What can YOU say in six sentences?
Seabrook is rough around the edges, a place never featured in Forbes or Fortune's "Best Places to Live", but it offers colorful sailboat races every April, a kid-ccentric parade each July 4th, and magical Christmas processions of boats draped in colorful lights. It's a water town of 12.5 square miles with a population of 12,000, land purchased in 1895 by Seabrook W. Sydnor and incorporated in 1961, a place to fish, boat, and wear sandals year-round.
I miss my home of twenty-four years, still buck the monotony of Sugar Land's perfectly landscaped city and lawns with not a brick building or patch of designated flora out of place; seven years in "Sweetville" and the place still feels foreign.
I miss the brine and pelicans of Seabrook, the wildflowers that grow how and where they want, the people who grow wild, too.
There's a curve along Seabrook's Todville Road where I used to stop my Jeep at night, an indention where Galveston Bay took a love bite out of the land so its waters could almost kiss the cars forced to slow down. I'd shut off my engine and open the windows to hear the sound of water slapping the jagged rocks, the best place to hear my favorite siren sing.