Boerne, Texas: A river runs through it
Six inches of rain, poured into a dry creekbed next to Uncle Martin's shop in Boerne, was all it took to destroy a lifetime of hard work.
Spring of 1965, my dad took us to visit Uncle Martin in Boerne, Texas. We had not yet moved from inner-city Houston to the suburbs. My dad had not yet gotten his first big promotion. Our cousins had not yet introduced my younger sister to hardcore drugs. All was still right with the world.
We piled into two cars, my grandmother, her sister Lelia (“Aunt WeeWee”), mom, dad, my sister, and me. It’s not a long drive from Houston to Boerne. For everyone but my dad, it was a fun trip, sunshine, laughter, joy at togetherness.
Uncle Martin asked my dad if he would like to buy out his Boerne business. Sachs Garage on the bridge. GMC and Plymouth dealership. With a side gig selling washing machines and kitchen appliances, especially Frigidaire and Speed Queens. Since my dad had long been a car guy, self-taught in the repair of household equipment, it was a tempting offer, one my dad carefully considered.
After a day exploring Boerne — Bernie in the local vernacular — we were rooting for Uncle Martin’s shop. There was room to run free. A small town, Boerne seemed ideal. Not close enough to San Antonio to have big city headaches, but not a bump in the road like Martindale, home to my mom’s family. Boerne had creeks and streams and the Guadalupe River.
Uncle Martin let us tour his upstairs apartment, where he lived, and where we would live, at least at first. It was small, but cool, with lots of nooks and crannies. And a view. What a view! But he would not let us kids see inside the garage where he repaired cars. We thought that was strange.
On the ride home, my dad explained that Uncle Martin’s wife Dorothy lived in a trailer (I think it was an Airstream) inside the garage. We arrived home in Houston, thinking that had been the reason my dad declined Uncle Martin’s generous offer.
The practical reason for my dad’s decision to stay in Houston had more to do with something my sister and I did not fully grasp at the time: The “high water mark” in Uncle Martin’s showroom. On subsequent trips to Boerne, Uncle Martin would always point out that “high water mark,” as his showroom housed fewer and fewer washing machines. By the 1970s, he had cannibalized most appliances and all the automobiles, specializing in the sale of out of stock parts to people fixing old Speed Queens and Plymouth Barracudas.
Because.
On Sunday, September 27, 1964, 6” of rain hit Boerne. Little Cibolo Creek, next to Uncle Martin’s shop, overflowed. From six inches of rain. Mayor Ray Smart insisted that a dam above Boerne must have failed, because 6” of rain wasn’t enough to flood Cibolo Creek, that Boerne had seen far more rain in far less time than 6” in one hour. That Boerne had had no issues when hit with 19” in 1952. But it was enough, and it did flood Cibolo Creek.
And Uncle Martin’s shop was Ground Zero. Flood waters washed cars out and through his closed garage doors. Smashed washing machines into walls. Destroyed his livelihood. He and Aunt Dorothy survived — I assume he got her out of the trailer and into the upstairs apartment in time, because she’d have drowned otherwise.
According to the San Antonio Express-News, fifty-six-year-old Jesse Casper left his trailer, went outside in the downpour to release his dogs from their pen, so they could run to safety. He drowned. Luckily for Boerne, Jesse was the only fatality. It could have been much worse.
I thought of Uncle Martin and Boerne when news hit on Friday of the flash floods in Hunt, Texas. I read the opinion pieces that said, If only doge had not cut staffing for NWS and NOAA. I read about possible lack of cell service at Camp Mystic that possibly kept them from getting possible flash warning alerts in time. I read about Tropical Storm Barry. I read about dams. I read about rescue efforts, about heroism. I read personal accounts from friends in Texas — My kids (or my grandkids) used to go to camp in Hunt!
I read most of these MSM articles, Facebook posts, Substack essays, not with a yawn exactly, but shaking my head. So much guesswork. So much speculation. Not enough fact. And yes, I hurt for those affected by this flood. Especially for those who lost loved ones. Those deaths are wrong, wrong, wrong.
Since I am not a meteorologist, or flood control expert, or even a legislative guru, I will not write about the National Weather Service, NOAA, cell reception, warning systems, doge, and the usual suspects that have saturated our newsfeeds this week.
Instead, I will write about history, specifically the history of flooding in Texas. And my personal connection to that history that informs and colors my view.
First — despite being neither meteorologist or FEMA expert — it’s necessary to disabuse everyone who is writing about the July 4 flood of a false definition of a “100-year flood.” It does not mean “a flood that only happens once every one-hundred years.” No. FEMA defines a “100-year flood” as the area that will be inundated by the flood event having a 1-percent chance of being equaled or exceeded in any given year. The 1-percent annual chance flood is also referred to as the base flood or 100-year flood.
Take a coin. We can all agree that there’s a 50% chance you’ll get heads (or tails) when you flip that coin. That does not mean that you cannot get two or more heads in a row. Nor does it mean that the odds change with every flip of the coin. The odds are always 50% (unless you’re in Vegas, where who knows if that coin is weighted).
FEMA maps are supposed to be continually updated. Definitions of 100-year floodplains are not supposed to be static, like the odds of flipping a coin. The data from this July 4, 2025 flood should be fed into the FEMA model, tweaking the floodplain map.
I will let geologists and meteorologists and FEMA gurus explain how river flow rates and elevation and climate change work together to affect the statistical calculations on those ubiquitous FEMA maps.
Second — and I will keep this short, because it’s a topic that gets under my skin and you don’t need to hear my full rant — Texas is notorious for its “we don’t need the federal guvmint.” Until they do. Over the entirety of its history, Texas’ cowboy mentality, its chest-puffing, its exaggerated and ostentatious displays of (wannabe) wealth and (wannabe) power have made it a haven for deregulated industry. Think Enron. These days, think Tesla, Starlink, and SpaceX.
Texas goes to great extremes to attract men whom Texas leaders believe to be powerful and wealthy. They hand out tax bennies, they hand-wave building regulations, they forego safety protocols — all to get and keep rich men in Texas. And they do this on the backs of workers, at the expense of residents, all while raising regressive sales taxes to make up for lost revenue.
But third and to me, most importantly: Every time one of these disasters strikes, Texas’ leaders — from the governor, to US Senators and congressional representatives, to state legislators, to people at the county and municipal level — Texas’ leaders will inevitably utter the words: There is no way we could have seen this coming.
On this point, I cease doomscrolling and shaking my head, and I yell to no one in particular, Bullshit!
If that is truly the case, then Texans are the stupidest people on the face of the earth. If that is truly the case, then it’s the most massive example of “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me” in the history of the universe.
Because these OMG, how could we have possibly foreseen it floods happen over. And over. And over.
In 1987, after yet another of those “how could we possibly have foreseen” floods, the Houston Post published a non-exhaustive list of deadly floods in Texas. This short list represents merely the worst of the worst.
June 27-July 1, 1899: Flash floods killed 30-35 people in the Brazos River basin.
April 1900: Flash floods along the Colorado River near Austin killed 23.
December 1913: Flooding in the Brazos River basin (Brazoria County) killed 177.
September 1921: Central Texas, multiple river basins, 215 dead. Centered on Taylor, Texas.
June 30-July 2, 1932: Flash floods along the Guadalupe and Nueces Rivers. “Only” seven dead, but property damage was astronomical.
May 1949: Trinity River (Fort Worth), 10 dead.
September 1952: Multiple rivers flooded near Kerrville and Fredericksburg. Five dead, massive property damage.
June 1965: Flash flooding in Sanderson, Texas (Sanderson Creek-Rio Grande). 26 dead.
April 1966: Flash flooding in northeast Texas. 33 dead.
June 1973: Flash flooding in Southeast Texas (Rio Grande). 10 dead. Massive property damage.
November 1974: Flash flooding in Austin and Central Texas. 13 dead.
August 1978: Flash floods along Guadalupe and Medina Rivers. 33 dead. Massive property damage.
May 1981: Flash floods in Austin. 13 dead.
July 1987: Flash flooding along Guadalupe River. 10 dead.
I have not seen a subsequent list that is as thorough. And yet, the above list is woefully incomplete. It provides a taste of the devastation and loss of life attributable to flash floods in Texas. That same Houston Post article notes, “At least 715 people lost their lives in 32 separate floods throughout the state between 1899 and 1982.” Their list comprises only 14 of those 32. (Source: Houston Post, July 18, 1987, page 22)
So stop already with, “There is no way we could have seen this coming.” Texans are NOT stupid. The problem has been staring them in the face for over 125 years. And mostly-unenforced patchwork regulations are not the solution.
Uncle Martin’s business never recovered. He lived off his savings, selling odd parts from old Speed Queens and Barracudas. Towards the end of his life, he could no longer handle grocery shopping and cooking for Aunt Dorothy. Someone in town, we never knew who, took care of those daily chores. (Thank you to whomever cared for them…)
A World War I veteran, Uncle Martin died in June 1978 at the age of 80.
Six inches of rain poured into a dry creekbed next to his shop was all it took to destroy a lifetime of hard work.
Postscript #1: To me, one of the funniest things about Uncle Martin’s garage was that lower sign affixed to the brick wall facing the creek. “Sach’s Garage.” Sigh. See cover photo of this post.
The larger sign, painted directly onto the building, correctly read, Sachs Garage, as did his business stationery.
Knowing Uncle Martin, he didn’t have the heart to make the letterer fix the error. He would go out of his way not to hurt someone’s feelings.
Postscript #2: Boerne was named for Judah Löw (alt. Loeb) Baruch, a German-Jewish political writer and satirist born in Frankfurt in May 1786. Judah’s tutor was a man named Jacob Sachs. Initially a medical student, Judah switched to constitutional law and political science.
In 1814, antisemitic legislation in Germany resulted in the termination of Judah from his job. He had served as a “police actuary.” As antisemitism worsened, in 1818 Judah converted to Lutheranism and changed his name to Karl Ludwig Börne, hoping (in vain) to escape persecution.
When even conversion to Christianity failed to protect him, “Ludwig” turned his vast talents to journalism and political satire. His works influenced authors and thinkers as diverse as Heinrich Heine and Sigmund Freud.
Börne’s (Baruch’s) political essays also inspired revolutionaries in Germany in the mid-19th century. Although Börne (Baruch) died in 1837, the “Forty-Eighters” seeking to bring democracy and social justice to Germany revered him. To the point that when their efforts were suppressed and they were exiled from their homeland, in 1852 they named a new settlement in Texas after Börne (Baruch).
The “Forty-Eighters” were labeled Free Thinkers. They opposed slavery, demanded freedom of the press, supported workers’ rights. And oh, did they ever hate the monarchy and authoritarianism!
These were the people who founded Boerne, Texas.
Part 2: “There is no way we could have seen this coming”
Part 3: “There is really, absolutely positively, no way we could have seen this coming”
© 2025 Denise Elaine Heap. Please message me for permission to quote.
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My parents are both from Lockhart and the mention of Martindale was a surprise! Ironically (or not), Martindale suffered terrible flooding in 2015. I remember huge floods in Central Texas in 1998, 2000, and 2002. The narrative around the recent flooding has been so upsetting, and this gives voice to some of what I'm feeling. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.
What a fantastic article, Denise! I marvel at your knowledge on so many subjects!