The early months of the year are the days when some people suffer—mightily—from cedar fever, a malady unknown anywhere except in Central Texas. When I last lived in this part of the country, I found that immune system protected me against the ravages of cedar fever. Knowing, however, that allergic reactions can change over time, I held my breath (so to speak) for the cedar fever season to see if the immunity still held—and also to see if N would be spared. Hallelujah! We have been spared! What have we been spared from? Here is a description of the malady from Texas Monthly:
The signs are unmistakable: the eyes burn and turn fiery red; the nose
runs; the insides of the ears itch. Incessant sneezing--up to
two or three hundred times a day--leaves some victims exhausted. On top of
this, an insidious malaise sets in, making it hard to do anything but
stare vacantly at the wall, while at the same time a nagging little voice
says, "Get up. It's just an allergy."
But cedar fever is not just any allergy. It's a scourge, a plague that
smites the just and the unjust who have the misfortune to live anywhere in
a broad strip of Central Texas that stretches from the Red River to the
Rio Grande. The progenitor of all this misery is a medium-sized, frankly
undistinguished tree with sinewy limbs covered in shaggy bark that vaguely
resembles orangutan fur. Despite its common name, the mountain cedar is
actually a juniper (Juniperus ashei). Every year around December, we
blunder into the midst of the cedar's mating ritual. It begins with the
appearance of the male cones--embarrassingly small, amber-colored
structures no larger than a grain of rice. In good years (or bad,
depending on your viewpoint) they blanket the tops of the trees, turning
them an aggressive tawny orange. When the wind rises, great gritty clouds
of the pollen drift aloft, making the woods look like they are aflame.
This airborne milt can waft for miles until it runs into something sticky,
like the small green cone of the female tree or the inside of your nose.
Once cedar pollen gets into your system, its evil nature is revealed.
Compared with it, ragweed is a wimp. The key is the biochemical structure
of cedar pollen's protein coat, which appears to have properties that make
it unusually noxious. Then there's the sheer quantity of the grains. In a
rainy year the trees produce tons, and the pollen count, the Richter scale
of allergy, goes through the roof.
It would be impossible to clear out all the “cedar” trees—there are millions of them. Those susceptible to the ravages of cedar fever simply have to wait out the pollination process each year. I guess it’s one of the costs of living in this beautiful area.
The signs are unmistakable: the eyes burn and turn fiery red; the nose
runs; the insides of the ears itch. Incessant sneezing--up to
two or three hundred times a day--leaves some victims exhausted. On top of
this, an insidious malaise sets in, making it hard to do anything but
stare vacantly at the wall, while at the same time a nagging little voice
says, "Get up. It's just an allergy."
But cedar fever is not just any allergy. It's a scourge, a plague that
smites the just and the unjust who have the misfortune to live anywhere in
a broad strip of Central Texas that stretches from the Red River to the
Rio Grande. The progenitor of all this misery is a medium-sized, frankly
undistinguished tree with sinewy limbs covered in shaggy bark that vaguely
resembles orangutan fur. Despite its common name, the mountain cedar is
actually a juniper (Juniperus ashei). Every year around December, we
blunder into the midst of the cedar's mating ritual. It begins with the
appearance of the male cones--embarrassingly small, amber-colored
structures no larger than a grain of rice. In good years (or bad,
depending on your viewpoint) they blanket the tops of the trees, turning
them an aggressive tawny orange. When the wind rises, great gritty clouds
of the pollen drift aloft, making the woods look like they are aflame.
This airborne milt can waft for miles until it runs into something sticky,
like the small green cone of the female tree or the inside of your nose.
Once cedar pollen gets into your system, its evil nature is revealed.
Compared with it, ragweed is a wimp. The key is the biochemical structure
of cedar pollen's protein coat, which appears to have properties that make
it unusually noxious. Then there's the sheer quantity of the grains. In a
rainy year the trees produce tons, and the pollen count, the Richter scale
of allergy, goes through the roof.
It would be impossible to clear out all the “cedar” trees—there are millions of them. Those susceptible to the ravages of cedar fever simply have to wait out the pollination process each year. I guess it’s one of the costs of living in this beautiful area.
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