A River Runs Through It – A Reflection on a Beloved Place

By Gini Weir Florer

As silent as the waters rising in the dark of the Hill Country night, there have been no words; only tear upon tear, grief upon grief.

The tragedy of the here and now, a shocking interruption to our neighborhood Fourth of July parades like an errant firework descending out of the sky upon us all.

Six precious lives in my neighborhood alone with green ribbons now tied to every tree, ties that bind neighborhoods and now shattered hearts together. Images of a beloved place harkening back to days of old strewn carelessly across the airwaves as if the story of Camp Mystic could possibly be told.

I was only a camper for four years at Camp Mystic, a First Term Every Loyal Kiowa in Twins II, Chatter Box, Tumble I, a

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