Through the Raging Storm (eBook)

1.

The Storm

A crescendo of thunder shook the windowpanes in the living quarters of the Lost Maples General Store. Lightning flashes momentarily illuminated the small office with harsh, angry bursts. Joe Garner, the owner, heard the rain pelting the metal roof as he peered out. The store’s tall sign vibrated in what seemed like gale-force winds. A loud booming sound had brought him to the small window in his office. This storm was the most violent one he could remember.

The rain came in flurries shifting with the wind. Powerful gusts threw fine gravel at everything in its path and whistled through the live oaks. The time between lightning and thunder indicated the worst of it was several miles away. Joe wondered how the folks in the RV Campground next door were faring.

Thunderstorms were common during the summer in Vanderpool. Hot, humid days provided the energy that produced towering cloud formations, rain, and jagged lightning bolts. This storm was unusually violent. Folks will talk about this one for weeks. The wind had to be tearing down power lines and tree limbs. It was a blinding light show that illuminated Joe’s small room like a random strobe light. He stood, face pressed to the one window, searching for visible damage. The glaring flashes revealed trees straining and hail on the ground outside. He couldn’t see much more.

It was July in Vanderpool, a big name for a tiny crossroads in the middle of Texas Hill Country. Vanderpool didn’t have much of a downtown. Visitors just found ranches, homes, and stores spread out along the two highways that came together in front of Joe’s store. Almost everything was set back off the road, easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look.

The local economy served visitors who came to enjoy the scenic country and rustic landscapes. Tree-covered hills carved by steep gulches and winding creeks and rivers offered dramatic vistas and a home for diverse wildlife. Some came to camp or hike in the Lost Maples State Natural Area up the road to the north. Several ranches provided a southwest Texas hunting experience. The Lone Star Motorcycle Museum attracted fans of the racing machines popular in the 20s and 30s.

Morning came with cheerful sunshine and clear skies. The hail had melted, and the rocky limestone soil had absorbed all signs of the night’s downpour. There was that fresh smell in the air that follows a storm. Joe walked around the gas pumps picking up debris cluttering the ground. Fortunately, nothing blocked access from the state highways that formed his corner. Then he walked to the covered porch that ran across the front of the general store and entered.

Joe expected Martha would be delivering the daily batch of fresh donuts momentarily. He started the coffee and stacked styrene coffee cups on a tray. This routine started most weekdays. Minutes later, he heard the bell that jingled whenever the front door opened. Joe smiled, seeing Martha carrying two large boxes.

“Morning Martha. Did the storm give you any problems?”

“No! But the thunder sounded like a war zone, “she replied.

Martha was an attractive woman, taller than average, with a gentle face framed in slightly curled brown hair. Friends spoke of her warm smile and energetic manner. She wore the standard West Texas uniform, jeans with a western, pearl button shirt. Joe had known her since taking over the store eight years ago.

She set the boxes on the counter near the coffee pots. “Got another delivery. See you later.” And she was out the door.

Joe had a stocky build and was almost 6 feet tall. When he was younger, people assumed he played football. His sandy hair and a strong chin gave him a chiseled look. It wasn’t precisely a Kirk Douglas face, but it conveyed a confident, in-charge appearance.

The store had originally belonged to Joe’s uncle. When he retired, he persuaded Joe to run the place for him. When his uncle passed, Joe inherited the store and lived in an extension built off the back. He had an office, a small sitting room that opened out on a small deck, and a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom.

Joe had grown up in a town about forty-five miles north of Vanderpool. His family had lived in the Hill Country for generations. Most everyone in the Vanderpool area knew him.

Some would say Joe was curious – actually too curious. But strangely, he didn’t like school. He had done a couple of years at Texas State University in San Marcos before dropping out to help his uncle. That was Joe. If someone needed help, he responded.

This morning he was restocking a beer display when he heard the first truck pull in. Most weekday mornings, the coffee group met for coffee and to exchange local news. They were five guys who had known each other for years. Coffee together started their day.

Joe had a couple of tables just outside the store to encourage the lunch trade. That’s where the morning coffee group gathered. He took cups, coffee in an air pot, and a box of donuts outside.

“Morning, Doc.“ He greeted Dr. Milligan, who provided medical care for the area. His first name was Jim, but he was just Doc if you lived in this part of Texas. He was somewhere shy of fifty and liked the laid-back pace of life in small towns like Vanderpool. Doc could put anyone at ease with a slight frosting of grey on the temples and blue eyes peering through wireframe glasses. He always wore cowboy boots and a straw rancher’s hat. He was one of those people born with a twinkle in their eyes. Doc loved to tell a good story, and he always had a story.

Two more trucks pulled up to the store, almost in unison. Matt Allen and Scotty McFarland got out and joined the group. Just about all the permanent residents drove pickup trucks or SUVs. If a car pulled in, it was a safe bet they were tourists.

Matt was the general manager at the Lost Maples Winery a few miles north. The owner had brought him here to develop and run the place. Matt was a tall, wiry guy with black hair and a polished appearance. He was quick to meet new people and had made the winery a popular event location. It was a frequent wedding destination. He tended to be more dress conscious and had the reputation of being the most competent businessman in the area.

Scotty was in his early thirties, a redhead and a little on the chunky side. He took an enthusiastic approach to everything, and some would say he was hyperactive. He drove a Toyota Tundra, which was not common in the Hill Country. His round face and eager grin drew people to him.

Scotty managed the Motorcycle Museum and could talk forever about its collection. A local rancher started the museum, but it never went anywhere. Then a collector bought the place and. brought Scotty down from Austin. Scotty knew the year-by-year advances in motorcycle design and who pioneered what. If you let him, he would tell you more than you ever wanted to know. Scotty was a gearhead. If it was mechanical, he loved it. Collectors from all over called him to evaluate a potential find or help them restore their latest acquisition.

Doc had been here so long everyone had forgotten he moved down from Austin. Matt and Scotty were the only other outsiders everyone considered locals.

“Morning, gents! That was a hell of a storm last night, “ Matt said, sitting down at the table.

Joe was filling the coffee cups. “Do any damage Matt?”

“We lucked out. Hail and wind are always big threats. Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad where we are. Think the grapes will be OK. Doc, how about down your way?”

“Saw a sign down on the drive over. Nothing serious. Jernigan Creek is running high.”

“I was driving back from Leaky last night, “ Scotty added. “Had to pull over during the worst of the rain. Never saw such violent lightning.”

“What took you over to Leaky?” Doc asked.

“I get handouts printed there. Pass them out to our museum visitors.”

“Where’s Pete?” Joe asked. “He’s usually is the first one here.”

Pete Birk ran the RV Campground that was next to Joe’s store. He had some small cabins. Most of the space was for RVs and pop-top campers. The Campground had a pool and other amenities. Pete lived there in a small house with the campground office attached.

Pete was Joe’s best friend. He wasn’t as tall as Joe, had brown hair, usually trimmed short, and a thin mustache. His face wore a weathered look from too many days out in the sun. Being neighbors, one was always helping the other. Pete’s campers were frequent customers in Joe’s store. It wasn’t unusual for the two to relax after a busy day drinking beer together.

Fall was the busy season for the campground. There were always some campers there, but fall was “the season” in this part of Texas. Live Oaks, with their gnarly limbs, shaded most campsites. There was enough space for families to sit around a fire pit next to their RV or camper. Most brought grills for cooking and folding camp chairs to sit outside. There were small groups that came year after year. Joe liked to tease Pete, calling the place Birk’s Summer Camp.

Matt volunteered, “I’ll stop in and check on him.”

They chatted through a coffee refill. Doc’s cell phone played a crystal ringtone, and he had to leave. That got everyone on to the rest of their day. Joe was still wondering about Pete’s absence as he walked back into the store.

The Lost Maples General Store was essentially a large convenience store. Customers came in...