by Julie Carter
In
the lawlessness of the Western territories of the 1800s, the hanging
tree was a symbol of wrong deeds and frontier justice. Murder and horse
thieving topped the justifications for a noose around the neck.
Most
Western towns all seemed to have an ominous tree somewhere on the
outskirts that gained legendary notoriety for the wrongs that were
righted at the end of rope.
Whether
by law or by vigilante, the woeful lure of that crude punishment has
been written into verse and lore. In 1959, Marty Robbins sang the theme
song for the movie by the same name, The Hanging Tree."
"And I seem to hear the night wind cry, ... Hang your faded dreams on the hangin' tree!"
In
a field of no particular distinction, stand an ancient elm tree and an
equally aged oak tree. Both are annually plowed and planted around and
given a reverence equal to their legends.
Local
history documents that the elm was a hanging tree and for that "honor"
it has never been removed. While not currently in use as such, locals
who remain of a conservative rural mindset feel that one never knows
when the need might again arise.
There
is also the matter of endeavoring to not disturb the ghosts said to
inhabit the near proximity of the elm. The belief is that those spirits
have never been able to go home after their earthly crime and subsequent
dramatic end of life.
Harvesting the peanut crop before the following crop of coastal hay is now always done in daylight hours.
Prior
to that timetable plan, work was frequently done in the cool of the
night. That changed after a considerable number of hired men
unexpectedly quit and refused to return to the area.
They
all left hurriedly wearing the same shade of pale on their faces and
muttering that things were "just not right." The words bruja (witch) and
fantasma (ghost) were chattered in fear as some workers headed back
toward the border.
The neighboring oak tree has a different history. A regal specimen, it stands out among its kin in an area full of oak trees.
A
decade or so ago, the family that owns the land where this oak stands
decided the difficulty in plowing around it had become an unnecessary
nuisance. The old oak had to go.
One
of the brothers was sent to the field with a large dozer to push the
tree down in preparation for a chain saw and hauling event.
This man was an experienced equipment operator and all indications were that the job would go quickly.
He
pushed and pushed with the dozer, but the only visible results were
that the bark was just slightly scuffed. He went back to the house and
explained his dilemma.
Being
part of the rural Bible Belt of the area, they naturally determined
their next step would be to call on their preacher and seek some
guidance from a higher power.
The preacher was old, even for that line of work, but had a good memory of area history.
He
knew well the story of that particular oak tree. He said the oak, which
has a small pool beside it, had at one time been the baptismal spot for
the small congregation of the first settlers to the area.
That use ended only after the church was built and other facilities became available.
He
told the farmers that the oak and the surrounding ground had been
consecrated by the old congregation. The tree and the ground was sacred
and that was why the oak could not be pushed, even with very large
equipment.
Today the oak remains standing in the middle of the field, unmolested.
The
landowner, nearing 90, says that when he sells the home place, he will
include a caveat in the title saying that the old oak is not to be
disturbed.
For the elm tree he has no similar plans or concerns. "The elm and it's ghosts will take care of themselves," he said.
1/23/11
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