This blog has pretty much been about my love of writing and how I try to do it best, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. But now, in light of the tragic flood that’s devastated our hill country, I need to pause, take a deep breath, and try to wrap my brain around what’s happened here in Texas. I hope you’ll bear with me.
Many of you know I live in San Antonio, and I’ve claimed Texas as my home since my family first arrived here in 1960. I didn’t have any roots before then because my dad was in the service, so, when I finally got to plant them, those roots went down hard and deep. I call myself a Texan proudly because, as most of us military transplants like to say, I got here as quick as I could.
Almost all of my most beloved memories seem to be locked into the Texas landscape. I remember, like it was yesterday, camping as a sulky teenager with my family in Palo Duro Canyon. I remember my husband, Kevin, teaching me to waterski when we were kids at Travis Lake outside of Austin. I remember sleeping with other little girls on cabin porches beside the Guadalupe River during summer camp up in Center Point. I remember rafting the Rio Grande River with Kevin through the Santa Elena Canyon out in Big Bend. To this day, Kevin and I traipse happily through small towns we’ve found on some Texas back road so obscure it’s not even on a map, just because there’s little else we love to do more.
But we treasure the Texas Hill Country the most.
To most of us Texans, it’s indescribably beautiful – undulating with hills yet craggy with amazing rock formations, thick with cottonwood and oak trees beside lazy rivers and meandering streams, emerald-green with lush foliage and colorful wildflowers in the spring. Every time I stand on a lofty cliff and look out over the awesome landscape, I always think: I completely understand why the Indians fought like the devil to keep this land.
Just two days before this storm stalled over the hill country, Kevin and I took one of our drives and ended up on a back road between Center Point and Comfort. It was so beautiful it took my breath away. Manicured fields, luxuriant in shades of green from the rain they’d finally received earlier in the week, were quiet and serene, with scattered horses, cattle, and an occasional donkey dotting the countryside. But now the sky was darkening with thick thunderclouds, and when a lightning strike zigzagged straight down to the horizon, we were convinced to skedaddle. We knew the coming storm was ‘gonna be a bad ‘un.’
On our way home, we talked about how badly the hill country needed the rain. We were hoping Canyon Lake near San Antonio might ‘get a little liquid’ with a squall or two, and that our irrigation lake, Lake Medina west of us, would get a shot in the arm through what was clearly becoming a real Texas frog-strangler.
But, when I woke up on July 4th and turned on the television, prepared to celebrate our Independence Day with other Americans, I was gobsmacked by an image of that same back road we’d just traveled. It had been one leading to a summer camp where I’d spent a week as a young girl with my Christian Youth Group, and it took me a minute to understand it was gone. The camp was gone. The children were gone. In a matter of minutes, everything was gone.
My mind went blank, and my memory just folded. From this day forward, whenever we visit the hill country, the spirits of children and lost campers will haunt me when I explore a riverbank or sit beside a storm-scarred tree trunk. When we’re finally able to travel the back roads again, what will we see? How different will it look? It will take forever and a day to remove hundreds of miles of debris from once-pristine rivers, lakes, and streams. And what about all the wonderful historical sites – forts, outdoor museums, living farms, even state parks – that are currently flattened?
No, nothing will ever feel quite the same again – at least, not to me. Not today.
Yet, at the same time, I know we’re Texans first, and we’re a hardy lot. We don’t call ourselves Texas Proud for nothing. I know that Texas weather is chameleon; it can change on a dime. To those of you looking for someone, or something, to blame, you need to know this: Texans know we can’t trust the river. She’s got a mind of her own, and she’s going to do what she wants to do. You always have to be alert. We get that.
And, no matter how much else has altered in the last few days, I know that this much will stay the same: We’re going to pray together, we’re going to work together, and we’re going to rebuild, better than ever. Don’t count us out. We’re Texans.
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