The Dallas Journal, Volume 42, 1996 Page: 6
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In the early 1850's, the land of the white man did not reach far past the western edge of
Dallas County. Very few ventured far beyond the hills, and the cedar brakes harbored many
who held to a law of their own. This rough country needed men of every kind and even
though some were called outlaws, they played a prominent part in the development of the
mountains. Many of our fine families look back with pardonable pride to the pioneer
ancestors who lived by the law on might [sic]. One such family possessed a young man, tall
and large, with red curly hair that hung to his shoulders, with a heavy beard over his face, who
acquired the reputation of being a cattle rustler. Stock disappeared from the range and
suspicion directed to this young man, and he soon bore the title, "Giant of the Mountain." ---
The History of the Cedar Mountains.
As kids, we screamed and giggled every time we heard the story of the one-armed man:
There was an evil man with a hook on one arm. He always preyed on young couples who sat
in parked cars around the lake or in the woods. One night, a boy and a girl were parked in the
woods kissing. The window on the girl's side was rolled down slightly because it was a warm
evening. Suddenly, they heard a noise close to the car. The girl screamed, and the boy quickly
started the car while the girl rolled up her window. The car engine caught and they sped
away. It was only after several miles that they finally slowed down. It was then that they saw
it. A hook was dangling from the passenger-side window.
One of the most popular activities for young couples in Duncanville in the early 1960's was
"parking." It didn't really matter what they did first. The evening always seemed to end with a
parking session in the area we called Red Bird. The area was almost devoid of homes then,
and the hilly region with all the cedar trees gave excellent camouflage for a young couple who
wanted to steal a few embraces and still make it home before curfew. I didn't have a curfew;
my parents always said they trusted me. But they had good reason to trust me because I didn't
go parking. Not that I wouldn't have gone, but no one ever asked me. How I envied those
girls who giggled the next day as they pulled their collars higher to cover the purple "passion"
marks on their necks. Those marks were badges of honor. They were signs of acceptance, of
belonging to those of us who looked on from the outside.
Here’s what’s next.
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Dallas Genealogical Society. The Dallas Journal, Volume 42, 1996, periodical, December 1996; Dallas, Texas. (texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth186855/m1/12/?rotate=270: accessed October 20, 2017), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Dallas Genealogical Society.