Curse or coincidence, who is to say?

Friends and family know that when I travel, have out-of-town guests, or plan a party, a weather event occurs — often an apocalyptic weather event.

This is not an exaggeration.

A volcano eruption, several tropical storms, too many unexpected downpours, and a 500-year flood are example interruptions to my plans.

When the temperatures rise and rainless days stretch on for weeks, my San Antonio friends, seeking relief, ask, “any birthday parties planned or family coming to visit?”

So, when a friend was coming for an overnight stay at the ranch with her husband and 4 grandsons the last week in June, followed 2 days later by a visit from my nephew from Virginia, followed a week later by a visit from Jim’s sister coming from North Carolina, I welcomed the forecast of no rain in sight, despite our suffering lawn due to current drought restrictions on watering.

With a car full of provisions and cleaning supplies, Jim and I headed to Comfort to stock and shine the ranch houses.

Through the gate, the grasses that weeks before would part and wave to welcome in the gentlest of breezes, instead stood stiff, the sun-baked blades frozen straight at attention, as if an army on guard was looking after our property.

Oh, how soon in south Texas the cool spring air heats to a furnace!

I was sad our guests would see the Lost Madrone Ranch cloaked in dryness instead of dressed in the colors of summer flowers.

Still, I looked forward to kids casting for fish, hikes to explore caves, afternoons of lazing in the shade of the porch, meals prepared with vegetables from the garden, and cooler evenings peering at stars through the telescope.

Ahhhh, summer at the ranch.

As we drove the last mile to the house, our tires rumbled over the dry, caliche roads, stirring up plumes of white dust that swallowed the car. It appeared as if a cumulonimbus cloud fell to earth, toppled horizontal, and was racing across the horizon. Coupled with the sound, it was the perfect foreshadowing of a storm.

Texans are familiar with caliche, a sedimentary rock formed of hardened calcium carbonate, used for roads across the Lone Star State.

Under normal dry conditions, caliche is as hard as a city cement sidewalk. But during a drought, the Texas heat sucks every trace of moisture from the caliche, turning it as powdery as chalk dust.

By the time we arrived, it looked like a sack of flour had exploded all over our car.

I sighed at the withered plants, brown lawn, and the sedum patch so dry it crunched under foot. Perhaps running the sprinkler for a day would restore a hint of green before our guests arrived?

Jim went to unlock our bedroom house while I unloaded the groceries, making note whether I was prepared for the upcoming meals.

I was not prepared for the scream a moment later.

“Kaaaaarrrrreeeeen.”

I ran to our bedroom.

A flood.

A flood on a hill.

A flood during drought.

The entire building flooded, water seeping through the thresholds.

“Careful, it’s slippery,” Jim cautioned, as I gasped.

I entered and waded through each room.

No words, just a silent walk, and slow, deliberate steps, required for walking on polished concrete floors under a layer of water.

Peering from the bedroom to each closet and nook, discovering the damage was like treasure hunting with the emotions of the search turned inside out — a focused stare so not to miss an inch of where to uncover a discovery, but instead of increasing exhilaration for each find, each discovery piled heavy on to the next, the weight of it harder and harder to carry.

I sighed at the pocketed sheetrock, the water dripping through the shower grout, and the trim boards saturated and swelling away from their holds on the wall.

Water streaming from an overflow pipe at the rear of the house identified the likely culprit as our water heater, which stood in an attic space above the shower, accessed through a small opening reached only by ladder.

We cut off the main water supply and surveyed a moment more, still speaking few words as we processed the unforeseen flooding.

And then, as if together we completed our assessment, there was a shift, time to get to work.

Jim dragged items from the water, and I made calls to State Farm and Servpro to send a water damage response team.

It had been six days since we were last at the house and signs of mold were present.

This would not be a quick cleanup, but a job for professionals.

Like the Servpro jingle, my mind was dreaming of the day it would seem “Like it Never Even Happened.”

That day was not the day.

Servpro was impressive. Within minutes of my SOS call from our remote hilltop on a Saturday morning, I was giving directions to the Servpro professional who would be there within the hour.

His name… Angel.

Really?

I chuckled that an angel was coming to the rescue.

It truly was a miracle that his Servpro truck made it up the steep hill and over the rutty roads to the house — the drama just adding to the flooding adrenaline, taxing my other brain chemicals to keep tranquilizing anxiety.

Angel and Lou went to work, vacuuming out the water, setting up drying and dehumidifying equipment, and establishing the response plan for the coming days — a plan that included demolition of soggy sheetrock, the deconstruction of our concrete vanities, and daily equipment adjustments and readings of the drying process.

This plan, and that we crowded all the non-waterlogged contents of the flooded building into the other bedrooms, made it clear my guest plans had to change.

I never thought I would wish, “couldn’t it have just rained on my guests?”

It weighed on me to postpone a visit from four little boys eager to meet Ferdinand the longhorn — a visit we will reschedule.

As Angel and Lou worked in the house, I sat on the porch of my bedroom — surrounded by damaged and wet belongings — and paused for the first time since we discovered the flood.

My general temperament is patient and steady, and during stressful or crisis situations I assume a deeper calm to focus on what demands attention.

I’m not sure if this response is an inborn trait or learned by example from my mom who I never recall being in a panic or frenzy, and yet I know she faced many “floods” from the challenges of mothering a family of seven.

Not to suggest that the entire time I wasn’t thinking this really stinks, but up to this point I was concentrating on tactics, leaving no room for emotions.

Now, as I sat, I let sadness and sorry sink in… for a flood, for stuff, for the damage, the ruin, for the trouble, the inconvenience, for the loss…

Ping.

A text notice.

It was from my mom’s caregiver.

“George just passed away.”

Loss?

I lost it.

Tears flooded.

Sweet George.

Like all the memory care residents who live alongside my mom, George was a man who lived a life of a million happenings in a life before. A life before there were no longer memories to humor or haunt. A life filled with stories to tell that he could never tell me.

And yet still, I knew George.

For years, he was there, always.

For years, he would greet me when I came through the door, wearing his Army t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. He would look me in the eye and take my hand and ask me a question that had no meaning but to him. To him, I understood, he had made a heartfelt inquiry, so I would deliver back my best reply to solicit a classic George response — a kind sounding mumble followed by a flirtatious smile.

Oh, I am sure there were lots of stories.

Oh, loss.

Sweet George.

I will always remember.

How could I feel sorry over loss of material things?

I walked in the house and noticed Angel discreetly look away in a display of compassion. No doubt his experience in disaster response tapped skills beyond those required for physical remediation. I appreciated his respect and shared the purpose of the tears he witnessed.

Thus began the way of the days that followed.

I thought of George daily and kept perspective of our flood event.

The vanities were deconstructed, and the Servpro team of professionals stayed attentive to the job.

Talk about a trusted team. Angel, Lou, Jerry, Patricio, Jeff, Kristian, and I am sure others behind the scenes, not only provided prompt, professional service, but they were a flood of new friends, shaping my response to the flood through their considerate customer service.

While I hope we fix the physical damage so it appears “like it never even happened,” I’ll remember the exercise in meeting adversity with grace as a practiced response to strengthen resilience.

No doubt I’ll wave to every lime green Servpro truck I pass along I-10.

After 10 days that included sheetrock removal and lots of hot air, Servpro declared the house dry, except for the shower area. The tile prevented moisture readings through the one exterior wall, demolition the only way to confirm whether wet or dry.  The discolored exterior limestone was a suggestive sign of moisture that was too risky to ignore.

While working to find a tile contractor to break out the shower, the house sat — hot, dusty, part deconstructed, and abandoned.

Meanwhile, my nephew, Tyler, and his girlfriend, Maggie, arrived for their visit.

Spending a few dry days in San Antonio turned out to be a summer highlight, the high point being when Tyler walked into my moms room for the first time.

Tyler has a special relationship with his Gram, having lived with my parents in their final years together and with my mom alone until we moved her to Texas. He had not seen my mom since a visit several years ago. Sadly, those years for mom were filled with considerable mental and physical decline.

All of us were nervous — Tyler admitting it was not an easy visit and me knowing her current capacities but hoping it would be a “good” day.

It was.

Tyler came through her bedroom door and mom lit up, flooded with recognition beyond what I have seen in many months. She laughed and teared and said, “well that’s good.”

Everyone in the room copied her tears.

There are moments of true knowing in late stage dementia. No one can ever convince me otherwise.

With clarity, Gram told Tyler she loves him.

After Tyler and Maggie set off on their 25 hour drive home, we scheduled the shower demolition. Servpro came back for several more days, drying walls that were still saturated weeks following the flood.

Three days later, Jim’s sister, Jody, arrived from North Carolina.

And, she brought along a return of what I expect when company comes.

Within hours after Jody arrived, so did the unexpected rain.

All night the rain poured.

The music of a downpour was so distant in my memory that I stepped out on the porch in the dark of the morning to capture it on video to save the sound.

Another flood was in the making.

Rain continued as the light of the morning arrived.

 

Caliche roads, hard as cement when dry, and powdery dust when completely void of moisture, turn to soup when saturated.

The roads were impassable.

We cancelled the four contractors who were scheduled to come estimate the costs of repairs — a jab at the realization things would not be back to normal soon.

Thankfully, Jody welcomed the relaxation that comes with staying indoors on a rainy day.

Although the downpour was constant, this was not a rain to turn the mood dreary, this was a refreshing rain — the pattering against the metal roof drummed alongside our conversations, and outside the landscape was healing.

A call came through from a friend. “Are you at the ranch? I’m headed in that direction, and it’s raining! It wasn’t raining at my house in San Antonio. Where did this come from?”

My reply…

“Jim’s sister is visiting from North Carolina.”

Without hesitation she said, “Well, that explains it!”

5 inches! 5 unexpected inches of rain! Thanks, Jody!

Life is filled with floods of all sorts — floods of fortune, hardship, joy, and grief, sorrows, blessings, and yes, water —  rain, tap, and tears.

Some floods we welcome, some not.

How we meet our floods in life matters — with perspective, gratitude, or when they are truly difficult, with the understanding that we can withstand.

We are not alone in the storms, for there is one who casts a hand and stills the waves.

Of the floods I met this month, our house flood is the most consuming but least significant.

New friends and visits from family are far more meaningful.

Tears for a loved one lost and for a lost loved one who found a moment are moments that happen in the heart — no comparison to water on the floor.

Perspective floods every view.

The caliche roads are solid, but the house is still in shambles, but the grass at the Lost Madrone Ranch is green again… for now.