Juneteenth

 Juneteenth is the day slavery ended in the United States.

The main rebel army surrendered in Virginia in April 1865. It took a while to mop up the smaller rebel units. It took a couple of months for the Union Army to get to Texas, a backwater of the war. For enslaved people, the nightmare of slavery didn’t end until the soldiers arrived.

On June 19, 1865, general orders were read in Galveston proclaiming that the enslaved people were henceforth and forever free. The news set off celebrations across Texas.

If there had been states further removed from the war’s center, slavery would have endured a little longer. But Texas was the end of the line. Texas was where the nightmare ended.

The heartbreaking part of the story is that other nightmares followed. The nightmare of the Jim Crow Era ended during my lifetime with the passage of the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act.

The heartbreaking part of that story is that we now have a government that is bent on undermining the principle of equal rights.

I celebrate Juneteenth to remind myself that the nightmare of slavery ended on this day. I also remind myself that, while this country seems to have a capacity to generate new nightmares, it also has the capacity to end them. Good people always stand against injustice.

A garden on a bolder

 We stopped to rest by a bolder at Panola Mountain. It was about the size of a car and was covered with lichens and mosses. It seemed to me that nature had created a small Japanese garden on a bare chunk of granite in the Georgia Piedmont.

A better naturalist would have been able to identify every species. Most were primitive forms, but I saw two little trees growing out of crevices: a winged elm, Ulmus alata, and a sweetgum, Liquidambar styraciflua. 

The winged elm has seed in a papery case called a samara that is adapted to fly on the wind. The sweetgum puts its seeds in spiky balls that roll down the slopes until each finds a crevice. There is no level ground in the Piedmont, and sweetgum balls find every crevice. We have sweetgums growing out of joints in sidewalks.

Middle of June

 We walked around Alexander Lake at Panola Mountain in a light rain, celebrating the cold front. Temperatures were in the 60s, almost chilly — hard for a transplanted Texan to fathom. Mist was rising off the lake, and 32 Canada geese paddled across, making noise. Do geese honk for joy?

In places where the foresters had burned the underbrush, yellow crownbeard, Verbesina occidentalis, was 7 feet high. In places where the fire had failed to clear the underbrush, we saw a vigorous vine, Calystegia sepium,covering the shrubs. I usually hear it called bindweed but have heard binderweed. The flowers look like big white trumpets poking out of the undergrowth.

The little lavender flowers of Carolina reuellia, Ruellia carolniensis, were covered in raindrops. 

Because I’ve been reading Roy Bedichek’s The Sense of Smell, I stopped when I saw a sycamore and plucked a leaf. Bedichek contended that the smell of a damp sycamore is unforgettable but hard to describe. He was right that the smell always brings back memories. Mine were from Texas, and the Wise Woman’s were from Virginia.

• Source: Roy Bedichek, The Sense of Smell; London: Michael Joseph, 1960. His remarks on sycamores are on pp. 16-17. For an early note on Bedichek, see “Stumped by sycamores,” June 4, 2027. It’s here:

https://hebertaylor.blogspot.com/2026/06/stumped-by-sycamores.html

Lightning bugs

 At dusk, we looked up into the woodlot and saw hundreds of lighting bugs.

When I was a boy, I heard fireflies mainly in the North. The usage is changing. The scholars at the University of Georgia call these wondrous creatures fireflies, although they’re flying beetles in family Lampyridae. 

We have more than 50 species in Georgia. Some synchronize their flashing. Some cast a blue light.

The light shows are to attract mates. Typically, males do the flying, while females flash back from a perch. Eggs take about three weeks to hatch. The larvae are notable slayers of slugs. The larvae grow and enter a pupal stage that involves a casing like a cocoon. The adults feed on nectar and are pollinators.

I’m pretty sure the lightning bugs in our woodlot were the most common variety, Photina pyralis. The specimens I saw had a yellow outline around their black wings and a shield covering the back of its head.

Almost-Great Books

 I’m out of my league talking about the Great Books. I argue for the Almost-Great Books.

I understand what people mean when they talk of the influence of Shakespeare. But when I have an hour to spend with a poet, I’m likely to read William Stafford, Norman MacCaig or Mary Oliver.

Instead of reading writers who speak to humanity, I usually spend time with writers who speak more directly to me.

I sometimes wonder whether genre has anything to do with a book’s chances of ending up on a list of books that are taught in schools. My 5-foot bookshelf would be heavy on letters and essays.

One genre that I love seems neglected: books that provide a “deep map” of a place, to use William Least Heat-Moon’s phrase. His PrairyErth is a detailed look at an overlooked place. In my mind, this genre begins with Gilbert White’s The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne. I’ve mentioned other examples: Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain, Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, Ronald Blythe’s Next to Nature and Akenfield, and Roger Deakin’s Notes from Walnut Tree Farm.

I suppose that the Great Books folks would say they included a sample with Thoreau’s Walden. I love that book, but I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing.

Great Books

 My argument for Great Books is not that they are right but that they are serious.

If you read them, they will change the way you do things — even little things that no one else would notice. I thought about a Great Book — or what I’d consider a Great Book — when I was weeding the garden and noticed that a leaf on the okra plant was dotted with a row of tiny eggs.

I’m not enough of an entomologist to know what I was looking at. I think the eggs had been laid by a ladybug, a kind of beetle that keeps the population of some garden pests under control. I think the eggs will hatch into larva that will be destroyers of aphids, which would otherwise eat on a lot of the plants in the garden.

But since my knowledge of insects is so limited, it’s also possible that the eggs will produce voracious caterpillars that will consume the okra plant overnight.

I should say that this is my okra plant, a single specimen in a row of beans and squashes. I’m in the minority in my family: I like okra, panfried in cornmeal. I’m not an objective observer. I have hopes for this plant, and my first instinct was to get rid of all the bugs anywhere near it.

I almost pinched off the egg-laden leaf but instead thought of a scene from Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler, allegedly a book about the delights of country life and pleasures of peaceful reflection while fishing.

The hero in this story loves fish and because he does, he’s all for the extermination of otters, whose chief sin is that they also love fish. The protagonist relishes an otter hunt. When the poor otter is caught and torn to pieces by dogs, the next mission was to hunt down the otter pups and kill them. Then the gentle sportsmen could repair to the pub and sing “Old Rose” and have some  ale.

This is not one of the great moments in environmental literature. There is nothing right about this story, but there is something serious here. It’s the question of what to do when you don’t really know enough to guarantee that you are not going to do any harm.

I left the bug eggs alone.

Gardens are places that allegedly lend themselves to peaceful reflection, rather than disturbing ethical questions. But questions pop up everywhere, and it’s good to have a story in mind — a landmark that helps you get your bearings.

I know that some people go through life without reading Great Books, but I can’t imagine it.

• Source: Izaak Walton, The Complete Angler; Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1985, pp. 39-40.

A smelling mistake

 Asifa Majid, a cognitive scientist at Oxford, presented Michael Rosen, the host of a podcast on language, with little containers that looked like yogurt cups. He could smell — but couldn’t see — what was inside.

Correctly identifying the coffee was easy. But when Rosen mistook a cinnamon bun for a blueberry muffin, Professor Majid said he’d made a common mistake.

But what kind of mistake is that? And how do we make it?

I wouldn’t describe it as a physiological mistake. (The sensors in Rosen’s nose seemed to be working.) But I wouldn’t describe it as a mental mistake either. It’s not what anyone I know would call a logical error — which might suggest that I have a defective sense of what logic should be.

One clue to this muddle is that Rosen determined he’d made a smelling mistake by looking inside the cup and seeing a cinnamon bun. (Roy Bedichek called the sense of sight the despot of the senses.)

Mistakes are helpful in clearing up our thinking. But when we can’t even grasp what kind of mistake we’ve encountered, we’ve usually run across a conceptual problem.

I think this one is a relative of the mind-body problem. No matter how often I bury the ancient distinction between mind and body and their realms of mental and physical phenomena, I find that it’s still finding new ways of confounding me.

Our perceptions don’t fall neatly into either category.

• Source: “Smell” was the topic of the BBC’s Word of Mouth podcast, 11 June 2026.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002xgzt

Thanks to Michael Leddy of Orange Crate Art for telling me about it.