Before the Flood, After the Flood

When you read this, the funerals and vigils will have come and gone. As I write this, July 4, 2025 is still less than a week ago. You will have moved past shock into grief. I’m still in shock. I only know one story at the moment. Mine.

Yes, we were there. No, the house didn’t flood, but it was close to the devastation, just higher, much higher. They don’t call it the Hill Country for nothing.

The best part of going to Hunt is arriving. On July 3rd, like so many before, our 4.5-hour drive ends with a stop at the Ole Ingram Grocery store, run by John Sheffield. He lights up when he sees us. It’s part of the experience. He knows our arrival ritual: fresh chicken, no preservatives, cut for the grill. Oh, and deer corn. The 50-pound bags sit just outside the front door. They have a hand scanner now. No more cans with price stickers. Tomorrow, the sign says, homemade pies will arrive for the July 4th celebrations. 

The real beauty, the final drive, begins. Highway 39 from Ingram to Hunt. Nothing between you and the river. On the left, the dam, lined with lawn chairs and coolers as people sit and talk. The Cypress and the Oaks bend toward the water in homage. The road gently follows the flow. The old stone houses on the right. The catwalk across the road. Our turn is coming up, just before the bridge to the Hunt Store. I remember the words up, up, up on the first written directions from my father the first time I visited the house in Hunt, before GPS. 

The deer greet us like pets when we pull into the driveway. They prance, leap, and hiss in the field, knowing a large bucket of corn is about to be poured. I pour the corn, while Stan preps the chicken for the grill. I pour the wine and count deer as they arrive. Twenty is a typical night. Some White-tailed, some Axis. The bucks watch from a distance. Our Lab Mix Zoe lounges on the deck, looking back and forth, between the chicken and the deer. The field looks different every time we come, different blooms, different birds, different sounds, and yet, all familiar.

We went to bed with a 50 percent chance of rain, according to Stan. That seemed good. Rain is always welcome in Hunt. I love the sound on our metal roof. But this night was intense, relentless, and yes, disturbing. We wake up the next day to no power. 

No TV. No internet. First crisis, no coffee! I’m more evolved now. But that was my mindset. Things were so bad that we had to resort to actually talking to our neighbors. Some of the larger truck owners were heading down, down, down to check out the town. I needed to know if the Hunt Store had power. If they did, they would have coffee.

We could at least text with our neighbors, and I could text my daughter Julia Weber, who was an hour away on the Frio River in Leakey. She had internet. The trickle of information begins.

The Hunt Store is a shell. The Post Office is gone. Still unevolved, I wondered what pot I should use to boil water on our propane grill for coffee. Uh oh, no water. The water company offices had been destroyed. 

My ears could not quite receive what followed: Some 27 girls were missing from Camp Mystic. The message had a strange way of changing. Oh, they’ve been found. First they were on some island along the river. Then they were somehow all at Walmart in Kerrville. Some were actually found in trees. But that changed to everyone’s alive, just in trees. The truth had no receivers. The ground beneath us was yet to shift.

By 2 p.m. the road was cleared, and water had receded enough to leave. I won’t take the time to describe everything you’ve already seen on the news. 

In Houston, my heart was in Hunt. We learned our power and even water was back on. Amazing. My eyes were glued to my phone. Finally, Julia produced a list of the girls unaccounted for, directly from the camp. I recognized some last names, but no first names. One last name, McCrory, hmmmm. Aimee and Don McCrory are Stan’s sister and brother-in-law but, naaaah.

From taking in an Astros game to swimming at cousin Don and Aimee McCrory’s pool, Blakely and Blake McCrory enjoyed quality time together.

Then the call. I hoped Aimee was just checking on us, but no. Turns out she didn’t just know 8-year-old Blakely McCrory. Blakely was her little fish, who swam at their pool over the years. Her father Blake, while 15 years younger, was Don McCrory's cousin. And her mom, Lindsey, practically grew up in their home as their daughter Erica’s best friend.

Erica, now Erica Cozewith, has lived in Atlanta since 1998. Turns out she was in Houston, visiting her family while Lindsey was at a family event in Croatia with her sister, Alex McLeod Blazevich, along with other family members. The festivities took place on a boat, and guests had sparse cell phone reception. When they docked, she saw a series of frantic emails and calls from Camp Mystic. Lindsey’s 8-year-old daughter, Blakely, was among the missing. Just last March, Lindsey’s husband, Blake McCrory, had died after a cancer diagnosis. Then, in June, Lindsey’s brother, Chanse McLeod, passed away. Surely this isn’t happening.

She had no idea Erica was in Houston when she texted her best friend with the scary news. Lindsey flew home with her sister Joanie and her niece. Joanie also had a daughter at Camp Mystic who had survived and was picked up by her father. Erica would be there to pick Lindsey up from the airport in Houston to head directly to the Hill Country. Lindsey was sure Blakely, the fish, was alive, but traumatized by whatever had happened. She needed to get there as quickly as possible. 

Back when I was growing up, we used the term Act of God to describe weather events like the one that hit Kerrville. We have lost the mysterious and poetic ways of using the “G” word, afraid it might offend. I’m finding it pretty useful right now. 

I feel that the confluence of events that brought Lindsey and Erica together at this time was an Act of God. Erica was in Houston for Don’s birthday, but her primary motive was to visit someone else, someone special in her life with cancer. Erica is Jewish. Lindsey is Christian. Best friends don’t have to be identical. These two play off their differences with inside jokes that are safe within their relationship. It’s a wonder to observe. This is a G-d/God story (it’s how the two different religions spell the same word). Erica has no doubt that G-d arranged for her to be in Houston to be there for Lindsey. I had no doubt that G-d/God had tricked me out of Hunt by threatening me with no coffee, then quickly bringing the power back so that Lindsey and Erica could stay at my house. Erica was asking all the key questions, such as address, blow-dryer, WiFi password, got it. They were arriving late at night. My Hunt neighbor, Gretchen Harris, got the house ready, turned on the lights, and made the entrance easy. I felt pleased, if not smug, that I was being G-d/God’s personal assistant. (I’m still evolving.)

Blakely is pictured at age 3, working on her swim skills. Blake passed away in March; Blakely was among the campers from Camp Mystic whose lives were tragically cut short in the July 4th flood. (Photo: Aimee McCrory Photography)

As it turns out, our house was actually too close to the action. The road in front of my house was blocked. Lindsey was offered a house in Ingram where they ended up staying. I had to call my old college buddy Clover Bailey, a retired Presbyterian minister, my spiritual soundboard – like me, but on steroids. I had a lot to unload. I wanted them to come to my house, not someone else’s. It had become about me. Here’s what Clover asked: Do you need to help someone? Or does someone need your help? 

I did not know Lindsey or Blakely. I was one step into the periphery. This was not my direct loss, but I felt so deeply for the McCrorys and McLeods. Knowing how to help is tricky. Clover then said this: “Every church cookbook should have a warning under the lasagna recipe: Grieving families don’t need six lasagnas.”

Then came a text from Erica. I have a huge favor to ask. Could you talk to Lindsey and write a draft of the obituary, due tomorrow? Oh, so G-d/God wanted me to put this Buzz column aside, to offer my time and skill on a deadline. Offering a house, without me, was easier. Apparently G-d/God wanted my skin in the game.

I often trend toward humor when something devastating happens. Lots of people think that’s weird, I know. But Lindsey gets it. On the phone, Lindsey sounded so composed. Erica was with her. Lindsey wanted a double obituary, for Blakely as well as her husband, Blake. It’s impossible to fathom, but Lindsey lost her husband, brother, and daughter weeks apart. And now she is expected to walk, talk, dress, breathe, plan a funeral, make decisions, write a double, almost triple, obituary and hear how sorry everybody is nine thousand times? Lindsey had already turned down an interview with Anderson Cooper on CNN and here she was talking to me. So was there any network she was willing to talk to? She replied, the one that will do my hair and make-up. If we didn’t have trauma, we wouldn’t have comedians. I immediately knew I was talking to a woman with a sense of humor who was ready to use it. 

Everyone seems to be connected to one or more of the grieving families in some way. The Buzz Magazines editor Joni Hoffman is Lindsey’s neighbor. Joni, who is Jewish, always gives Matzoh Ball soup in a crisis. 

We had to laugh at her question to me, Do Christians eat Matzoh Ball soup? This led to a long discussion between Joni, Erica, and me. Soup, yes? Soup, no? On the porch? Ring the doorbell? We decided no. Even Kerrville was putting out the word to please stop sending food. But then a text came from Erica: Lindsey says Matzoh Ball soup actually sounds really good. 

On the phone, Lindsey seemed so ready to laugh, I mentioned Clover’s line – that grieving families don’t need six lasagnas. Lindsey roared. She called Blakely her little livewire as if she was right down the road. She said Blakely had had three favorite people and Lindsey was third. Having just lost her father, you can guess who was first. We all grieve differently. This was the end of a day of decisions no parent should be asked to make. We said good night. Then I opened my laptop and wrote the obituary through tears. Tears for Lindsey, Blakely’s 20-year-old half-brother Brady (who she affectionately called "Bro Bro"), the McCrory family, the McLeod family, tears for the families of all the missing people, tears for Hunt and the whole Kerrville region. Tears for Texas. Lindsey thanked me for the obituary. I told her to consider it in lieu of lasagna. When everything you know is gone, it is good to see that laughter is left. Another thing that is left, I am happy to report, is The Ole Ingram Store along with John Sheffield’s family. They even had the promised homemade pies on the 4th. 

I’ve had more warm, real conversations in less than a week than the whole year. The least I can do is love more, laugh and cry more, and talk to my neighbors. Where is G-d/God in all of this? In the details. 

Editor’s note: Read Blakely's obituary here. Also, find a list of ways Buzz neighbors can help those impacted by the flood. Also, read Talking Through Tears: Leaning into community by Andria Dilling on healing together.

PATRONS for Bellaire Parks, the City of Bellaire, and neighbors are working together to create a butterfly-themed play feature at Joe Gaither Park in memory of Blakely McCrory and others lost in the Texas Hill Country floods. Find details here.