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.