SCENES FROM FLOODLAND
The occasional thrum of the big copters can still be heard. The rampant sirens of the first responders have slowed to almost normal, but the presence of the Kerrville flood is everywhere. The mood is a strange mix of somber and grey with the occasional, “Hill Country Strong” sign popping up, random attempts at rallying morale.
Across the highway from where I live, the mega-church’s parking lot is still stocked with emergency vehicles, tractors, food trailers, and lots of cars belonging to volunteers and people staying there with no place to go. It seems to be a central point as Kerrville bleeds into Ingram, Ingram into Hunt. This stretch of the highway is like the last outpost before the going gets rough.
Just a bit down the highway and to the right, there’s a road that leads to the river. It’s where a trailer park “used to be.” It’s gone. Washed out. Wiped off the map. This was a travelers trailer park, not home to single or double wides. It was a destination for RV’ers on the river for years, hoping to soak in the Hill Country waters, grab some BBQ and watch the annual fireworks display at Louise Hay park, with country bands playing from a stage that’s no longer there. The temporary, aluminum and canvas theater of the night was found miles down the river.
Most people know someone who either survived or didn’t. Some of the stories are heartbreaking. The soccer coach from the local high school, his wife and four children, all gone. Perhaps in a most merciful way, if one of them survived, the guilt and pain would be unbearable but hopefully redemptive.
In 2013, Wimberly had a flood nearly as bad as this one. At one house, a family of four from Houston were visiting their relatives, again on the river. It rushed and rose, again too fast to escape the crushing torrent. It split the house in two. The father of four from Houston was ejected and shot like projectile into the dark rapids. The violence of the current slammed him into a tree and he lost consciousness. Somehow he managed to get washed onto the riverbank. When he came to, he set out in search of his family and the house that was no longer there. His wife and two young children perished. If that doesn’t bring you to Jesus, it’ll bring you to drink.
That man was here this week, helping out however he could.
My mind wanders into metaphysical spaces, as the fear and frenzy were matched only by the size of the supernatural wall of water. I imagine angels and archons, hovering above the rushing grey slosh, just waiting for that final breath and the severing of the silver cord, diving in for comfort or capture, a holy war to see who can be saved or recycled.
I think about the soccer coach and the family of four. Did they find each other? How did their transition manifest? How did they go from cold, choking, fear and confusion, frantically floating down the Guadalupe, now the River Styx, bodies floating above the water, looking down at the broken, rag dolls that used to be their life. Was it angels or was it archons?
The death toll keeps rising, the missing mount.
Texans are quick to respond. I’ve been here for thirteen years and my experience of most Texans are that they are polite and respectful, but not warm or inviting people. Treat them with respect and you’ll get it back, but not a whole lot more. Of course there are exceptions, but I can count the times I’ve been invited to someone’s home for dinner or a BBQ on both hands in thirteen years. It’s a double Capricorn state, Sun and Moon. It’s no nonsense. There’s still dry counties here and there’s always Jesus.
But when the shit hits the fan, that steely, leathery, reserve jumps into action. That Capricornian efficiency kicks in like clockwork. It was all hands on deck within hours. I’ve never seen mobilization happen this quickly, but then again, my experience with natural disasters of this nature is limited.
But contrast this with the lack of response to the LA fires and it’s not even close. If the Texans had been in Santa Monica that day of the fires, I guarantee you, houses and lives would have been saved.
Most men here can handle a chainsaw, bulldozer, jackhammer, blow torch, winches, you name it. A lot of women too. Those skills come in real handy in a crisis.
There were ATV’s, pontoon boats, horse patrols, copters, drones, amphibious vehicles. There was one marine, trained in sea and search rescue, who rescued 165 people alone, dropping down from a copter and snatching people out of the rapid ride to their early demise.
The churches showed up as well. A number of them put up people, fed them, took donations and all within the span of eight hours. By the evening of the fourth, churches became outposts and hospitality and hope.
The Wal-Mart parking lot accommodated the search and rescue as well, there was more food and Christian services.
While the flood has and will be devastating, the rapid and thorough response has oddly restored some of my faith in humanity. We are often at our best in a crisis and I refer to Americans as the “we.” Our Cancerian Sun shows out and we care for strangers like they are our own kin.
On a day that’s usually set aside for a gaudy display of fireworks, too much BBQ and beer, country songs that warble on about God, country, BBQ, broken hearts and beer, the usual ritual of re-upping our right to be free and celebrate, this disaster of a day, while certainly lacking the festive gusto and distended guts, was in many ways far more American than the faux reenactment of independence. In fact, moving forward for Kerrville, Ingram and Hunt, they should rename the fourth, “Dependence Day” because people had to depend on each other in a way they would have never expected, just days before.
For me, the lead up to the storm was strange. I kept looking at homes in other places, higher and drier than here. Zillow was the most visited site on my cell phone last week.
On Wednesday, I walked out of the gym and the sky felt strange. The best description I have was “heavy” and “dense.” There was an ominous feel in the air. I called Joan and told her about what I felt. I said it, “feels like something big is going to happen.”
We’ve had a relatively cool and wet spring, leading into summer. Most people were rejoicing because “we need the water.” You’ll hear that a lot in Texas; “Boy we really needed that water.” The heat can be unbearable for months, sometimes 100 for thirty-straight-days, so no one was complaining about the dark and damp skies. If you talked about too much, there was a feeling you might jinx it. Don’t complain and just enjoy the reprieve, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen, but I knew something BIG was coming.
At about 11:30 on the third, it started to come down, buckets of rain, thunder and lightning and it just kept coming. I was still up at 1:30 and the first emergency alert came through on my phone. Stay put. Shelter in place. No problem. I can do that.
Two more times before I got up around 8:30 there were two more emergency alerts. The final one around 5AM, just before the river rose 26 feet in fifteen minutes. There were warnings, but fifteen minutes is barely enough to get your clothes on, get a few things, get to the car and outrace the rising, raging currents. Even if you somehow managed to get to your vehicle, there was no guaranteeing that you could make it. Plenty of footage of people floating down the river in their SUVs with the lights still on. That’s how fast life and death happened.
Kerrville has become conspiracy central. Augustus Doricko was seeding the clouds and caused the flood. Trump cut NOAA funding. The Camp Mystic girls didn’t drown, they were trafficked. Kerrville passed an initiative to build a gas plant. Thiel and company want to turn it into a 15 minute city. Under a dark shroud of blame, someone has to be responsible for the death and destruction.
There’s a bogeyman for every flavor of disbelief.
Meanwhile, the milquetoast mayor just wants your prayers, lots of them, keep them coming. He’s a symbol of an over civilized man, replete with awards from the local Masonic lodge to the League of Women’s Voters, he’s served on more committees than people have had jobs. He’s got the resume of a civil administrator, writes a weekly column and owns a printing company. Of course church is in there somewhere. He’s the epitome of a Saturnian man, living and profiting off the local order. But when chaos hits, when Uranus cracks the sky, he cannot respond. He is as helpless as a child in the grip sudden destruction and disorder.
A few days after his request for prayers, he blamed Trump.
Of course he did.
In a time of crisis, he was enveloped by fear and then blame. Being chairman of the arts council wasn’t much preparation for Kerrville’s weak-mayor-of a man.
I’ll continue to give you updates and share stories as well as contribute more to Locals in general.
Thank you all for your love and support.
