Water Crossings

From Mia Cope

Weather in West Texas is different in the springtime. If you’re from West Texas you know what that means: It’s been raining around here.

Rain is good. It waters the plants and washes the dust off the streets. And it makes tree soap. And it fills up the lakes and causes our mostly dry creek beds to fill. Even if it’s only for a little while, rainy days bring a lot of hope and relief to us.

Abilene has little need for a storm sewer system to channel the run-off from a heavy storm. We never need it until we need it. So bond elections rarely mention such projects. Mainly, the city builds its streets to allow water to run, at some point, into those creeks. And those creeks lead to lakes and even the Brazos River.

But it takes a long time for water to make its way. Thus, it’s not out of the ordinary during our very brief rainy season to receive multiple flood watches and warnings — many of them just pointing out places in town where you don’t want to drive. The railroad that cuts across town from east to west has a number of car underpasses. And some are equipped with big gates that strongly suggest that motorists “Turn Around; Don’t Drown.” Every so often, local media will share a picture of someone who (1) didn’t read the warnings; (2) doesn’t comprehend the significance of a barrier across the entry to a water-filled section of road; (3) adheres to the belief that “if I can just get up enough speed, I’ll make it through”; (4) recalls that James Bond once had a car that converted to a boat; (5) enjoys interactions with first responders who come to rescue them; and/or (6) look forward to visits with car insurance folks while trying to convince the agent that driving around a barrier, signs, and flashing lights into four feet of water was not their fault.

It was on such a rainy morning that Daddy and I began our walk up to the local university. We had waited until the thunderstorms had exited our area. Still cloudy, but no precipitation falling.

The street was wet and I was careful not to pull Daddy too fast. As we approached the end of our block, he slowed. That’s when I saw it — East North 16th Street was a raging river. I can swim but I didn’t remember if Daddy could. I pulled him closer to the turbulent waters and gave him a reassuring look. Then charged full speed into the passing torrent.

What happened next is hard to say. With only a single plunge through the water, I was on the other side. For reasons that not even Daddy can explain, he hesitated about halfway through. Don’t be concerned. He was never in real danger because I was standing ready on the other side prepared to pull him to safety.

But his shoes and socks and jeans up to his knees were soaked. Finding ourselves now close to the center of the street with traffic approaching, we moved quickly to a spot where the rain wasn’t quite to the midpoint of the avenue. Daddy said, “Hold!” That usually means that Daddy wants to stop a while to discuss something with me.

That was certainly true in this case. And no, Daddy, I did not hear you say that we should find a place less treacherous to cross. And yes, Daddy, I can certainly understand how unpleasant it is to walk around in wet socks and shoes. My suggestion that he no longer wear socks and shoes on rainy days didn’t seem to register in the moment.

I was afraid that this, what later was coined “The Rainy Day Incident,” would be the end of our walk. But Daddy gathered his composure and we continued. I have to admit that the squishing of his shoes on pavement was a distracting element. But I’m very resilient.

It also helped that many of the people we saw at the university were sporting wet shoes, too. Misery really does love company. I also learned that it does you no good to be miserable anyway.

Daddy was able to reroute our circuit through campus to keep us out of deep water. I was a little disappointed in the apparent absence of his spirit for adventure. Yet, we made it home safely. And the campus feral cat population appeared to have avoided any contact with wetness. Daddy didn’t appreciate them pointing at him and snickering.

I reminded him of all of our blessings when we arrived at home. Momma taught me that. She says it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you count your blessings. I think Daddy made a real effort. He just stood there staring at me with his mouth open — much like when he attempts long division without the aid of a calculator. I could tell there was some intense blessing-counting going on.

So, it was a good day in West Texas. Rain and blessings counted.