M
y hero Leon Hale, a former longtime Houston Chronicle columnist and current Facebook blogger and tweeter, never fails to prompt a story in my mind. Other than my Life Mate, probably no other person stimulates a lot of thought in that direction for me besides Leon.
Leon’s 94 and still cranking out blogs for the Chronicle. He’s written 11 books that have a place in my office-study-man cave a la converted screened-in back porch.
I’ve mentioned Leon here on several occasions, and it usually stirs someone to write and ask how to get his books. Most should be in just about any good Texas library. After all, he’s been honored by the Texas Institute of Letters and was recently inducted into the Texas Newspaper Foundation Hall of Fame. Some are out of print, but the more recent ones should be available, at least through ordering, at most bookstores of any size.
But, I digress. A column he wrote was about Texas red ants, which these fancy bug-insect specialists’ (entomologists) designation is harvester ant brought back memories of my own. I never heard ’em called any thing except “them ol’ red ants.”
Before fire ants took us over, they were plentiful in the eastern half of our Lone Star State but you can’t find a sign of ’em now except, I’m told, in sections of West Texas.
My recollection of these critters are of a totally “red” body, somewhere around a quarter-inch long (maximum). And, they hurt like the mischief when they stung you.
Their beds were rounded, slight rises in sandy or clayish soil anywhere from 5-6 inches across up to huge ones with seemingly “thousands” of the ants. I recall having seen mounds that I believed to be 14-18” across and a couple I would swear were more than two feet in diameter. But, then I was seeing through 8-9 year old eyes, and we all know those can actually see a man made of green cheese grinning at us from that thing called the moon.
If we were intent on playing some game or another, particularly with our “best buddies,” then caution got thrown to the winds as to where we stood. And, we learned that if you stood too long in one spot near the multitude of trails from the bed, it’s likely one or two or a dozen might find their way up your foot and pants leg. Then, if you twitched a muscle or tried to scratch the area beneath your jeans leg where you felt the “tickle” of the ant crawling, out came that painful, burning stinger and screams of pain followed by tears, that let all in the immediate area know you’d become the prey.
Naturally, after any punishing brush with the red ants, the 8-9 year old mind wants revenge. Stomping on the bed or trying to dig it up was even more dangerous, not to mention dumb, than just standing anywhere near an ant trail. Our devious and vengeful minds set about creative ways to destroy the devil-colored (we’d determined) red ants.
A magnifying glass focusing a fiery sun ray on a small object like an ant, can rapidly burn it to a crisp, little wisp of smoke and all. Heh, heh.
But, one day there was an infrequent visit to the home of Mom’s best friend, Pauline Partin, and (whoopee!) a chance for my younger brother and me to play with Miss Pauline’s two boys, Billy Wayne and Tommy, who were just the best buddies anyone could have. So, we’re playing in the yard, somewhat unfamiliar territory since we weren’t frequent visitors. And, we got carried away with that and Tommy, the younger Partin, unknowingly stood on a red ant bed.
Soon, the varmints were all up his pants leg and stinging the fire out of him. He’s screaming for help, telling big brother, Billy Wayne, that ants are stinging him.
Billy Wayne just grinned and said, “Aw, that’s just meanness popping out on you.”
I don’t remember if their mom spanked Billy or not, but I’d almost bet on it plus the admonishment had to contain some remark about “meanness,” and I don’t think it was applied to red ants.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience.
wwebb@att.net
