Tuesday, July 11, 2000

Droughts prove man not so mighty
By Bill Whitaker

No sooner had water from the rain-swollen Clear Fork of the Brazos been discharged into parched Lake Fort Phantom Hill than drought-weary Abilene officials began considering scaling back public water restrictions — and with the worst of summer yet to come.

Forgive them, Lord. They’re only human.

Of course, you can understand why city officials want a quick fix to our water crisis, even if that fix isn’t a lasting one. When people aren’t griping about restrictions, they’re griping about the city’s myopic foresight about water. And yet, after conversations with state officials regarding water issues in the 21st century, it’s obvious solving water woes is going to be far more complicated than ever before.

This should’ve been obvious from the history of the Colorado River Municipal Water District, which ultimately built the Ivie Reservoir that so many people talk hopefully about these days. When the district sought a state permit to build Lake Thomas back in the 1950s, it took only a day for the permit to be granted.

But when it came to gaining permission to build Ivie Reservoir, CRMWD officials worked for more than a decade to surmount fierce opposition by the powerful Lower Colorado River Authority downstream plus subsequent concerns over the little Concho water snake’s survival.

Approval finally came in 1987.

Although assistant city water director Linda Simpson insists Abilenians have gradually gotten better about conserving the vast amounts of water heaped upon local lawns, she says she’d hate to see folks return to water-foolish ways.

Sadly, some of us have never left our wasteful ways. Let’s face it. Some Abilenians just don’t have the resolve and discipline the so-called “Greatest Generation” did during World War II.

Holy water

Just Saturday, someone watered the lawn of a small apartment complex in northwest Abilene to such an outrageous degree that water ran across Yale Avenue, down Peake Street, on to State Street, then down Minter Lane and finally on to North 9th and 10th streets. A pool of runoff water at Peake and Crestwood proved so vast that children scooped up entire buckets of it to haul off for their own purposes.

When a passer-by mentioned this to the man tending the sprinkler hose at the apartment building in question, the latter showed no remorse for all the precious water running down one city gutter after another.

His only response concerning the abundant runoff: “Guess I better get me some.”

Of course, the continuing pray-for-rain sessions at Everman Park downtown, undertaken by churches of every denomination, are a hopeful sign. And it’d sure be nice to put the whole matter of water at the feet of the Lord. But then, as Noah found out, the Lord works in very mysterious ways.

Dr. Mike Stedham of First Baptist Church’s counseling ministry told me of two church members — one now dead — who recalled the role faith and prayer played during yet another drought our city suffered in the 1920s.

The blistering heat reportedly became so intense and did such widespread damage that, at one point, city officials humbly asked pastors to encourage their flocks, whatever the denomination, to pray hard to the heavens for rain.

In the end, Baptist zeal overwhelmed all others. Baptists mounted a week-long, 24-hour-a-day prayer vigil. This appeal to the heavens worked, too. By week’s end, rain fell in such quantities it threatened to wash away the new dam at Lake Abilene.

Later, more than one city official was overheard saying he was eternally grateful the Baptists had finally quit praying, lest the city of Abilene be swept away.

Making mischief

Under the circumstances, some have felt safer employing the more restrained powers of the dusty, vagabond rainmaker, though as 74-year-old veteran educator Doyle Plemons assured me, this course of action can also go awry, as it did in Jones and Haskell counties during the daunting Dust Bowl days.

“It’s a true story,” said Plemons, who grew up on a farm near Hamlin. “Happened way back in the early 1930s, when it was so dry. They were trying to get some moisture up there and these towns — Anson, Hamlin, Stamford and Haskell — well, some of the people there put up money for this rainmaker.

“He’d come through the area promising rain. What he had was a few old barrels in the back of a pickup truck and he’d put a few explosions into the air, and it really did make a lot of noise. But they paid him for it. And they got this little old shower out of it.

“Problem was, it only came over Haskell, and even then it probably wasn’t enough to settle the dust. But the other towns didn’t get anything and they got very upset because, well, they’d made an investment in this rainmaker and didn’t get any rain.”

The situation was enough to tickle somebody’s fancy, though, and a poem made the rounds, one just humorous enough to take the edge off the Depression for a few days. Slightly cleaned up, it went as follows:

Hamlin furnished the money
Anson did the same.
Stamford furnished the bull
And Haskell got the rain.

Retired Abilene barber Dub Allen, 81, who also grew up in these desolate stretches during the hard times of the Depression, verifies the colorful accounts of wandering rainmakers and spirited prayer sessions, all evidence of the era’s desperation.

“People will try anything in dry weather,” Allen told me, chuckling. “Of course, my dad used to say, ‘All the usual signs of rain fail in dry weather!’”

Not only that. In dry times, one realizes just how puny man really is, and in ways that are fathomless.

Contact associate editor Bill Whitaker at 676-6732 or whitakerb@abinews.com. Check out Bill’s previous columns at www.brazosbill.com.