Anna J Walner - Saltwater and Driftwood

A Historical Novel

of

The Great Storm

Galveston, Texas

September 8, 1900

This is a work of fiction, although based upon events which occurred on September 8th, 1900. Names are not entirely historically accurate. Although when able, the Author has used accurate names as the situation warrants and allows. The scenes depicted are as close to accurate as possible.

To find more information on Galveston Island and the history of The Great Storm go to

www.VisitGalveston.com

A ll things fade with time. Memories, that were once vibrant are dulled by years that pass us by. Flowers that once bloomed brightly in vases will eventually lose their petals. Silver will eventually tarnish. Nothing is constant.

Nothing remains but things written down, memories, thoughts and feelings all captured on paper that itself may eventually turn to dust.

The book in my hands had instantly drawn my attention as we cleaned my grandmothers things from the second bedroom in our house in Colorado. All of her belongings had been shoved in boxes and forgotten until now after her passing.

For some reason, it feels special in my hands as I look it over. Theres something mysterious about it. Something I need to know lies inside, Im certain of it for some reason. Like finding it was not pure chance but fate of some sort.

The leather binding creaks, exposing the still cream-colored interior, as it fades into the outer brown of the pages, her carefully scrawled letters telling a story from so long ago.

Andrea!

Yeah, just a second! I call to my mother, paying her no mind, lost in the first sentence. It holds me captive, my eyes fixed upon the delicate writing on the page.

Someone should write what happened. Even if no one ever finds it or reads it. But I have to write it down. Before I forget completely. I had always meant to leave the past where it belongs, but I cannot ignore the call of the memories anymore. The last vivid memories are the ones I wish I could forget forever, and maybe someday they too will float away with the others.

I read the date September 8th, 1964. I do the math in my head. She was 80 years old when she wrote these words. Her memory was already beginning to fail her then. Alzheimers taking the words and the memories from her that she tried desperately to hold on to were beginning to slip through her fingers even then.

I wrap the fragile book in a pillowcase, carefully laying a blue ribbon from between the first pages inside the book. There isnt much of hers here. I wonder if theres more with Auntie Ann, mothers sister, or if this is all that she left behind.

Come on! We still have half the house to pack! My mother is moving us to Texas. Just south of Houston, an island called Galveston. I didnt even bother to look it up, except for directions. The trip is going to take us at least three days to make. And we have until tomorrow to be out of this house, and on our way out of Colorado.

Since dad passed this spring, the house hasnt felt like home. The absence of him rings silently from every open door and every piece of furniture. Pancreatic cancer, too far advanced by the time we found it to do much but make him comfortable, spending the last few months of his life here, watching him stare out into the mountains beyond. He was still in his chair, his eyes fixed on the vista below our home when mom found him that morning.

She wouldnt let me out of the room. She didnt want me to see him. I said my goodbyes, and they would have to suffice. We sprinkled his ashes from the balcony of the cabin and began making plans for our future.

Weve both made peace with his loss, we had no other option. Its just us now. Off to our next big adventure, as mom likes to say.

The movers will be here on Saturday. Its Tuesday September 5th, and again I feel a strange sensation. A prickling on my arms, a chill along my back. The date on the first entry is less than 3 days from today.

I want to keep reading, to know what happened. To know the story she was so desperately trying to hold onto just long enough to tell.

September 8th, 1964

Someone should write what happened. Even if no one finds it or reads it. I have to write it down. Before I forget completely. I had always meant to leave the past where it belongs, but I cannot ignore the call of the memories anymore. The last vivid memories are the ones I wish I could forget forever, and maybe someday they too will float away with the others.

I can feel my memory failing. And I cant afford to let their memory be completely forgotten. The events of that day cannot be lost to time.

No one should have to endure what we did. It wasnt anything that we could control. It wasnt anything we could prepare for. But it seems as if people are beginning to forget about it. And I cant seem to sleep without it creeping into my dreams somehow. Even now, even decades later.

So, where should I begin? In the beginning, or slightly after? I suppose it doesnt matter, as long as the important parts are there. That weekend I can never forget.

M other says that when I was born, I was given a great spark of fire. A fire that, if left untended would burn out of control. She says that Constance has the same flame, only brighter. That eventually it will consume her whole.

Our familys journey did not begin in Galveston, but in Harrisburg just outside of Houston. We were three daughters, myself, Clara, Lydia, one year my junior, and Constance, two years my elder.

Our small home in Harrisburg afforded very little in the way of plush luxuries, the city itself very little more than a farming town, cotton and sugarcane were our bread and butter.

Mother and father had married young, and three years hence, Constance was brought into the world. Upon first glance, mother said, she could tell that Constance would be quite the ball of fire.

My father began his journey at the Cotton Exchange as a young clerk, with a family to support, and a dream to rise high within the Exchange itself, and Houston businessmen in general. Around the time he received his first promotion, I was born. A year later came Lydia, or Lydie as Constance tended to tease her as we grew up together.

Somewhere along the way in our childhood, we would eventually leave the small cottage we grew up in, and head West, securing a finer house in Houston proper, along with other families who had ties to the Exchange, fathers friends, and mothers eventually as well.