We woke up early here on the Bolivar Peninsula on this fine Sunday morning in beautiful March, even with the time change arriving during the hours we slept. Looking out the windows of our newly repaired RV, we can see things we've never seen before from our property. I can see many cars coming off the ferry from the Galveston area and old Fort Travis shines proudly now that crews have cleared debris and growth from in front of the massive bunkers that have protected many soldiers and civilians since its construction. The North Jetty is adorned with its fishermen and women, and even some smaller tykes. From time to time, one or the other of them appears to catch a fish or a crab.
I can also still see great piles of debris, parts of fallen in houses, abandoned vehicles, lawn mowers, boats (did I mention boats?), pieces of trailers to move those boats, blown sand piles, heavy equipment, tools of various degrees and flying American and Texan flags. Bolivar, for all of the hard work by so many, still resembles a war zone where much combat took place. It is discouraging at times and heartening at other times. Clean up is dirty work and our beloved Peninsula will remain in this stage for a long time to come. The cleared areas, for whatever reason that they have been worked, are encouraging and new growth is appearing here and there.
Many of our people cannot come home because many of them have no home left to come to. Most are in a battle for their life against the huge Texas Windstorm Insurance Association and we've found that this sad group is not playing by the rules. More than 100 (at this point) of our friends, neighbors and family members are protesting their action (or lack of) in Austin in front of TWIA's offices on Friday, March 13, the exact anniversary of the day our lives changed so drastically. Many have come home — sort of, anyway — to RVs, fifth wheels, and partially repaired properties. We laughingly call ourselves "slabbers" the name TWIA dubbed us early on after the storm. Many others we know simply cannot face coming here to the Peninsula where they believe their dreams of a lifetime died violently six months ago. One of our neighbors has never been back and her husband says she cannot come back. She has developed a raging fear of the water, a fear of diseases she surmises are here, and a fear of losing her life, as at least four of our immediate neighbors did.
For me, personally, once I see the Gulf, with her lazy waves rolling in, or even on a windy day, when the waves beat their way to the shoreline, hear the cry of the gulls, watch the ships come and go, and see little children playing in the sand, I remember vividly why I nailed my mast to the staff here in this place and why I will fight to the bitter end to have my life continue where I choose to live. Bolivar Peninsula is for me the very closest place I've found to the heart of God and what I most imagine Heaven to be like. Until I change locations, love me, but don't worry about me. I am a survivor. I have good friends and a husband who are also survivors. We will be back strong, vibrant, happy, peaceful and content, and, hey, you can come see us on vacation or any time you get an off day from your work. We'd love to have you — as long as you behave yourselves, don't dirty up our beaches, treat the land and water respectively, and join us in our effort to get fair treatment at the hand of our insurance companies. We need your support and involvement as this battle continues.
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