an old-timer telling this fib....err...story)   It was not against the law, so many years ago, to hunt rabbits at night with a spotlight.  We had two old carbide lights left from Grandpa's coal-mining days that put out just about enough light to see your hand in front of your face but those lights sure would make a rabbit's eye glow.  Brother and I would usually head down the old south field and wind up near a small graveyard. This graveyard had no concrete or marble headstones only large seashells marked the graves.  It seemed that both marsh rabbits and swamp rabbits loved that graveyard.  Since Brother was the elder, he always toted the old single-shot rifle and while I toted the rabbits.  It was my job to crawl under the brambles to retrieve the rabbit once he shot it.  The logic behind that was that I was smaller and, well, he had the gun and could not crawl.  The system worked well for two youngsters not yet reaching their teen years.  Pop would give us three bullets and we had better bring back three rabbits.

Pretty little Marsh Rabbit near the pier.

  One particularly dark night (moonless nights were the best for hunting), the light picked up the telltale red eye of a rabbit.  Brother raised the gun and shot.  The rabbit keeled over without a kick. I looked at Brother and got the motion to climb through the small wire fence and through the overgrown graveyard to where the rabbit had fallen.  When I reached out for the critter, it jumped up and glared at me.  Those red eyes were still glowing in the beam of the old carbide light and made the rabbit look almost evil.  Ummmm!  Gulp!  "He is not dead!" I called to Brother.  "Sit still.  Don't move an inch." was the answer I got before POW!  A shot rang out just inches from my head.  The rabbit fell over again.  "WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!"  I yelled almost falling on top of the rabbit! It is a good thing that I trusted Brother!  Reaching out for the rabbit, I was met with those red, glowing eyes once again.  "HE AIN'T DEAD!!!"  POW!  Another shot rang out before I could even finish the sentence.  Now that I was shaking from head to toe, not only from rifle shots whizzing just inches from my skull, but from a non-dying rabbit, I was thinking that it was best for me to hightail it back to the old farmhouse.

  Ok, surely that rabbit had met its demise.  That was three shots that made contact with the rabbit's head. Here I am in the middle of the night, in a graveyard with an un-dead critter.  I could smell the rabbit's blood.  I could see it oozing from the wounds. I was close enough to see three distinct wounds yet that critter jumped up to glare at me once again. That was the last bullet.  There were no more and this critter looked like he was about to eat me for supper.  "UMMM....DO SOMETHING! NOW!!"  Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I almost freaked out because I could still see Brother's carbide light flickering on the outside of the graveyard fence.  Just as I looked up, a club came crashing down....on the rabbit.  Pop had heard our three shots and came to investigate.  He stooped to pick up the rabbit in one hand and a shaking daughter in the other.  "Best be getting home." he said.  "You don't look so good."

  When we got home, Pop showed us the three bullet holes in the rabbit but offered no explanation why the critter would not die.  The next day, Mom made a skimpy pot of rabbit stew to feed the family.  She always could make do by adding a few more potatoes, another handful of carrots and a couple of more onions.   As for Brother and me?  You can bet your life that we never went hunting in the graveyard again!  We made sure to steer clear of that place!

  To this day, I have no sound explanation as to the incident.  Brother was (and still is) a crack shot who could knock the center out of a quarter with that rifle but could not kill that rabbit. We caught enough ribbing from the old folks about our inept attempt at rabbit hunting.

A handsome Swamp Rabbit near the peach orchard.

  There was a fine rabbit back behind the peach orchard yesterday that made me think of the above tale.  That rabbit also got me thinking about Marsh Rabbits and Swamp Rabbits.  Back in the day, a lot of folks used to think that the Marsh Rabbits were special.  Tales used to tell of how they would outwit alligators and fox.  These rabbits would lead dogs on a wild chase through the marsh until the dogs were mired.  The rabbit would then swim to safety.

 Marsh Rabbits are smaller than Swamp Rabbits and always live near a body of water.  Their main escape is by swimming.  Swamp Rabbits can be found just about anywhere there is underbrush and a bit of water. They can be found in swamps and creek bottoms. They use their speed to escape predators.  The two are sometimes lumped together as one and the same but there are differences.  Besides being smaller in general, the Marsh Rabbit has smaller ears and swims much better.  I am glad we have both types bounding about the place.  I just really do not want any more un-dead rabbits here!

Tall Tales and Sawfish!

  Somehow I inherited several sawfish bills.  These are from the time before the fish became protected and killing the fish for its bill was the thing to do. Whoever enacted the law to protect these fine creatures was a pure genius! It is a shame to kill any animal needlessly. But I actually have two very large bills and two tiny ones.  None were actually caught by Pop but were given to him by one of his friends but, like I said, I am in ownership of them now.  I never thought much about the things since they were always around the house when I was a kid.  Mom never knew just what to do with them and since it was not stylish to display such items at the time. She would stick them in the corner somewhere.  Usually, they remained out of sight unless Pop decided to tell some tall tale to visitors.  

  There was one time that one of the bills was laid across an old trunk on the screened porch.  This trunk was positioned under some bedroom windows and, as kids, it was our habit to climb out the window instead of going all the way into the living room to get to the porch.  My poor sister had the misfortune to use the window when the bill was on the trunk.  She climbed out and put her knee down directly on top of one of the sharp "teeth" on the bill.  The thing became embedded in her knee and promptly broke off of the bill.  I can remember the agony she went through as Pop had to use a large needle to dig the thing out of her flesh.  My poor sister!!  To this day, she has a scar and a tall tale of how the sawfish got her!

  Once I became in possession of the bills, the tales did not stop.  I do believe that my favorite was spouted off the top of my head during a Christmas party we had at the Little Bayou House.  Some of Mark's teenage nephews were eyeing the bills that I had mounted on the wall.  "Hey, what are these?" they asked.  Well, never one to turn down a good opportunity, my mouth started spieling a tale of the sawfish bills. I wove a huge tale of how Pop took me out fishing when I was just a lass and I hooked the huge fish.  The tale told how it took me nigh on seven hours to reel him in but I was determined to do it myself.  By the time the story was in full swing, I knew I had them totally believing my every word.  It was then that I slipped in the final line that I had THEM "hook, line and sinker."  They never heard.  Those boys were so enthralled by my story that they never realized that I was joshing them.  Mark's Uncle Stanley was listening to the tale and when I spouted that part, he burst out laughing.  He knew I was pulling their legs and they were falling for my every word.  

  This just goes to show that not only did I inherit some very unusual items, I also inherited the ability to weave some mighty tall tales!  Thank you, Pop!  The storytelling ability is an amazing gift!