Texas had always been a place for emigrants to go when
things got tough. Davy Crockettβs famous line, βYou may all
go to hell and I will go to Texas,β was plastered
everywhere. Three-quarters of her own ancestors had arrived
in the area before it became a Republic and the last
quarter not long after, all seeking a chance for a better
life.
The Texas of that time, however, was not a place that
welcomed newcomers. The government was (to put it politely)
constantly in flux. The neighbors were hostile, and the
land was wild and dangerous. It had taken a special breed
to settle here and build the nation that was to become a
legend.
Times had changed, of course. In the Texas of today, over a
hundred yearsβ worth of laws were in place to safeguard
both natives and newcomers. To judge by what she had just
seen, however, the pressure of change still had the power
to stir emotions.
Ginny found it interesting that many of the same complaints
she had heard today mirrored the complaints found in the
records of those early years. She stood for a moment on the
edge of the rise and looked across the cemetery to the city
beyond. The place had history. Especially here. In this
quiet corner devoted to the honored dead, the echoes of war
could be heard. Texas had seen a lot in the way of
conflict, and had forgotten none of it.
The rosy tints of evening had gone and the last pale blues
were fading from the sky as Ginny turned and made her way
down Heroesβ Hill toward the gates and the parking lot. She
was startled (and almost twisted her ankle in consequence)
by the sound of an explosion. Several, in fact, in rapid
succession. She looked around, but at first could see
nothing. Then a column of smoke caught her eye, followed by
tongues of flame which seemed to be growing, reaching into
the darkening sky.
In the gloom, it took her a minute to figure out which
direction she was facing. Once she had identified I-35,
however, she knew what she was seeing. The Texas State
Capital complex was on fire.
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