Not our Alamo
His face says "worried" but the lights say "we're ready to party." At 11:30 p.m., I was watching Rick and Morty and drinking a glass of cheap wine in a pair of horrendous shorts on the couch with my husband. By 8 the next morning, my husband was slowly working his way through the roof of our attic with a dull Sawzall. It was a pretty atypical weekend, is what I’m getting at. I’d been through a flood before – Allison pummeled my little La Porte subdivision for hours and we – my sister, brother, parents and I – walked away with about three feet of water in our house by the time the rain stopped. If you’ve been through it, you know that for a while, rainstorms make you nervous. Water collecting in the streets is an unwelcome site and watching weather forecasts – almost compulsively – becomes a way of life. But people move on. We’re resilient. Complacency sets in as the memory of those disasters fade. But if you ever find yourself in another flood,