Deep in the (Broken) Heart of Texas
A story you may never hear in the days, weeks and years after the flood
Bull Creek, just east of the Loop 360 bridge at Lakewood Drive, Travis County, Texas. That limestone shelf (right middle) was the edge of the creek in 1972, forming a nice deep swimming hole about .2 mi from my house. The deep chute in the bottom center of the photo usually ran full and fast, providing a slide down into the swimming hole. Photo: Larry D. Moore, CC BY 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.
(Content below contains references to catastrophic death. If you need to guard your heart, it’s ok to skip this one. <3)
For the Kerr County flood victims, living and dead and missing, all of Texas is grieving. We each do it in our own way whether it’s sending help, food, money, thoughtsandprayers, and if we could, thousands of time machines to make it never to have happened. Without debating the point, it seems a good thumping is due to those people and systems that failed and washed away our parents, siblings, grandchildren, kinfolk and friends. And to the first, second, third… waves of first responders, a lifetime of loving kindness and a rescued puppy.
Like so many Texans, I have spent many happy hours in the Hill Country—playing in its clear, spring-fed rivers, creeks and lakes; soaking up the groovy sounds at the Kerrville Folk Festival; looking for the bunches of whitetails under the live oak stands along 290 while driving out to I-10. In fact, I grew up atop a bluff overlooking Bull Creek, west of Austin. (See photo.) My dogs and I visited nearly every day. Before 360 was built, it was idyllic.
In a room of 100 Texans, there are at least 50 who have been through the Hill Country in the last three years (not a scientific finding). And 100 of those will know someone who has gone to sleepaway camp, set up a tent, fished, hunted, picnicked, and smelled sweet, spicy live oak campfire smoke.
All Texans are hurting and betrayed. Mother Nature, Zeus, Whoever poleaxed us in our soft spot—right in ‘the girls’ camp, family picnics, the stars at night are big and bright’ spot, right in the childhood summer.
In the days since the tragedy, chilling stories have been coming out. But I think there’s a type of story you may never hear. If any of those parents were in my shoes at camp drop-off, it’s a story that might stay buried deep inside a shattered heart.
Around 2010, I took my son to church camp down in Kerr County, not on but close to the Guadalupe River. Across the whole area, creeks flood and overflow across entire pastures, spilling into the streams leading to the Guadalupe. It’s all just one huge watershed there, eventually spilling into Lake Buchanan. Most of the time, those streams fit into the “babbling brook” category.
That June, my teenager and I were not getting along—I just could not crack the code. I was burned out, and he was completely exasperated with me as a parent. We had had screaming matches about school and summer plans (not our finest moments). I had cut the wifi and limited other privileges. I tried reason, and I used “When you do X, I feel Y” statements to no avail.
When I dropped him at the camp near Mountain Home, to the north of Camp Mystic, we were both exhausted. There was desperation, anger, pain, fear and determination, and way down inside Pandora’s Box of Parenting a Teenager, there was hope that miracles might happen.
I just needed a break, and I thought he would be grateful for one too.
Nope. He was resentful and white-hot angry that I was taking him to this place. He knew one or two of the campers, but the bulk of them were from all over Texas. The rules included no electronics and no wifi, and he was beyond pissed.
We drove in, and he got out to sulk next to my car. I greeted one of the staff and apologized quietly. “He is really angry and doesn’t want to be here. I’m so sorry. Please let me know if I need to come get him.”
An older teen came up to us, overhearing. “No problem, we’ve got this.”
The staffer nodded and said, “Charlie, this is Lily, one of our peer counselors. She’s going to show you the mess hall and then your cabin.”
And he disappeared, my beloved bitter, angry and scared little black storm cloud of a teenager.
During the break, I sorted myself out. I worked a 40-hour week, did some house repairs and painted his bathroom, and had a Netflix and pedicure night. On the drive down to pick him up, I imagined how a tender apology would go. Maybe he would get in the car and say, “take me to the nearest McDonald’s/Game Stop.” Or he might just fall asleep, without a word. I was ready and braced for anything.
When I got out of my car and walked into the encampment, I was completely NOT ready and NOT braced for what happened.
A screen door slammed, and a solar flare shot from the surface of the sun at me, shouting “MOM!” My son body-tackled me in a hug so tight, so sweet, so warm, so loving and familiar and pure. It was a reunion of mother and child on a cellular level. If he hadn’t been holding me up, I would have fallen.
All of this happened in about 35 seconds. There would be time later to figure this out, but in that moment, he had missed me. He loved me. He was excited, animated, happy to see me. He wanted me to meet his best-ever friends who loved the same things he did and who understood why his first day was so bad and liked him anyway! And he thanked me for bringing him.
I’ll leave the story there. Our problems weren’t completely resolved, but he now had a pack, a second family. And we had a second chance.
Today, my knife-edged anguish for the victims of the floods draws sinister scenes of flood waters sweeping away the screened-in cabins with sleeping girls, crowded RV sites with families, pets, lawnchairs, propane tanks, even the rocks and woodpiles around the campfire. The sudden unannounced devastation in the 5 a.m. darkness.
I can calm my mind from those scenes for a while, but I cannot stop thinking about the camp pick-ups that never happened. How many parents, like me, dropped off their own little black storm clouds, whose last thoughts may have been angry, resentful, spiteful? Maybe those kids quickly regretted their cranky attitudes and words, and would apologize sincerely later.
For those parents and families, there will be no pick-up—no happy solar-powered hugs or ear-splitting shouts of joy. That emptiness has now established a new home, permanently. No second chances, nothing but an awful echo deep in a broken heart.
I had hoped writing and publishing this would bring me solace. I’m still waiting for the bleeding to stop. There is no timeline, agenda or schedule for grief. It comes in waves, floods, drips and trickles. And there is no time machine.
If you are strongly resonating with this writing, reach out—to me, a loved one, someone. Grief gets a bit smaller when it’s shared.