Droughts, Fires and Lots of Love

It began with the drought. There has been no rain to speak of in Central Texas in months. It’s the worst drought on record. Arriving in Smithville for a wedding, I walked stunned through the streets. Everywhere was brown desolation. There were pockets of green lawns – the product of intensive watering – alternating with lawns of brown, dead grass giving way to dirt. Cannas under massive live oak trees were shriveled and limp. Shrubs were slowly turning brown from thirst and even the stately magnolia trees were struggling. Slick, green magnolia leaves turned stiff and brown rattled in the hot breeze. Pastures were expanses of brown dotted with determined oaks and pecan trees. It was bleak even before the fire.

The fire, they think, started when a dead tree fell on a power line. That ignited the inferno. Before the fire, the stretch between Smithville and Bastrop was home to the “lost pines” of Texas, a large stand of pines misplaced from their prolific East Texas cousins. Highway 71 from Bastrop through Smithville rolls gently though those pines. Houses snuggle under their fragrant branches, blanketed by a soft bed of needles. With the drought, the bed of needles deepened and became food for the hungry fire. After days of battling the fire with helicopters, planes and fire departments from around the State, the fire was contained. But not until it gobbled up 34, 000 acres and more than 1500 homes. All toll, fifteen million trees were lost.
The scenic drive along Highway 71 will never be the same during the lifetime of any who were here to witness this fire. Driving to Smithville no longer smelled of pine but rather like the inside of a chimney. The long, green pine needles and the small, oval leaves of oaks are now brown or black. The ground is covered in soot. A forest of skeleton trees appears, at first glance, to be silhouetted against the blue, Texas sky. On closer look comes the realization that these trees aren’t silhouettes – they are the black of charcoal – as far as you can see. Above the tops of the scorched forest stands a white water tower painted with a smiley face.


Tahitian Village and ColoVista, or along Alum Creek Road and other back roads, the remains of devastated lives are glimpsed between dead trees. Shadows of homes – crumbled tin roofs, lonely chimneys and sometimes part of a wall lurk between black trees. Burned cars – still in the garage – scorched lawn furniture, melted fences sit outside the shell of the houses. Closer, the remnants of life – shards of pottery, plates, candle sticks – all left behind in the rush to leave. The lucky ones had time to grab family photos, mementos and, perhaps, a few clothes.

The stories are endless, the same and, yet, varied. Everyone knows multiple people who were impacted. At the school, 58 kids are now homeless, as are six teachers. Three families at the rehearsal dinner lost their homes. In one case, their house had been home for 29 years to a thriving family. In another, it was the first home of a newly married couple. They moved in two weeks before the fire. Some had time to gather belongings. Others barely got out with trees burning behind them.

The fire was capricious. A burned house sat next to an unscathed one. A house was turned to rubble but a pristine garage remained.
What made the difference? It’s too late to know. With the houses, it’s easy to imagine the devastation and heartbreak. Lost livelihoods are not as obvious. Cattle were found huddled against fences unable to escape the flames. Deer, too. In a flash, flames swept away acres of sowed grass as it waited quietly to be harvested and bailed for hay. That was a season of work and future income.


People came to help in droves. The old Smithville Dime Store – then the Dollar Store – became a makeshift department store with donated clothes, towels, sheets and shoes. Fire victims with nothing but the clothes they wore took whatever they needed – and they needed everything. Volunteers across Smithville and Bastrop pitched in to help. It was an outpouring of love.

It’s daunting to think of losing everything. How do you start again? Where do you find the energy? How do you get out of bed the next morning and where did you find the bed to get out of? People stayed with friends and families as they struggled with next steps. Do you rebuild? Here or elsewhere? Now or later? Will insurance pay now, later or ever? Signs sprouted in the black soil advertising clearing services, builders, fire assistance. Houses and trailers were advertised for sale or rent. Utility companies were an unlikely spot of activity inside the deadened landscape as they worked non-stop to restore power lines through towering blackness.


While we laughed and smiled at the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception, talk of the fire was never far away. People shared their losses, the trauma and the shock – and they talked of their gratitude for the outpouring of help and support from strangers. Homemade signs thanking first responders were along charred roads. It was sad and heartwarming; brutal and brave.

And with that mixture of emotions, we came together for Derek and Kaila’s wedding. Derek is Bobbie Sue and Robert’s son and their youngest.
He and Kaila dated through high school and college before their marriage that weekend. They put all their energy into planning and hosting this wedding and it paid off. Kovar Hall was lovely with lights strung along the rafters, orange flowers down the tables, and photos welcoming guests. The smallest details had their personal touch. Kaila said it was just as she had pictured it in her dreams. How perfect is that? They were the most gracious of hosts, talking and visiting with guests around the hall. My husband, Mike, got his first taste of a Texas wedding complete with the Grand March, the couples’ dance, the dollar dance and, of course, the cotton-eyed Joe.
It was ironic that a fire burned in the distance with flames visible from the windows. It was quickly under control and the lack of wind kept it well away, but nervous faces peered occasionally through the large windows.

And so, Derek and Kaila are married and happily away on their honeymoon in Banff, sent off on the wings of love from family and friends. Even with the drought and the fire – or, rather – particularly with the drought and fire, there has never been so much love and compassion in Central Texas.

Blue Water of the San Juan Islands

Soft. That’s how it feels. Surrounded by softness. The breeze is soft on my skin. Jagged rocks are covered with inches of green moss that changes them to round, soft lumps. Decades of pine needles make the path like foam. And the sound of wind swooshing through the pine, fir and cedar trees sounds like fleece. In the distance, the haze in the air makes the islands a fuzzy, soft focus. It’s our first visit to the San Juan Islands and they are captivating. The smell of pine welcomes us to the island.

We stayed on Orcas, the largest of the chain. Orcas Island is shaped like a horseshoe and provides views of the water at every turn from its 77 miles of shoreline.Our time is filled with blue sky, warm sunshine and green trees. We hiked around Mountain Lake glimpsing glimmering, green water that captured and threw back the sunlight. A trail winds to the top of Mount Constitution (the highest point in the San Juans at 2409 feet). Below, islands float between blue sky and blue water. The “caw, caw” of crows punctures the quiet. Few cars, a small population and houses spread far between made our cabin a little spot of peace.

Mike and I took advantage of our watery surroundings. He had never seen a whale so we had to fix that! We took a boat with Outer Island Expeditions. Young, thin, tall and with curly blond hair, Captain Joe took us straight to the whales – the local pod of orcas. Their slick and shiny, black and white bodies arched out of the water in front of the boat. A thin dorsal fin sliced the water. And then playtime started. Tail slapping from whales both right side up and upside down, spy hopping (a head poking straight up from the water as though the whale was standing on its tail) and the occasional exuberant full breach. We saw whales bigger than our boat and little ones swimming next to their mothers. The next day we went kayaking in the smooth, blue water. Mt. Baker glowed across the water like a distant ghost. The highlight was a pair of seals honking, flipping and playing as we paddled past.

My sister, Alison, and her husband, Jerry, flew their Cessna to the town of Orcas Island from their home in McMinnville, Oregon where they have their helicopter business. They arrived in the Cessna that once belonged to our dad. When he died, Alison took his plane, named it, and they’ve been using Juanita ever sense. She seems happy in the Pacific Northwest (both Juanita and Alison). After two nights with us, feasting wild caught salmon and halibut, Mike and I watched as they loaded their bags into Juanita, and taxied to the end of the runway. Alison waved as they took off with a backdrop of deep, green, fir trees. My eyes teared as I watched Juanita silhouetted against the clear, blue sky. I wondered who I miss more, Alison or Dad.

Wandering through the little village of Eastsound, we noticed a small poster in the window of Mia’s restaurant. The poster advertised an ice cream social and an inaugural “bawl.” Mike and I had great success with small, local events when we lived in Cotignac and this was just the type of thing that, had we been in France, we would attend. And so, we went. Driving down a gravel road and up a hill to a clearing, small signs pointed the way to the ice cream social. In the distance a fiddle played. As we approached the wood frame barn, a couple collected our tickets and thanked us for coming. What, we asked, was the event that we were celebrating?
“Oh,” they replied, “Our new mayor, April, was recently elected. This is a party for her.”

Mike shared that he previously worked for the mayor of Annapolis and that she was the first female mayor in the city’s 300 year history. Was this by chance the first female mayor of Eastsound? They thought a minute and determined that, no, the last mayor was also female – Claire. Claire, they said, is a black lab. Being quick on my feet I inquired if April is, well, a dog.
“Oh no. April is a cow.”
Of course she is.

We asked if April was attending the ice cream social, but, alas, she couldn’t make it. She was tied up. We learned that the “election” is a fund raiser for the local pre-school. Each year, a variety of animals run for the mayor’s seat. They have campaign managers and, in some cases, their own blog. Votes for your preferred candidate are in the form of money. The one who earns the most money becomes the mayor. In April’s case, she was a write-in candidate but took 57% of the votes. She now has a weekly column in the newspaper. We were assured that April is very highly qualified for the position. And, they were correct. As we drove one last time around the tree-filled island past Eastsound, we found April at home in a small orchard. And as anyone could see, she is out standing in her field.

Making Memories

Tired. That’s how I felt. Even after my nap.

Mike and I were spending the weekend in D.C. and we already had a busy day. I walked around the Mall in the early morning, we walked to Eastern Market and returned with our kaleidoscope of fruits and vegetables, unpacked them, took Metro to Woodley Park, and walked uphill in the sun to the National Zoo. We strolled around the zoo seeing lions, and tigers, and bears, and more. Afterward, we came back to the apartment for a nap.

We intended to take a nighttime bus tour around the city. We heard the monuments were beautiful draped in white light. But, like so many things, it sounded like a good idea when it was just an idea before it required real energy to make it happen. That’s where we were. Stuck. Conflicted. To go or not to go. That was the question. Not a noble question but a practical one.

In the end, we went. We found seats on the upper deck and off we went….well, after a prolonged wait to fill up the bus. The sky was clear and dark. The breeze blew cool and comfortable, except when the bus stopped for a traffic signal. Then, the air stopped, too, and exhaust fumes filled its place. But, nonetheless, it was delightful. The Capitol, the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and an assortment of white stone buildings that make up downtown D.C. The tour was narrated by a chirpy, happy man who was a recording. Who was a recording. Who was a recording that would get ahead of itself and had to be rewound so that the “building on our left” was, in fact, the building on our left. The easy-going lilt in his voice belied the unusually formal words that littered the narration - words like “whilst” and “thus.”

It was a lovely evening and I wondered why it had been so hard to drag myself off of the sofa. And I wondered what it was that ultimately made us go. For me, I think it was the sense that this moment may never come again. Yes, the chances are good that we’ll have another evening in D.C., but will the sky be cloudless and the wind warm? Will we be less tired than now? I have this sense that life is passing and we retrieve this particular evening. So – go. Go now. As my friend, Chris, would say, “Go out and make a memory.” There are many times when I thought I was too tired or busy to go out and make a memory. But there has never been a time when I regretted going. It’s always worth it.

And, thus, Mike and I made another memory. We left the ease of the apartment to feel the wind in our hair whilst the monuments of DC glowed past. It was a good night. I think I’ll sleep late tomorrow.