I lived in Texas long enough to almost drown. That is a tricky accomplishment in a state known for its droughts. We lived in a town with a man-made lake and power plant on the Colorado River. Mom had a friend who lived out by the lake named Trudy.

Trudy was a transplanted Yankee like us. She grew bored on her little speck of green in the desert, so she often invited us out for a swim. She and mom would smoke cigs, sip Tab, and talk about life before Texas. I didn’t actually know how to swim. I would kick my legs while holding a beach ball in my arms.

One weekend in July, 1971 I paddled out too far. The slippery beach ball shot skyward, and I slipped below the water. I didn’t hear my mother’s screams, but I heard tales about them later.

I realized that I had better learn to swim, fast. I dog-paddled my way toward shore until I met my mother who had come to save me. My look of terror neutralized her sermon, until my brother nearly drown the following week.

Then we really caught hellfire.