By Gini Weir Florer
As silent as the waters rising in the dark of the Hill Country night, there have been no words; only tear upon tear, grief upon grief.
The tragedy of the here and now, a shocking interruption to our neighborhood Fourth of July parades like an errant firework descending out of the sky upon us all.
Six precious lives in my neighborhood alone with green ribbons now tied to every tree, ties that bind neighborhoods and now shattered hearts together. Images of a beloved place harkening back to days of old strewn carelessly across the airwaves as if the story of Camp Mystic could possibly be told.
I was only a camper for four years at Camp Mystic, a First Term Every Loyal Kiowa in Twins II, Chatter Box, Tumble I, and Look Inn with days marked by the colorful posterboard calendars hanging on the cabin wall detailing the day’s activities, the memories embedded into the fiber of your being, passed down in your DNA and on your James Avery charm bracelet.
Neighborhood Spotlight
Park Cities
Where the Park Cities Stay Connected.
My story runs deeper than my individual experience as it does for so many generations of Texans. My grandmother, Dorothy, was the first in my family to attend Camp Mystic. There were no cabins then, around 1930, only tents. Following in her footsteps would be 15 girls in my family — three more generations of Mystic girls and a fourth generation 2-year-old on the waiting list.
In 1982, my grandparents moved to their newly constructed river home on the banks of the Guadalupe River, set squarely between the towns of Ingram and Hunt. I have never known a time without a draw to that idyllic place and all that comes and has now gone with it — the Hunt Store, Crider’s, the Ingram Dam, driving by all the camps on the way out to Mystic.
And always the river — the constant and the connection. Days were planned around “going down to the river” with our river traditions — swimming out to the raft, canoeing to the rapids, going off the rope swing, watching for snakes, floating on rafts to play next door at the Waltonia Cabins, and perhaps venturing down to the low water bridge.
The two worlds of Camp and my grandparents’ house always merging as naturally as the river flowed down from Mystic and past our house, interwoven into the fabric of who I was.
My mom even returned as a counselor for the newly formed “Third Term” when I was a junior in high school. She was in Hangout, and my sisters went with her as campers.
I was at the house in the summer of 1987 during the last big flood, water lapping at the cabin steps and making it all the way up the hill to the fire pit. Silent, rising in the dark of night. That is my most vivid memory of the river then — dark and silent, encroaching — not the river of our sunny days. The river came quietly, unexpectedly and out of nowhere, as the impossible things of life seem to do. The river of the night.
In my grandmother’s final wishes, she requested to have her ashes placed in the Guadalupe River because of her love for it, and mentioned Mystic as being some of her most carefree days. The river of life and eventually of death always flowing on towards eternity while The Guadalupe River itself remains forever running through our lives, our memories, our hearts and our very souls, bringing both joy and sorrow as it simultaneously whispers and roars.
