Memories from the Piney Woods

The scent of pine needles and damp earth has a way of whisking me back to the woods of my childhood, the vast expanse of East Texas surrounding Nacogdoches. It was in those towering pines that the seeds of my novel, From the Piney Woods, were first planted.

One of my fondest early memories is squirrel hunting with my Daddy. He’d let me tag along occasionally, putting the small, lightweight .22 rifle in my hands. It wasn’t about hunting, really—it was the thrill of aiming high into the trees, hoping to hit a suspected squirrel nest. The satisfying ping of the bullet against bark and the cascade of pine cones tumbling down was pure magic to me.

But one cold winter day, the magic gave way to something more unsettling. As we walked through the woods, a flock of black crows—what felt like hundreds—burst out of the trees. Their raucous squawking filled the air, and they seemed to follow us, a swirling black mass against the grey sky. I was just a child, and the eerie scene sent shivers down my spine. Determined not to show fear in front of my Daddy, I kept quiet, but the unease was hard to shake.

My Daddy, ever observant, noticed. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Don’t you worry none, little bird,” he said with a grin. “They ain’t after you.”

When we returned to my Uncle’s small travel trailer, where he sat outside skinning squirrels for the evening’s dumplings, my Daddy couldn’t resist sharing the story. “She’s scared of them darn pesky crows!” he bellowed, his voice carrying through the clearing. My Uncle, always quick to join in the fun, let out an exaggerated “Caw! Caw!” My Daddy joined him, their loud, playful squawking echoing through the woods.

At first, I was embarrassed. But then, as the absurdity of it all set in, I started laughing along with them. Soon, I was squawking too, the fear forgotten in a shared moment of silliness.

Years later, my Daddy and Uncle are gone, but the memory of that day lingers—the crisp air, the unsettling crows, and the laughter that replaced my fear. My Daddy had his moods, his temper like a sudden storm cloud, but moments like that afternoon were rare and precious. They shone like sunlight breaking through the shadows, leaving a warmth that time cannot dim.

Now and then, while writing or reminiscing, I find myself mimicking those crows—a low, guttural “Caw! Caw!” escaping my lips. It’s a private tribute to my Daddy, a reminder of fleeting moments of joy and the enduring magic of the piney woods.