If we look at the history of change in Alabama’s forest, it is useful to think in terms of “eras.” Each era lasted about 80 years. I have covered two of these in previous posts: “the original forest” as described by naturalist William Bartram, and the “settlement era” in which European settlers purchased land and created homestead farms. The next period, which I call the “sawmill era” (1865-1940), had the largest influence on the structure and composition of the forests across the South. The current Alabama forest still reflects what occurred in that era.
Alabama’s landscape at the beginning of the Civil War (1861-1865) was still largely an unbroken patchwork of farms and forest. There were some small sawmills (often called “peckerwood mills”) usually located along creeks and rivers, but they were incapable of processing significant volumes of lumber. Plus, the lack of a transportation infrastructure relegated timber and forest products primarily to local use. Consequently, nothing resembling a large-scale timber industry in the South existed before the Civil War.
At the time, Alabama was an agrarian society consisting of hundreds of small farms and large-acreage cotton plantations. There was some manufacturing across the state, but nothing on the scale of what existed in the North. While we may think the farmers were “dirt poor,” the South had a higher per capita income, even including the slave population, than the industrialized states of the Union. The War changed that as plantation owners and subsistence farmers (supplying most of the soldiers) went from wealth to poverty overnight. Contrast this to the northern states where a well-developed forest products industry supplied lumber, railroad crossties, charcoal, and tannin. Large scale “lumbering” had already occurred over the previous eight decades, particularly in the Lake States. Vast areas of forestland already showed signs of depletion. The combination of an impoverished South, rich in forest, and the industrialized North, rich in capital, was a perfect match.
In his book “How to Get Rich in the South,” A.J. Harrison wrote “The supply of timber in the South is inexhaustible . . . and is being bought in large tracts by lumbermen.”
Inexhaustible.
Wealthy northerner capitalists saw opportunity in Alabama’s stately longleaf pine trees. The northern states needed timber to supply an industrial revolution, and wealthy northern capitalists had a vision and the means to exploit it.
And so, it was. Thousands of acres were bought by “timber barons” from the North. Some were simply speculators, while others would build sawmills mills along the expanded railroad corridors. Homesteaders, now desperate for cash in an economy in ruins, had two options: sell the land and go West, or stay put and sell their trees for whatever they could get.
They did both. Those who sold their land often did so at less than one dollar per acre. Those who chose to stay and keep their farms sold their trees for much less. One example was in the heart of Alabama’s extensive longleaf forest, where records reveal that one timber speculator bought 40-acre parcels of “virgin” longleaf timber for “three sacks of corn, three sides of bacon, ten pounds of tobacco, and 40 pounds of coffee.” If he considered the timber “exceptional” he offered “an extra sack of corn and an additional ten pounds of coffee.”
Once the land and timber was purchased, sawmills were constructed along the railroad corridors. In the next installment, I’ll discuss the particulars and the result: deforestation, the likes of which will never be equaled.
It took a little less than 80 years to transition from Bartram’s idyllic “original” forest, an unbroken landscape of “stately pines” and “lush bottomlands,” to a countryside that bore the marks of European colonial settlement. This change stemmed from a very American idea: that ordinary people could purchase land for themselves, work it with their own two hands, and build enough personal wealth to control their own destinies.
But before the land could be sold, it had to be controlled. Westward expansion into the 14 million acre “Mississippi Territory” followed the defeat of the British and the Creek Indian Nation in 1814. By 1819 Alabama had enough settlers to enter the Union as a state. By 1830 the native tribes were overcome and relocated to “Indian Territory” in present-day Oklahoma.
Back in Alabama, the territorial lands were surveyed into a rectangular grid established by the Government Land Survey System. This allowed land to be broken into parcels or lots which were offered by grant or sale to homesteaders at Government Land Offices.
Under private ownership, the towering longleaf pines and the lush hardwood river bottoms were more often seen as an obstacle than a blessing. Before a farm could be established, trees had to be cut and removed to prepare for homes and crops, and that was no easy task.
A typical homesteader cleared enough trees to build a small cabin and a few outbuildings, as well as clearing areas to grow crops. This was difficult, backbreaking labor. Trees were felled with axes and crosscut saws–called “misery whips” by settlers–and dragged to building sites by oxen, horses, or mules. The clearing and building process was gradual and often took place over several years. Once cleared, settlers planted corn, wheat, and vegetables and sometimes established fruit orchards. Rail fences were made from longleaf pine (or chestnut in the north) to keep free-range livestock out of the crops. The settlers initially relied on wild game as their meat source but soon hogs became the primary source of meat since pork could be preserved by smoking or salting. Once a few families had settled in an area, small communities developed.
The notion that Alabama was dominated by big cotton plantations and slave labor is false. The plantations were mostly prevalent in Alabama’s Black Belt Prairie (where there were few trees) and along major rivers. However, even small homestead farms eventually began producing some cotton by the 1820s. Cotton was a cash crop, and cash was scarce for subsistence farmers. Even though more land was cleared for cotton, the overall effect on the “original forest” was marginal.
Up until the Civil War, few areas of Alabama had anything resembling a large-scale forest products industry. Small sawmills were scattered across the state, usually along major creeks or rivers, but these did not become transformative until after the War. The same small scale held true for other commercial enterprises such as charcoal, turpentine, and crossties for the burgeoning railroad business.
After the Civil War, however, a new era would begin. The forest of Alabama was about to be transformed into a landscape that Bartram could not have imagined.
Alabama has trees—so many that most of us who live here hardly notice them.
Auburn University recently hosted a World Cup Soccer “friendly” match between Argentina and Iceland that drew 88,000 fans. Subsequent social media posts from international visitors both amused and honored us. Visiting fans expected the arrogance of American Exceptionalism and gun-slinging violent crime—they said so themselves in numerous on-the-ground interviews. Instead, they found Alabama bursting with friendly, helpful people. They were overwhelmed and delighted with some of the trappings of Southern culture like Buc-ee’s, Waffle House, Ranch Dressing, and … trees.
“Oh, the trees. Everywhere there are trees!”
And that is true. Alabama is about 70% forested. That’s about 23 million acres of trees.
I don’t know about you, but a million of anything is hard for me to visualize. When it comes to land, I can visualize an acre as roughly the size of a football field (real football, not soccer). Twenty-three million football fields is a lot of ground.
The politics of the “green” movement will try to convince you that deforestation is a threat to the planet. It may well be a threat in some areas of the world, but not in Alabama. Would you believe the acreage of forestland here is the same as it was in the early 1900’s? That is astonishing considering the increases in urbanization and industry over these 126 years. Alabama had a population of 1.8 million in 1900, and now stands at 5.2 million, a substantial portion of which resides in a half-dozen cities.
To be fair, the acreage has shifted around. While cities have grown, agriculture continues to decline. The year 1900 was the peak of 100 years of cotton farming in the state. “I wish I was in the land of cotton” used to be a real thing: six million acres of it were planted anywhere it could be planted (and some places it shouldn’t have). There are around 50,000 acres of cotton land today, and “old times here are quite forgotten.”
There’s a reason that cotton is gone. Many have learned just enough history to think it was due to the boll weevil, an insect which is commemorated by a statue in Enterprise (in case you ever want to make a pilgrimage). But the truth of cotton’s decline is much more complex. There were environmental, technological, labor, and political causes, but the biggest factor was that the global market for cotton changed. On the bright side, what was bad for cotton was good for trees, which grow well on lots of soils, even those worn out by continuous cotton cultivation.
I feel certain that if you could travel back to 1900 and tell an old-timer that there would be very few cotton fields in 100 years, he would have laughed you off his porch, because cotton was about all you could see in every direction.
That is the same thing someone would tell you today about Alabama’s abundant forest.
I wrote about Catherine and Buddy here several years ago. We were neighbors then, but the Redhead and I moved back to town shortly after I told you that little rose-colored glasses tale.
Over the last four years I have passed back and forth by their house many times. Last time I stopped was at the beginning of the pandemic. I dropped off a couple of N95 masks and told them to be careful if they went to town. Looked like there was going to be a bad virus going round, and they were saying it was going to be hard on old folks.
Since, one or both usually on the porch whenever I pass. They wave. I wave. Me always thinking I should stop and talk a minute, just check on them, but I never did. In a hurry. Felt too bad. Needed to get on home. Next time. Whatever excuse worked that day.
Shame passes quickly when you develop the knack. Still, I asked myself “What kind of person behaves this way?”
I never liked the answer. Still don’t.
Today Catherine is out by the mailbox. She flags me down, arms waving, as in ‘you need to stop, and you better stopnow.’
“Buddy wants to see you. He’s got some questions he wants to ask you. Go on up. I’ll be up directly.”
He sits on the glider, as always. I shake his hand and move to the guest chair, diagonal from him about four feet away.
“Good to see you,” he says. “How you been lately?” He always says that.
“Not so good. I’ve been sick since I got bit by a tick a while back and –”
“Huh?” he says.
I try again, but it is obvious that he can’t hear me. I look to the yard for help, but Catherine is still dawdling by the Knockout Rose, which is gorgeous this year. I cross the porch and reposition myself in her chair to be at his ear.
He continues. “You heard any turkeys gobbling this year?”
“No, I haven’t been down here at sunrise in a while. You know I can’t get around in the woods like I used to since I’ve been sick, so I didn’t go at all this year.”
“Huh?” he says. Didn’t hear a word of it.
“Used to be a lot of turkeys around here, but not no more. Last time I saw a turkey gobbler was four, maybe five years ago. I come to the door one morning and there was one standing at the far end of the yard. He was tall as my waist. Beard hanging down nearly ‘bout to the ground. He took off running right down the road towards your place. I heard a shot a little while later down in the bottom. I figure it was that Lewis fellow that lives down at the crossroads. You know he hunts all the time – don’t pay no attention whatsoever to whether the season’s in or not. I’ll bet that was the turkey I saw, ‘cause I ain’t seen him again since.”
“Probably,” I say. Add a nod for good measure.
“You ever seen things in as big a mess as we’re in? I tell you that Joe Biden is running this country in the ground.”
The next several minutes are a non-stop soliloquy about the mess we’re in. The war in Ukraine. The open borders. High prices for everything. The disappearing work ethic. It is animated and punctuated by profanity, the kind once reserved only for sailors like him.
I do a lot of nodding. The name “Trump” never comes up just in case you are wondering. It is not a rant about what could have been, or should be, or might still could be. It is about what is.
After a while he seems satisfied that he has said what he needed to say, and we both sit quietly. Catherine has finally come up and sits down in the guest seat. She looks back and forth, at him, at me, as if she is following a conversation between us, even though none is occurring.
We all just sit. Silence is acceptable porch etiquette in the South. Even expected. As much a part of the conversation as the words.
Buddy looks at neither of us. His gaze is straight ahead as if he might be watching that gobbler walk over the hill.
“You know, I worked down at the car dealership in town for 38 years. I was a good mechanic, could take any Chevrolet apart, car or truck, from bumper-to-bumper. Put it all in a pile then turn right around and put it all back together again. All them years I fixed the town people’s cars. When I left there they was paying me four dollars an hour. I woke up one day and said, ‘to hell with it.’ They don’t appreciate me no more than that they can get somebody else.
I heard the town was building a water treatment plant. I put in an application, and they offered me the job because they knew I could mechanic. I had to drive down to Montgomery for a while to go to a school to learn how to run it. Got a class three degree in wastewater treatment so I’d know how the thing was supposed to work.
I ran that plant for ten years. Just me. Whole time I was on call 24/7. If anything went sideways, I’d drive in and fix it, day or night. I didn’t make a bunch of money there either, but they bought me a pickup truck so I didn’t have to wear out mine driving back and forth.
Them State boys would come up and inspect everything regular, but they never did find nothing wrong. I got to be fairly good friends with one of them. He’d say “Buddy, how come you don’t keep several of everything you might need in the shop so you don’t have to go get a part when something breaks down?” I told him I didn’t see any point in that. If I needed a part or a tool I’d just get in the truck and go get it. Why spend money on keeping inventory in a room just sitting around? That’s foolish. Then he said, “why don’t you keep any tools in your truck?” I said why would I, everything thing I need to work with is right here. No point in carrying around a bunch of extra weight in a truck, burning gas and wearing it out. I got tools at home if I need them around my place.
I told them going in that I would work until 63, then I was going to retire. That’s what I did.
Thirty-eight years at the car place and ten at the treatment plant. I never made no real money, but we had enough to get by. We got our place here and everything’s paid for, don’t owe nobody any money. We get social security from the government and that covers what we need, as long as Joe Biden don’t take that away and give it to them people he’s letting into this county.
I worked all of them years. Never complained about low wages or getting up in the middle of the night cause some alarm went off at the plant. Never stole nothing, not so much as a wrench or even a bolt to use on something here at the house.”
A pause. He looked at me and then looked down. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
“What was it all for?”
He began to cry. Cry like when somebody tells you your momma’s dead. Great shuddering sobs. His voice became high-pitched and childlike. His words Faulkneresque, one long stream-of-consciousness sentence punctuated by little gasps between sobs. His hand at his lips, the way old folks subconsciously do when they’re afraid their false teeth might slip out.
Catherine gets up and stands by him, hand on his shoulder. She looks at me, expressionless.
“I’m 96 years old. I hurt all over all the time. My knees and elbows and back – every part of me. I can’t hardly walk so I don’t go nowhere anymore unless she takes me to the doctor, and that’s a wasted trip ‘cause they don’t do a damn thing except give me some other kind of pill to take. I can’t hear nothing. I can’t see nothing. I can’t eat nothing that tastes good cause they won’t let me have any salt. I can’t sleep no more, day or night, cause I’m always hurting so bad. All I do is sit here on this porch or inside the house, day after day, night after night. Why don’t I just die? I ought to just kill myself and be done with it.”
Ah, I think. The ghost of Christmas future.
“No,” I say. “Ain’t no good going to come from that.”
It’s all I can think of to say that I will say. I know I bit of Hebrew poetry written by The Preacher in Ecclesiastes 12 that describes this journey to the long home. But I won’t read it to him. Not today. Vanity of vanities.
He is done talking. His gaze is at the floor. The tears still roll, but he is regaining his composure.
Catherine begins to explain. I don’t know if he can hear her. Maybe, maybe not.
“He ain’t in too good a shape. He can’t hear it thunder, and the hearing aids I got him don’t work. He’s got a cataract on one eye, so he don’t see too well neither. He’s got arthritis and he has two cysts, one on each kidney. They doctor says they are both benign, but they make him hurt. That mesh they put in him when he had his hernias fixed has broke loose, so it moves around sometimes and that hurts him too. That’s why he has trouble sleeping. He can’t get comfortable. They won’t operate on him. Did you know they won’t operate on you once you reach 90?”
“Yes ma’am, I did know. Can’t they give him anything for pain? Anything to help him sleep?”
“Oh, they have, but it don’t work. He won’t eat much I fix him because they won’t let him have any salt in his food – they say sodium, but they are really talking about salt. You know food don’t have much flavor without salt. I can’t do much for him. He just sits around day and night watching TV or out here on the porch.”
“Hey Buddy,” I holler. “Listen, you don’t need to be sitting around all day watching Fox News. You can’t do anything about the shape this country is in, so quit listening to those people talking about it all the time. Find you something good to watch, like Andy Griffith or Gunsmoke. Find you a good old cowboy movie.”
“I don’t watch Fox News.”
“Yes he does,” she says. “Yes you do,” she hollers.
“I don’t,” he says again. He has regained his composure. Now Stoic.
We talk awhile longer, Catherine and me.
“What can I do for him? Could I bring him something sweet to eat?
“Oh, I fix him sweets. He just can’t eat salty things.”
I’m running out of ideas. I try one more.
“Buddy, how about I stop back by in a couple of days. I’ll bring my buggy and we will take a ride over to the back side. Maybe you can show me where your grandaddy’s mule barn was? You told me about it one time.”
“I’d like that,” he says.
I get up to go. We shake again. “Well, I have to get home now.”
“Stop again next time you pass.” He always says this.
What was it all for?
It’s the question we all must ask ourselves if we live long enough.
I have my beliefs, but The Book says beliefs aren’t worth anything without action.
I chew on that on the ride home.
Maybe the answer is as simple as stopping by to sit on a porch every now and then.
The following Monday I made the weekly hour’s drive to my employer’s headquarters for staff meeting and consultation with my coworkers. At that time, most of us were working from home, so Mondays were a chance to talk to a body in a body, even if was technically supposed to be from a “safe” distance. That had value for me. “ZOOM” was the name of a children’s program on Public Television when I was a kid. I wish it had stayed that way.
On the drive home I started to feel a little “off,” like I was coming down with something. Sluggish. A little feverish. You may recall from the previous post that this was June 2021, and COVID was beginning to make another run in Alabama. I imagine that anyone who had as much as a sniffle during those two years had the same thoughts that first went through my mind. What gatherings have I been to in the last week or so? Did that lady who sat beside me at church yesterday cough?
I took my temperature when I got home – 99.1. Yes, I was getting sick.
I took a hot bath. As I toweled-off I made the discovery – an attached blacklegged (deer) tick. It was engouraged, so I knew that it had been there a while. I thought back. Must have been Saturday. I pulled it off and flushed it down the toilet.
Now, dear reader, I realize that you might not be the outdoors type. Perhaps you have never been bitten by a tick, and the whole idea that I could have acted in such a matter-of-fact manner seems incredulous. But please remember that I am a forester. I had repeated that same process hundreds of times over the years. For those who work in the woods it is routine. Just an annoyance. Cost of doing business.
Tuesday morning. I felt worse. My head hurt a little and I was beginning to feel achy all over. So, I did what most folks do these days. Took my business down to one of the local “doc-in-a-box” franchises. There was a time when you could call your family doctor (now called your “Primary Care Physician”), but those days are gone. To do so now means two to four weeks unless there is a cancellation.
The routine at the corporate franchise is always the same.
“Have you been here before?”
Yes.
“What?”
I pulled my mask down to be heard. YES.
“Sir, please keep your mask on at all times. I will need you to fill out these six pages of medical history and consent forms. Sign or initial as indicated.”
But I did that last time I was here.
“We have updated our computer system. Oh, and I will need to make a copy of your driver’s license and insurance card. Also, your credit card for the copay.”
Thirty minutes later I made it behind the door to get my vitals checked and get the obligatory COVID test.
“You have a slight fever.”
Yes, that is why I am here.
“Go down to Room 2, second door on the right. The doctor will be in with you shortly.”
Several minutes later he entered.
“Good news, you do not have COVID. So, what brings you in to see us today?”
I have a slight fever and I do not feel well.
“Ah. Seasonal allergies. We have been seeing a lot of that these last couple of weeks.”
But I have not sneezed, coughed, or had as much as a sniffle.
“Well, that is probably coming. We caught it early. Stop by CVS and pick up some Mucinex D when you leave. I will have the nurse give you a steroid shot.”
Doc, I am sure this is not an allergy.
“Tell you what. We will draw some blood and see if everything looks okay. I will have the nurse call you back in if not. But I am quite sure you will feel better by tomorrow.”
I did not feel better tomorrow. I felt worse. Head and body. Like I was in the initial stages of the flu, but I still had no respiratory symptoms. My fever had crept to 100.
Wednesday, I went back. Same doctor.
“What brings you in to see us today?”
I saw you on Monday, remember? I have a fever and my headache is worse. My whole body aches.
“The steroid shot and the Mucinex didn’t seem to help?”
No. What about the bloodwork?
“Did we draw some blood? Let me check on that.”
A few minutes later he returned.
“You do have some elevated numbers here. Looks like you have some sort of infection. I am going to start you on a seven-day course of a broad-spectrum antibiotic.”
Doc, I do not know if this is relevant, but I should mention that I was bitten by a tick last weekend.
“I do not think so. Tick diseases are rare in Alabama. At your age it is more likely prostatitis. Go home and get some rest. Give the meds some time to work.”
Sunday, June 13. I go back again. My fever is holding at 100.5 and my headache is severe. Shut the door, close the curtains, turn out the light and get in bed migraine severe.
I got the same doctor. He ordered a chest X-ray.
I go back home and tell the Redhead that she needs to take me to the emergency room.
It will be one of the last things I remember over the course of the week ahead.
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