Rosemary, the four-year-old, woke up first. She told my brother-in-law, Lance, that there was something on the roof. Seven of us were at my family’s river house on the Guadalupe, between Ingram and Hunt, for the Fourth. Our little stretch of river is wide, green, cool, deep, and slow. It is some of the best swimming anywhere and one of the most beautiful spots in Texas, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve spent many peaceful afternoons there, floating and staring up at the cypress trees that tower over the water. The house, a one-story cabin on stilts about fifty yards from the river up our steeply sloped yard, was built right after the 1987 flood that devastated this region, killing ten teenagers. Concrete pillars put our…
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