Old Blanco County Courthouse, 2009

My parents were stuck in Oklahoma on Christmas. The massive winter storm across most of the Midwest piled enough snow around their place, it was too risky to drive to Amarillo for the holidays. The bi-annual pilgrimage back to the city where they grew up would have to wait. As a result, after the rest of the family left, I remained at my grandparents’ house, wondering how to carry on the conversation.

Joe Smith – my 79-year-old Pawpaw – is a man notoriously lacking in words. What he does say is witty and gruff, but it’s also increasingly rare through the years and bouts of sickness. Sitting in his stuffed, leather recliner, he uncrossed his ankles and adjusted the tennis shoes he was wearing. The footwear came with comfort, something, after many years of wearing cowboy boots, this real-life western man could no longer do. In fact, for a great deal of his life before getting sick, he made boots, setting up shop in his garage. His stitching was intricate, and you could tell he loved the craft. My dad and uncle had various pairs from decades before, rarely worn today. Pawpaw cleared his throat and muddled a question concerning my recent move to Austin. I paused. Suddenly, John Wayne popped into my mind.

Joe C. Smith

After eight months of living in the Texas Hill Country, I received word from my bosses that I would soon be moving from the bureau to the main KXAN station. I was thrilled at the thought but also knew there was a lot to do to make the move. My absence from this blog was, in part, due to using every spare moment of time to pack, haul, and settle into my new residence.

Courtesy: Paramount Pictures

I still receive tips and story ideas from sources in my prior role though. I pitched one such idea in our assignments meeting, wondering if the managers would let me travel back out that far. For months, people had been talking about a Coen brothers‘ remake of the movie “True Grit” (watch the original trailer). Central Texas casting for certain roles led to a lot of excitement, especially considering the movie’s popularity among western lovers.

My pitch involved the Old Blanco County Courthouse in Blanco, Texas. Built in 1885, the structure didn’t last long in its legal capacity. Just 4.5 years later, Johnson City decided it would be the county seat instead and constructed a new courthouse there. From what the manager at the former courthouse – now a historic site – says, the move caused quite a bit of upset among residents of the two towns – something that’s continued somewhat for more than 120 years.

Old Blanco County Courthouse, 1885

The old courthouse held up well. Over the decades, it was a restaurant, a museum, even a hospital. More than a thousand Blanco residents were born there, so it’s no wonder pride for its presence runs strong. Now, Blanco’s loss could be its biggest streak of luck ever. The courthouse manager recently received a call from staffers with the Coen brothers.

Because of the building’s excellent condition and the fact that it had no court proceedings, the Coens apparently felt it was the perfect site to shoot True Grit’s courtroom scenes. It also matched the time period for the movie that earned John Wayne an Oscar in 1969. His portrayal as Rooster Cogburn, the man enlisted by Kim Darby to track down her father’s killer, was definitely one for fans to remember.

Courtroom inside the old Blanco County Courthouse

As I told Pawpaw how the movie’s filming could boost Blanco’s economy and tourism, he looked at me sternly. I stopped talking, trying to decide whether he enjoyed the story. Then, he said, “Fill your hands, you son of a…!” We both started laughing at Wayne’s classic line. This was definitely going well. Next, he began to recount the other movies he loved, line after line. It was great! Everyone in my family knows Pawpaw is a huge fan, but I’d never heard him speak so freely about it.

Understanding his interest in John Wayne’s work, before I shot the story (watch the full KXAN report) – which my managers had approved – I dug deep into the closet of my new place. A few years before, I had taken a few pairs of the boots Pawpaw had made for my dad. The dust on top was an indication Dad wouldn’t miss them too much. I slipped them on, knowing Dad and I wore the same size.

Pawpaw's boots

Two inches taller and feeling as if I was doing something in honor of Pawpaw, I unsteadily slinked up the steps of the courthouse a few hours later. The boots put me in a western mood, and I left thinking this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be trying them on.

Telling Pawpaw I had worn his boots gave us another subject to dive into. I sat there soaking up the unusually, pleasant time. The Coens will begin filming this spring. Perhaps once it’s released to DVD, we’ll figure out a way for Pawpaw to watch and discuss. Until then, footwear and Wayne will have to do.

Take a FlipCam tour of the Old Blanco County Courthouse below:

UPDATE: My younger brother, Dace, and I sat on the edge of the bed in Pawpaw’s room just over a month after I published the preceding blog post. We laughed loudly, as he worked hysterically to squeeze his long, narrow foot into a tan and burnt orange pair of one of our grandfather’s creations. That couple and the closet-full of others were actually the ones he once wore himself. Pawpaw passed away on February 1, 2010. After reading the blog post, our grandmother suggested we take the boots. At first, I hesitated at the gesture. After all, they were…his.

The boots Pawpaw made and wore

Earlier that day, my dad shut the door to the visitation room at the funeral home, leaving my brother, me, and Pawpaw alone for a few minutes before the rest of the family arrived. We were his only grandchildren, and everyone kept saying how proud we made him. Standing there next to the casket, staring at Pawpaw, we just took in the silence. As much as I don’t want to embarrass him by saying this, my brother broke the moment when I heard him wipe some tears from his face. Dace is a lot like Pawpaw, probably more than anyone in our family. Very subtle. Very serious. This display surprised me, and I remember telling him how rare it was to have a moment like this with Pawpaw.

Dace told me about a business trip he made in the area a few years before, stopping by our grandparents’ house along the way. It was the only time he could recall having an in-depth conversation with Pawpaw, but it was the best memory he had of the man. I think it was like a transformation for both of them, acknowledging a change in life. Dace had become an adult. Pawpaw had become a friend.

Pawpaw and little Josh

It made me think about the Pawpaw I knew as a kid, always tickling me and driving me to the edge of town to watch the prairie dogs pop out of their holes. My last memory was the friend Pawpaw had become to me, the person I found myself chatting with about John Wayne and my job as a reporter. I couldn’t have asked for a better memory.

As much as that moment will stick with me, a few extra reminders would end up in my suitcase on the way back to Austin. The boots that seemed to represent the life Joe Smith led became ours. Dace’s toes bunched up too much to actually pull them on, but I planned to slip my feet – a perfect fit – into some for the plane ride home.

Holly Marie Simmons disappeared in Llano County in 2006

As the school bus disappeared down a Llano County road, no one knew it would be the last time anyone would see Holly Marie Simmons alive. The 45-year-old mother had just dropped her daughter off on a late November morning. In the next few days, the sheriff’s office would execute a massive search for Simmons, one that would take almost three years and pure luck to find the missing woman.

On the day crews pulled her body from Inks Lake, it would still be another two months before I heard Simmons’ story (watch my KXAN story about the body’s discovery). It was one of the hottest days I could recall of my life. Another story about another lake consumed my work day at first. Low levels on Lake Travis showed the near-historic drought’s effect on local marinas, boating, and other recreation. People were choosing to go elsewhere for water, places with consistently maintained lake levels. After eight hours in the sun and live shots at five and six o’clock, I was more than ready for a shower and bed.

Llano County crews pulled a body submerged in a boat from the bottom of Inks Lake beneath the old Highway 29 Bridge in July 2009

Then, there was a call from my assignments manager. “Could you swing by Inks Lake? We’re getting reports of something going on along Highway 29.” First of all, there is no “swinging by” in the Texas Hill Country. The area is vast with many, many winding roads. The path ahead of me was nearly 70 miles long. Sarcastically agreeing to the trek, I plugged the route into my GPS and turned up the country station on the radio. It already felt like one of those nights, though the steel guitar was kind of nice.

By the time I arrived at Inks Lake, crews were clearing the scene and the sun was setting. I had to act fast after learning about the body found at the bottom of the lake. I captured some quick video to upload to YouTube, snapped a string of photos for my Web story, then began hammering out a script for the 10 o’clock news.

Recreational divers had apparently happened upon a small, submerged boat on the bottom of the lake just below the old Highway 29 bridge a few days before. Taking underwater photos of what they believed to be human bones then turning those images over to the Llano County Sheriff’s Office, the group had just kicked off what led to a homicide investigation. Authorities gave few details, beyond the presence of a body made up mostly of skeletal remains inside the as yet identified boat, most likely sunk in the water several years before.

Weeks went by with no news. The chief deputy came to expect my call every Monday morning, asking for an update. The body’s autopsy was complete. Investigators believed they knew how the person died, though they would not divulge those details. The tough part was the identification process. Because of the severe decomposition, they initially had trouble determining if the body was a man’s or a woman’s.

Shirley Cowan, 60, disappeared in 2001. Without the discovery of a body, her son-in-law was later convicted of her murder.

Missing persons cases came next. The sheriff’s office said it was looking into at least two in Llano County and several others in surrounding counties. One of those most mentioned by nearby residents was that of 60-year-old Shirley Cowan. This woman had commissioned her son-in-law, Thomas Negri, to construct a home for her in Kingsland in 2001. Negri is now serving a 20-year-sentence for murdering Cowan. Investigators believe it happened in the house he was building, after finding blood stains on the floor there. His conviction was rare in Texas, being that police never found a body.

While some neighbors believed Cowan took a vacation and decided to remain gone, as Negri originally told police, many others hoped for answers with the emergence of the body under the Inks Lake bridge, a quick 10-minute trip from the site of the home Cowan never saw complete (watch my KXAN story about this unsolved case).

Two months after the find, the sheriff’s office finally had a positive identification. Dental records indeed matched a Llano County woman. For now though, the whereabouts of Cowan’s body are unknown. It was Holly Simmons’ case moving from missing person to homicide victim (watch my KXAN story about the identification).

Simmons' former home at 210 Cortez Trail in Buchanan Dam, Texas

In November 2006, Simmons’ two teenage daughters returned to their Buchanan Dam home after school and found their mother’s vehicle, keys, cell phone, and wallet. The only thing gone was Simmons. As they filed the missing persons report, the girls initiated a search that had numerous law enforcement agencies scouring Llano County by land and air in hopes of finding their mother alive. As the days went by, the search dwindled and eventually the case went cold.

Neighbors recalled posters donning Simmons’ photo hanging in convenience store windows across the county. Some believed Simmons just left, but the sheriff says he always felt her disappearance was suspicious. This woman didn’t seem like the type of person to leave behind her car and cell phone… her family… her life.

The sheriff also says her body was surrounded by objects meant to weigh down the boat to the bottom of the lake. Someone wanted to make sure Simmons stayed hidden. Because of the drought, more people are exploring what Inks Lake has to offer, as more popular places like Lake Travis where I had sweated away prior to this assignment continue to evaporate by the day. Scuba divers find Inks Lake a welcome alternative to their regular spots. Whoever left Simmons there probably never anticipated the uptick in tourism.

Now, the Llano County Sheriff’s Office is focusing on finding her killer. The sheriff says it is most likely someone she knew. While leads were sparse in the three years since her disappearance, her body offered new clues and sparked new interest in her case. Perhaps someone will come forward with more information soon, bringing this mother’s mystery one step closer to closure.

Stranded boats at Lake Travis

I never really sweated, until I moved to central Texas. It’s not like I didn’t get hot before. I wore a marching band uniform in the blazing sun, for goodness sake. Perhaps, even in my high school “athleticism,” I was just not… a sweater. But that’s a good thing, right? No one likes a sweater, especially those colorfully-woven ones your grandma gives at Christmas even though she’ll never see you wear it. I’m sweating just thinking about wool!

Nearly five months ago, everyone at my new station kept telling me to expect to tell a lot of “drought” stories. Surely, they were exaggerating, I thought. Since then, it’s truly been an every-other-day thing. The drought consumes my work week. I can’t escape it. And believe me, I am perspiring these days. It’s disgusting. As the temperature rises above 100 degrees, the sweat just pours forth. Seriously, I’ve ruined dress shirts. I keep paper towels in my work vehicle to mop off my forehead before I have to shoot a standup. Makeup does nothing to hide what’s trickling into my eyes, burning them like a bad Johnson & Johnson commercial. Moving on.

Basically, I believe, if I’m losing moisture that fast, everything else is, too. The photos I’m including in this blog post should be a good indication. We’ll start with Blanco State Park below (watch my KXAN story, “Drought Leads to Fish Rescue“). This is the second smallest camping park in Texas, and the number of visitors there is dwindling by the day. The Blanco River’s water level dropped so low, it backed up behind the dam you see in the photos. Fish traveling downstream had no place to swim, quickly cramming up against that barrier. Park rangers had to physically remove three thousand fish by net to the other side of the dam and drain the upper end of the stream to prevent this problem from happening again. If they had left the fish alone, the oxygen would have disappeared and there would be a disgusting mess of dead fish, certainly attracting far fewer tourists than the park tallies now.

(left) Blanco State Park summer 2007, (right) Blanco State Park summer 2009

For another before-and-after look at the drought’s effect, I went to a second Blanco County site, Pedernales Falls (watch my KXAN story, “Pedernales Falls Down to a Trickle“). Hiking down the bluff with a camera on my shoulder, I definitely wished I had brought my water bottle from the car. There certainly wasn’t much water waiting for me at the end of the trek. The falls were reduced to a trickle, yet still beautifully pooling into a green waterway. It was, however, much different than the roaring rapids I glimpsed in photos from two months before at the ranger’s station. Understanding there was just not enough inflow to create that cascade, I remembered an earlier trip to the top of the largest chain of lakes in central Texas.

(left) Pedernales Falls June 2009, (right) Pedernales Falls August 2009

The Highland Lakes’ primary water source is the Colorado River. Constantly reporting on the two lakes most affected by the drought, Travis and Buchanan, I decided to take a trip north of the bodies of water to see what the river looked like there (watch my KXAN story, “Receding River Leaving Less Lake Water“).

Colorado River in the distance north of Lake Buchanan

I interviewed a couple near the village of Tow that could stick their toes in the water from their back porch dock just a year ago. Now, it’s a twelve-foot drop from that point to the ground below ,and a vast, open stretch of grass the size of three football fields stands between them and what’s left of the river. Cattle cross back and forth between the banks, barely wetting their knees. It’s no wonder the lake levels themselves are breaking records.

The village, Tow, where that couple lives is near the small town of Bluffton, which is actually the second small town of Bluffton in Texas. The original sat where the northernmost Highland Lake, Buchanan, now exists. When crews decided to dig the lake early last century, the town had to move. Now, some of the islands popping up during the drought in the middle of the lake show foundations and markers left behind from that old settlement. In fact, the Vanishing Texas River Cruise now uses that recently resurfaced site as its main attraction, because the former hot spots are too risky to take the boat (watch my KXAN story, “River Cruises Vanish Due to Lake Levels“). The waterfall upstream from that couple’s home was once the highlight of the voyage. Now, passengers should just count their blessings they even make it on the water. Launching a speedboat is almost out of the question. As I write this blog post, the water level at Buchanan has dropped below the point of entry at all boat ramps, though Burnet County keeps one open beyond the level suggested. That ramp will likely close in a matter of days.

Lake Buchanan boat ramp extension project at Llano County Park

On the Llano County side, construction crews are working fiercely to extend another ramp by 400 feet (watch my KXAN story, “Llano County Extends Buchanan Boat Ramp“). But unless the area receives significant rainfall, that lengthening project still won’t reach the water’s edge. Southward along the Colorado is the other lake not kept at a constant level by the Lower Colorado River Authority. Like Buchanan, Lake Travis is the reservoir for maintaining the other lakes’ levels. Just this week, its last remaining boat ramp closed, as the water dropped below the point where people could put a boat in safely.

Lake Travis' Mansfield Dam boat ramp (now closed)

A much more commercial lake, even Travis’ private marinas are suffering (watch my KXAN story, “Lake Travis Near 25-year Low“). I watched makeshift barges of hundreds of boats make their way a mile out into the lake, so owners could then use the crafts. It’s a bigger hassle though, as the marinas now have to shuttle people to those floating docks from the shore. On land, the original docks are now beached, and some boats are stranded until water encompasses them once again.

Anderson Mill Marina moves a mile onto Lake Travis

I like to keep my apartment at 76 degrees. Sitting in the air conditioning so I don’t have to sweat it out, I find doing this part of my job, writing, such a comfort. If only relief came that easily for the rest of central Texas. Perhaps someday soon.

Visit the “Drought and Rain” section of KXAN.com for extensive coverage of this historic weather pattern across central Texas.

1946 Record-Chronicle, courtesy the City of Lewisville

Imagine an entire high school football team swarming through a cornfield in pursuit of the biggest criminal to hit the tiny town of Lewisville, Texas. It was 1946, and Lewisville had only a few hundred residents. A 22-year-old navy veteran named S.A. Brueggemeyer had just robbed the Lewisville State Bank. One of the four bank officials he had locked in the vault phoned the town’s only operator to report the hold-up. From her home a few blocks away, the operator sounded the alarm. As Brueggemeyer fled, the Fighting Farmer football team heard the alert, took a time-out from practice, and began hunting down the robber. After the half-mile chase, an exhausted Brueggemeyer ran into an unarmed filling station attendant, one of the many locals set on recovering the stolen $1,046. This guy picked the wrong town to commit such a crime.

Mike Pope laughed at the thought of a running back dodging cornstalks in pursuit of a robber. Pope is the current manager of the downtown branch of that same bank, and he shared his version of the story after our interview. Slightly different than the historical account above, it involved a female getaway car driver spooked into an early exit by the alarm. There was also the elderly mother of that alarm-sounding operator standing out on their balcony down the street and screaming to the football coach, “That man just robbed the bank!”

Regardless, Pope’s interest in the city’s bank robbery past was apparent. Under his watch, Lewisville State Bank had remained robbery-free, and he wanted to keep it that way. However, as the nation’s economy sank and robberies in the Dallas-Ft. Worth metroplex rose, keeping bank robbers at bay became more difficult. Learning of a relatively new program encouraged by the FBI, police in a handful of north Texas cities, including Lewisville, began taking fashion tips to reduce their robbery rate.

Watch Lewisville Police Capt. Kevin Deaver point out how inconspicuous his city’s latest robber was while committing the crime in the Flipcam video below:

Learning from Lewisville

“No Hats, No Hoods, No Sunglasses” was a simple idea. Lewisville police convinced about half of the city’s banks to take part. Soon, signs asking customers to remove those items of clothing were hanging on the doors of those financial institutions. Knowing the majority of modern bank robbers wore something to hide their faces, banks aimed to eliminate that criminal coverup.

Each city was able to reduce its robbery rate by at least half:

City	2006-2007	2007-2008*	2008-2009*
Lewisville	4	2	2
Richardson	22	14	8
Highland Village	0	0	0

*No Hats, No Hoods, Ho Sunglasses Program in place

The statistics above were evidence of the program’s seeming success (other cities like Plano and Corpus Christi apparently also take part, but police never returned my calls. There are also several individual banks in cities throughout the state that have similar signs not necessarily pushed by police). Looking at these results, I decided to pose the program as a possibility for the Austin area.

Aiming for the Austin Area

Calling every police department in Travis, Williamson, and Burnet Counties meant more than 30 inquiries regarding the number of bank robberies in each city there from January 2006 through June 2009. Several police chiefs thought this question was hilarious, as some places had no banks. “No banks, no bank robberies,” one chief told me. Of the cities which had banks though, only three experienced this crime during the same time period as above.

• Austin – 64
• Round Rock – 14
• Cedar Park – 2

Tommy Fox, suspect in Austin's tenth bank robbery of 2009

I gathered the available surveillance photos for these robberies to examine their similarities. Nearly every robber wore something to shield their identities. Seeing Austin hit its tenth robbery in 2009 during my research, I decided to find out what police there thought about “No Hats, No Hoods, No Sunglasses.” It appeared to be a perfect candidate.

Sgt. Brian Miller, the leader of the robbery unit with Austin Police, reviewed the findings from north Texas. Intrigued by what he saw, he planned to discuss the program with his robbery task force for the Austin-San Antonio region. Some individual banks in central Texas already had such signs, but cities stopped short of backing a massive effort to include the majority of their banks. Realizing something similar but temporary helped catch one of Austin’s most notorious bank robbers a few years before, Miller seemed excited at the thought of implementing it permanently.

Austin's 'Cowboy Bandit,' Ernest Rodriguez, Jr.

The Cowboy Bandit

In 2004, a man known as the “Cowboy Bandit” pleaded guilty to charges relating to five different Austin bank robberies (also two others in Dallas and another in Corpus Christi). Miller said it was hard to miss a man wearing a cowboy hat, but that disguise actually helped Ernest Rodriguez, Jr., continue his criminal path for so long. As the serial bank robber’s spree wore on, police posted signs similar to those Lewisville would later use in as many banks as would cooperate.

Miller believed those signs most likely stopped Rodriguez from robbing additional banks, making tellers more aware and scaring Rodriguez into hitting other places without the signs instead. Austin police detectives eventually arrested Rodriguez at the Travis County Credit Union, which did not have a sign posted. Miller guessed Rodriguez might have continued his reign if the program to alert banks was not in place.

A Statewide Effort

That “what if?” question popped up, as I researched the history of this program several months before. While Texas and at least five other states had certain cities and individual banks taking part, there were at least nine entire states with bankers and credit union associations backing the program. Missouri was one of the first. Before implementing its program in 2003, there were 125 robberies. Check out the how the robbery rate dropped in the years that followed:

• 2003 – 125 Missouri robberies
• 2004 – 83 Missouri robberies
• 2005 – 92 Missouri robberies
• 2006 – 70 Missouri robberies

I reported and blogged about this trend extensively in past stories at my previous station. Despite the success, banks also detailed plenty of problems.

Living Off The Air 2/3/09 – Cancer patients didn’t want to show the world that they were bald. People of certain religious faiths couldn’t believe a bank’s rules trumped their devotion to a higher being. Regular customers who normally wear hats, like farmers, truckers, and baseball players… okay, maybe not baseball players… disliked the idea of changing their habits.

The program was voluntary, so banks began to tailor the specifics to meet their needs. Instead of banishing those customers who wore hats, hoods, or sunglasses, they became more aware of the people walking through their doors, a careful eye on those failing to follow the dress code. There’s no way to track the amount of robberies their altered system stopped, but most no longer ask “what if?”.

Testing Texas

The FBI is encouraging police departments nationwide to adopt this program. Its ultimate goal is to see signs in all FDIC institutions, but that is definitely years away.  When I asked the Texas Bankers Association and the Texas Credit Union League about the possibility of implementing it statewide, they both brushed the idea away. They told me too many people wear hats in this state. Bringing it to all financial institutions seemed almost impossible. There are 693 banks and 568 credit unions in Texas.

Miller said there would be challenges in Austin, something that could take up to a year to speak with and convince all of the city’s banks. The easy implementation in a place like Lewisville came quickly with only about 40 banks and a population now just under 100,000. That city’s massive effort came because of cooperation throughout the entire community, something Lewisville had been doing for quite a while.

It took the town’s only operator, her mother, four bank officials locked in a vault, an unarmed filling station attendant, and the entire high school football team to track down that bank robber in 1946. Still, they saved the day by working together. Coincidentally, the Fighting Farmers won the district title that year with a 10-2 record. Miller said he would be happy just bringing down Austin’s bank robbery rate.

Watch the full KXAN report on this program, plus track the time and day you’re most likely to walk into a bank robbery. Also, view the YouTube video below to experience a trip to a bank participating in this program.

Blanco County Jail - Johnson City, TX

When people ask me why I moved to Texas from Iowa, I usually respond with something typical. The job. To be closer to family. In reality, I remember those harsh, Iowa winters. 70 inches of snow can be beautiful. When it buries your car every morning or you have to stand outside for a half hour preparing for a live shot on the six o’clock news, that’s a different story.

In Iowa, I refrained from giving that answer too often, because the natives seem to love the cold. And in Texas, when I reply with ”the weather,” the other person usually says, “Just wait until August.” While I am enjoying the slow rise to what’s described as “a real scorcher,” I can’t help but wonder what I will think in a few months.

Standing outside the Blanco County Jail, I soaked up the mild morning. As I waited for the sheriff, the heat began pressing down with mid-9os in the forecast. The old limestone building sat on the corner across the street from the courthouse in Johnson City. It was plain but impressive, surrounded by the chain link fence topped with coils of barbed wire. The two-story structure itself had bars covering the windows and doors. On the side near the top, there was an old rusted replica of the sheriff’s badge. As I stared at the emblem, I heard a voice hehind me.

“Would you believe there’s no central air in there?” Sheriff Bill Elsbury cross the street and shook my hand. There was indeed no air conditioning or heat in the jail. “When you go to jail, you go to jail,” he laughed, raising his eyebrows in a way that seemed to say, “Stay out of trouble.” My interview with Elsbury for the KXAN story concerned the future of the jail, a future that hinged on its history.

Texas Historical Commission marker

The Blanco County Jail is the second oldest in operation in Texas, built in 1894. It actually ties for fourth with a few other counties in terms of when it was built. But only San Saba County has an older jail still in use, built ten years before the site in Johnson City. Three years after Blanco County’s seven-bed structure opened, inmates staged a jailbreak. However, to this day, the jail is still in use.

“To serve a county for this long,” Elsbury mentioned, “she’s definitely paid her way.” It just wasn’t enough anymore. Like so many other central Texas counties, Blanco has a problem with prisoner overcrowding. The sheriff averages 12 a day, and the extra who won’t fit into the jail go elsewhere. The county pays to house them in other counties’ jails. It’s no surprise that plans are now underway to build a new 48-bed facility in Johnson City, which will meet the minumum Texas standard and allow the county an additional revenue source by charging rent for outside prisoners.

When the old jail closes in two years, the county hopes to transform it into a museum. Ideas for jail and past sheriffs exhibits are taking shape. Sheriff Elsbury’s face would be one of those on display inside the steamy cell blocks. If he has his way, he would also like to prevent the installation of an air conditioner even then.

“If people want to see what this jail was really like, they need to experience it like it really was.” When I asked him if he would give tours himself in that heat, he laughed at me before walking back to his office down the street. As I packed up my gear, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and thought about touring the facility in front of me in the future. Then “just wait until August” rolled through my mind. A summer tour would be out of the question.

(Read the jail’s Texas Historical Commission marker on the FlipCam video below.)