– “Remember the Alamo,” people say. They glance toward the horizon with fear in their eyes and plan their yearly pilgrimage to San Antonio. The Alamo does not like to be forgotten.
– The lake is not natural. It was built as a reservoir, everyone says, but when you go out on your cousin’s boat, you always see strange movements in your wake. In summer, when the water level drops low and lower still, bare branches reach from below the surface, strangely twisted and contorted. The lake lodges close down. Your cousin puts his boat in storage. No one mentions that there are more branches this summer than last. No one mentions how they move even when there’s no wind.
– Each winter, the Northerners come, driving in by the dozens from Michigan and New York and Oregon, even Canada. “We’re getting too old to brave the snow,” they tell you. “It’s so warm here! Such balmy weather. You must love living here year ‘round.” They look somehow thinner than they were when they arrived, eyes fever-bright and fingers twitching nervously. “Such nice weather,” they whisper. “So warm.”
– “Everybody’s somebody in Luckenbach,” proclaims a T-shirt in the back of your closet. You have never been to Luckenbach, and neither has anyone you know. The shirt hangs there as a reminder: someday Luckenbach will call to you, and you will not be able to resist.
– It is fifty degrees out and everyone you pass in the street is in heavy winter gear, as though their skin feels a chill that the thermometer doesn’t register.
– In the night, you hear gunshots. “It’s okay,” your mother says. “Just dove hunters.” You know it’s not dove season, but you go back to bed anyway. It’s better than thinking of alternative reasons for the gunfire.
– After a day of excruciating heat, the skies open and rain pours down. At first, you’re delighted, but as the rain goes on and on, you start calling family members to make sure they’re on high ground. The rivers rise and flow over the roads, dividing the town into a series of islands, and still it rains. There’s a dip in the road at the entrance to your neighborhood, and it fills with water. You count your canned foods and check the weather-proofing on your doors and windows. It is still raining. You no longer remember what dry ground looks like.
– You pass a recent roadkill on the highway. In the split-second glimpse you get of it, it seems too big for a deer. There are too many limbs. A high-pitched ringing starts up in your ears and you quickly look away. When you drive past the spot again later that day, there’s nothing there.
– “Texas-sized,” says the 64-ounce cup you bought at the gas station. “Texas-sized,” brags the diner about its burgers. “Texas-sized,” whispers your neighbor, pointing out the tracks in your lawn. They look like coyote tracks, but they’re ten inches across.
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