Flooded

Y’all,

Texan is not a simple identity. It comes with layers of pride, frustration, humor, awe, and a certain inescapable sense of grandiose that I can only describe as Big State Energy. And as a born, raised, and reclaimed Austinite, I have forever felt the eyes of Texas upon me. When you grow up in the middle of it, this state feels legitimately inescapable. Frankly, I only have the patience to drive my way out of it once or twice a year, if that.

But being in the middle has its perks. I was always at the Capitol building as a kid, whether touring with my grandparents, performing on the front steps, or receiving the Queen of England - then eventually covering the Texas Legislature for my high school paper. My nerdiness included math, performing arts, writing, and civics. And back then, it was easy to go shop on the drag as a teenager, or go to a show downtown, or hang out at a coffee shop that treated you like garbage in a fun way. I called it Austin customer service.

But the part of the Central Texas lifestyle that I took for granted the most growing up was the water. As I explained to people in DC who complained about the days above ninety degrees (lol), my summer lifestyle back home consisted of being in an air conditioned car, an air conditioned building, traversing between the two, or submerging myself in a body of water. And while most days the water was a pool, on special days, it was natural water. Feeding ducks next to Barton Springs, fishing for minnows in Shoal Creek, splashing off of boats in Travis County, or the ultimate treat: tubing on the Guadalupe.

It was there, my ass numb in the freezing cold waters, that I first learned what sunburned ears felt like. Years later, as the water kept the beer a drinking temperature, I learned what sunburned armpits felt like. The last time I went, I was somehow the only person who (1) didn’t drink but (2) did throw up, because I had some sort of stomach bug. However, no one questioned me puking behind a tree on the walk to the old school buses that would take us back to where we parked.

These memories were further down the river than Mystic, which is nestled among the other camps and small communities in Kerr County. The Presbyterian camp where my youth group went did not have campers low enough to be swept away last weekend, but I have slept near the banks of the Guadalupe, kept awake not by fear, but by the spinning feeling that comes with spending too much time on a playground merry-go-round. It’s beautiful out there. The kind of views that make it possible to believe in something greater than yourself.

I am thankful that my kids were complaining about being bored indoors while the rain fell. And while the pond next to our community rose more than 100%, we were never in danger. We got wet because I can’t remember to take umbrellas anywhere, not because we were up to our chins in rushing floodwater. My mom couldn’t stop giving us updates over the weekend about the ongoing devastation a few counties over. I started checking the levels of Lake Travis, our source of drinking water, to watch the numbers creep up from 43% to 62% full in the course of the holiday weekend. A thin silver lining to the utter devastation.

Yes, climate change played a role here. As well as levels - seemingly every level - of government failure. There were individuals who ignored warnings, and those who heroically rescued folks in harm's way. Across Central Texas, there's a pervasive heartbreak that has yet to crest. A betrayal from the very source of life, comfort, and fun that helps justify the choice to live in this heat. On the heels of a monumental betrayal in Washington, DC, to make rich people richer. Because we don’t need sirens in flood zones, we need more yachts for billionaires.

In addition to feeling, I’ve donated to the Kerr County Flood Relief Fund with The Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country, which pledges to pass funds on to vetted charities. Please consider doing the same.

There’s another natural resource I love here in Central Texas: Patty Griffin. She makes music for these times. She has Rain, Not Alone, Long Ride Home, Top of the World (covered by the Chicks), and many more. I deconstructed her song Peter Pan for my sister’s Good Bones podcast. Being from here, I have no idea if she is real famous or just famous to me. She is one of the original soundtracks to my catharsis, and I turn to her in moments of devastation at every level. And right now, When it Don’t Come Easy lands.   

So much love to y’all, your teams, your families, your pets, and your nature. May the memories of those we’ve lost be more than a blessing, but also an inspiration to continue the good fight.

Kim Caldwell