Fat lighter

My first experience with fat lighter was during spring break in 1972. My friends Tom and John and I decided to ride our bicycles from Atlanta down to Callaway Gardens, which was probably 70 or 80 miles from where we lived. We were pretty much completely unprepared for anything about the trip. We didn’t have fancy bicycle gear. We wore blue jeans and I probably had some kind of sneakers. Tom wore his old Army boots. We didn’t have warm sleeping bags, or any kind of sleeping gear that I can remember. And, of course, it got cold.

We didn’t make it all the way the first night. We went some way down a powerline right of way out of sight of the highway and made camp. When it got dark, it got too cold to sleep, so we built a fire. I have no idea how we managed to find wood or start it. At some point, one of us found a big chunk of wood and put it on the fire. It caught immediately and burned with a bright, hot flame. It was fat lighter. It was like a gift to us from the patron saint of idiots. We all gathered around and spent the night warming our hands.

I didn’t have much reason to think about fat lighter for the next 40 years, but now I find that we have lots of fat lighter on our property.

When I bought the property where I built out house, it was covered with a very thick growth of mostly young, shortleaf pines. There are a few mature pines, both shortleaf and loblolly. There are many, many tall, thin dead pines lying on the ground or leaning against other pines in the woods. Those are probably all the result of failing in the competition for sunlight. Some might be victims of Hurricane Andrew, which nicked the northwest corner of Georgia in 1992. Among those small dead trees, though, are a few large dead pines that have clearly been on the ground for a long time. In some cases their limbs have held them off the ground, but in other cases they are nearly buried in pine needles and moss. But they are not rotten like the rest of the smaller dead pines.

example dead tree

A few years ago I cut off some limbs and found that in most cases the joint at the main trunk was fat lighter. Fat lighter (also known as fatwood, lighter wood and other names), is part of a dead pine tree where a lot of resin has accumulated, resulting in a dense, very aromatic and flammable piece of wood.

On Saturday, I cut up one of those dead, gray trees and found that almost the entire tree is fat lighter. The tree trunk I cut was about a foot in diameter, and it had the heft of a section of green tree. The wood is aromatic, and it burns well. Under the weathered gray exterior, the wood is a clear yellow.

This branch is clearly fat lighter. The dark wood is dark with a very strong odor of pine resin.

real fat lighter

I have been trying to figure out what kind of pines these are. The Wikipedia entry on fatwood says that fat lighter is commonly associated with the longleaf pine, and there are living longleaf pines not far away from our property. At one time I thought these old dead trees were victims of the same fire that blackened the trunks of the few mature pines on the property, but the longleaf is fire resistant, and if loblollies and short leaf pines survived, I feel sure that longleaf pines would have, too. The gray wood shows no sign of burning, while the existing, mature pines do. The bark is long gone on these gray trees, so there’s no help there. The state of the exterior indicates that the bark has been gone for a long time, certainly many years. Based on the size of the living mature short leaf and loblolly pines, I doubt that they are even as old as 30 years. The dead trees were in basically the same condition back in 1998-99 when I bought the land, so they had been dead for some time before that date. The dead trees are larger than most of the living, mature trees, which  I think means they died either before the mature trees started growing, or not long after. That argues that they were on the ground when the fire burned the bark on the living, mature trees. But where is the evidence of the fire on the gray, dead trees? There seems to be some ambiguity in the evidence.

I can’t explain the evidence, but I think the old, dead trees may have been lying on the ground for many, many years, possibly even many decades.

So I can’t tell exactly how long the trees have been down. What about the species?

It’s hard to tell how much of the original trees are left. In some cases I think a root ball is still detectable near the end of the trees. There are thick branches close to the end of the tree, but generally pines the size of these have a fairly tall truck before there are large limbs, especially in a forest as opposed to a solitary tree. On the mature longleaf pines near us the first branches are quite high off the ground. But that’s also true of the large loblolly and short leaf pines, so that doesn’t help. The only real possible evidence of the species is the statement that fat lighter is associated with longleaf pines. Unfortunately, that’s not definitive.

Another question is how these dead trees ended up in an almost entirely new growth of pines. The top of the mountain has the remains of many old roads. These may be old logging roads. But the original developer of the little neighborhood where we live said that many years ago there was an orchard on top of the mountain. Either case would explain why there are large areas with young pines and few mature trees. But neither case explains how these relatively large pines ended up on the ground surrounded by cleared land that was later covered by short leaf pines.

So we have questions but not many answers. At least we have some firewood.

Wheelbarrow full of fat lighter

Wheelbarrow full of fat lighter

 

Sundog and 22-degree halo

Friday evening right before sunset I took the dogs out to walk around the house. I looked up the street and thought I saw the sun through the clouds, but then I realized that it was actually a sundog, or parhelion. It was one of the brightest sundogs I have seen. There was about a half of the 22-degree halo, with a bright spot where the upper tangent arc would touch the halo.

sundog7feb14_2

Of course I didn’t have my camera, so I dragged the dogs back to the house and got it. In the couple of minutes it took to get the camera and get back out on the street, the sundog and halo were not quite as bright as they were before. Atmospheric displays like these can be short lived.

After I got the insurance shot, I walked up the street to try to get a view without the trees in the foreground.

sundog7feb14The 22-degree halo was strongest from the sundog up through the top of the arc, but I think there is a faint continuation clockwise in the second photo. There might have been a second sundog on the right, but, unfortunately, it was hidden from my vantage point. We don’t get good views of the sunset on our side of the mountain.

Friday Felines

Smokey, or Smokey Joseph as I sometimes call him, has long hair that needs serious brushing. He’s pretty good about letting me brush him, but he had some tangles that were a little more than I wanted to deal with. So we took him down to the vet for a good grooming.

He’s a big old cat, but his meow is a tiny, pitiful little mew, like a kitten. It’s almost embarrassing to listen to him in the crate. He’s very laid back at home, but he was kind of scared at the vet. The groomer was matter of fact.

smokey groomed2She didn’t fool around. Smokey took it all pretty well. He seemed to enjoy most of it, but when she started on his under side, he was not as happy. I don’t know whether he blamed us, but he sure looked like he wanted our help.

Help?

Help?

He was glad to get home.

 

 

Adventures in late night dog retrieval

Last night when I took the dogs out for their final walk of the evening, Zeke made a break for freedom, or deer, or something. Our evening routine is that I go out first, Zeke comes out second, and then I turn around to pull Lucy out the door. This time, when I turned around to get Lucy, Zeke dashed down the front walk and jerked the leash out of my hand. I use a retractable leash, which has some benefits for the dog but some drawbacks for the handler. One of those drawbacks is that it gives the dog a running start, so he has plenty of length to build momentum. So he slammed my hand into the door, the leash came out of my hand, and he took off into the night. I heard the leash handle dragging on the pavement as he went down Wildlife Trail, barking all the way.

If you have read enough of this blog, you already know that this kind of thing has happened before. He has climbed over the (expensive) gate we had put on the front walk to keep him contained. He has jerked the leash out of my hand, and out of Leah’s hand. And on the rare occasion when I have let him off the leash, he has simply run off into the woods. When he gets loose, he’s a crazy dog. Sometimes you can hear some barking for a little while, but mainly he just disappears.

Zeke has escaped at night only once before, and his retractable leash was attached that time, too. When I went out to look for him that time, I found him with his leash securely wrapped around a tree. Last night as I walked down the driveway to look for him, I heard barking from the woods behind our neighbor’s house. It was not the kind of barking he does when he’s chasing something. This was more like, “Hey! I’m down here! Come get me!”

Our neighbor’s house sits at the corner of Wildlife Trail and Lavender Trail. I walked down Lavender Trail a little and shined my flashlight into the woods. Two bright eyes reflected back at me. This is fairly difficult terrain, even in daylight, and last night was cloudy with no moon. The land is densely wooded, and it slopes steeply off the road. There are drainage gullies with steep sides, fallen trees, and vines that loop down close to the ground. Fortunately I had just put new batteries in my flashlight. At least it wasn’t raining.

Zeke was waiting patiently with his leash wrapped around two small trees. I freed him and we made our way back up to the street. He went immediately to bed.

When this kind of thing happens, before I look for him I always come back inside and gripe to Leah about how I should just leave him outside to see if he learns a lesson. But I always go out looking anyway. He knows I’m mad when I find him, but I doubt that he has any understanding of why. Any kind of lesson is totally lost on him.

He’s lying quietly in his bed right now. He doesn’t move his head when I go by, but he moves his eyes to follow me. I’m still a little peeved.

Oh well. It’s time for their morning walk.

 

Sheba, the first doberman

When my dog Jesse died in 1988, I wanted to adopt another dog. Jesse was such a good dog, I knew I would never find another one like her, so I wanted to find a dog that wasn’t like her. I bought some dog books – this was before the Web – and finally decided on a Doberman pinscher. It sounds odd now, but it didn’t take long to find a Doberman at the small local pound in Rome. She was about three or four months old. The workers at the pound knew who she belonged to. They said the wife wanted her back, but the husband refused to pay the few dollars it took to bail her out. Jerk.

The first thing this new dog did when I got her back to my parents’ house was to poop in my mother’s living room. I am amazed to this day at how well my mother took it.

The new dog became Sheba. We lived a simple life in a little mobile home in a little mobile home park in the middle of a soybean field north of Huntsville. I took her for a walk every day. She walked exactly like a dog is supposed to walk, right beside me. I was so used to having Jesse run wild around me on walks that I thought Sheba was not having a good time. But she was just being a good dog.

Sheba went everywhere with me, just like Jesse did. The first summer I had her, she went with me to visit my friend Tom in New Mexico. This is Sheba on that trip at Four Corners, wondering what I’m doing.

sheba at 4 corners Sheba turned into a handsome dog. Here she is a few years later next to Debra, Tom’s niece.

sheba at home

When I came home from work, Sheba always wanted to greet me with something in her mouth. One night when I was driving back to visit my parents, I ran off the road and wrecked my car. The rear window came out, and Sheba ran away. I called her, but couldn’t find her, and eventually I had to have my parents come and pick me up. I hit my face on the steering wheel and was knocked so silly that I couldn’t think straight at the time. The next day I went back to look for her. The kind person whose house I had gone to after the wreck said a big, black dog had shown up at a neighbor’s house. We went over to look, and there was a Doberman. All Dobermans look pretty much the same, so I wasn’t sure at first that it was her. But when she saw us she picked up a pine cone to bring to us. That’s when I knew it was her.

Once when I took her with me on a trip to the west coast, we stopped at a beach somewhere in Oregon or Washington. We walked out to the edge of the surf, and she took off running right at the water’s edge. She ran flat out until I could barely see her in the distance, and then she turned around and ran back. Another time I took her to a lake near Huntsville. I let her off the leash and she spent about an hour running back and forth splashing in the water. I never worried about her coming back. I trusted her completely off the leash.

When I finally bought a house in 1992, it was at the end of a dead-end road, more than a mile from the highway. My new neighborhood was out in the country, with big lots and only a few neighbors who grew to know me and Sheba from our daily walks. I thought it was a great place for a dog, and perfectly safe to let her stay outside at home when I was at work. Every morning when I left for work she was on the deck, watching me leave, and every afternoon when I got back home she was on the deck, waiting for me.

And then one day she wasn’t on the deck. I called and called, and I looked at looked. I walked all over the mountain that my house backed up to. I talked to neighbors. I drove up and down the roads, looking in the ditches. I put a classified ad in the paper. I put a display ad in the paper. My vet let me borrow a list of veterinarians and I sent a hundred letters out to vets all over north Alabama and south central Tennessee. I read the lost and found ads in the local paper for a year. But I never saw Sheba again.

My memories of Sheba are colored by my guilt at not keeping her safe. That sense of guilt tends to eclipse the good memories I have, and that’s not fair. Sheba was a good dog, and a happy dog. The least she deserves now is to be remembered as that happy dog.

Sheba, in a scan of a fuzzy old print.

Sheba, in a scan of a fuzzy old print.