Down to the River to Pray

 

by Wilbur Witt

Each morning I rise and situate myself on my front porch. I make my first cup of coffee in my Keurig. Then I take my leather bag, and my medicine bag, put them on the porch. By that time, the coffee is ready, so I go get it and set it on the little table by my chair. 

There are several older ladies doing their morning walk by this time and we exchange the customary waves as they pass by. A white pickup truck follows them. I check the pollen count, news, and weather on my Alexa. After the news finishes I tell it to play “Down By the River to Pray” by Alison Krauss. This is in memory of the twenty-seven girls lost at Camp Mystic during the July 4th flood. 

I dry my eyes and sip my coffee. I’m very aware of the injustice of that day. As a seventy-three year old hard boiled Texan I can think of a lot more people who deserved to die that day rather than those precious little girls. And each morning I ask, “Why?” And these were little girls. Six, seven years old. Paddling canoes on the very river that would take their lives later that night. Why?

The ugly, the horror of the responders searching for their bodies. After  a a few days it became expedient to find them before the animals did or even worse, they ended up in The Gulf of America, lost forever with their families not even getting one final “Goodbye.” Determined men and women poked sharp sticks into rubble looking for a slight resistance that gave way. Another little girl can go home from summer camp. There were cadaver dogs, but by now they weren’t needed. The smell that permeated the air would intensify and the sharp sticks would find their mark. Another little angel would go home to mommy. 

In 1956 my father took us to Lake Charles Louisiana. He worked for a roofing company in Shreveport, and was reroofing homes devastated by the recent hurricane that had come through the area. One Sunday he took mom and me down to the Gulf. I remember the smell. Like shrimp. And there was a barb wire fence. Mostly blown down, but still there was a half a man hung up on the wire. With crabs crawling on him. No face! No DNA back then. No fingerprints for he had no fingers. No dental records because he’d most likely never been to a dentist. Lost forever. Just waiting for the dump truck to pick him up. 

Years later I found myself in a parking lot in Killeen Texas while people who were at Luby’s were removed after a madman had killed them during lunch. It was “Boss’s Day!” Dangdest thing. Same smell. 

But these things did not affect me as those little ladies being washed out of their beds that 4th of July. And it marked me. As I remember America being degraded by drugs, homosexuality, degenerate schools, and so-called “Social Services” selling little girls to the highest bidder I realize that those of us who weren’t in the water that night owe something. We are obligated to rebuild a better country than they left. They watch over us, waiting to see what we’re gonna do. 

As I went down in the river to pray

Studying about that good old way

And who shall wear the robe and crown

Good Lord, show me the way!