Raymond was a quieter man than Dutch.
He wrote everything down.
Flow observations.
Pressure readings.
Filter changes.
Pump repairs.
Water quality results.
Dates.
Weather.
Anything unusual.
His records lived in a spiral-bound notebook written almost entirely in blue ballpoint ink.
The entries were short.
May 8. Pressure normal. Cleaned intake.
July 17. Spring lower but stable. No concern.
October 2. Replaced pressure switch.
March 14, 2019, was the final entry in his handwriting.
Spring flow steady. Pressure good. System clean.
My father died two weeks later.
Heart attack.
He had been seventy.
One morning I still had a father.
By evening I had a house full of relatives, a refrigerator full of food brought by neighbors, and a blue notebook sitting beside a pump system that suddenly belonged to me.
I continued the records.
Same notebook.
Same kind of blue pen.
Partly because it was useful.
Partly because grief makes people preserve strange rituals.
The property itself had changed dramatically around us by then.
In 2011, eight years before Raymond died, a developer named Paul Westbrook bought roughly 130 acres south of our land.
His company planned a gated development called Pinecrest Meadows.
One hundred forty-two lots.
Community pool.
Small fitness center.
Walking paths.
Landscaped entrance.
Guardhouse.
The usual promise that buyers could enjoy Hill Country living without surrendering suburban convenience.
Westbrook ran into a problem early.
Water.
His engineers calculated that extending adequate municipal capacity on the schedule he needed would be more expensive and slower than his construction financing allowed.
The municipal connection would eventually arrive.
But the first phases needed resilience, particularly during peak summer demand.
Someone in the engineering team learned about the Reigns spring system.
Westbrook came to my father personally.
Raymond did not trust developers automatically.
He especially did not trust people who described every inconvenience as an “opportunity.”
But the proposal itself was reasonable.
Thirty-eight homes in the first two phases would connect to our system as a supplemental source and pressure-equalizing backup.
Municipal water would remain part of their supply arrangement.
The Reigns system would help stabilize demand when pressure weakened, particularly during restrictions and high-use periods.
The HOA would pay an annual maintenance fee of $4,800 and share approved upgrade expenses associated with serving the subdivision.
My father hired an attorney before agreeing to anything.
That detail would become extremely important thirteen years later.
The arrangement was not a handshake.
It was not an informal favor.
It was not a grandfather promising a developer he could “borrow some water.”
A formal easement was drafted, recorded with the Hays County Clerk, referenced in the subdivision plat, and disclosed in closing documents for affected properties.
Access rights were defined.
Maintenance responsibilities were defined.
The system remained entirely on Reigns land.
Ownership remained with the Reigns family.
The subdivision received specified usage rights under the agreement.
Every buyer purchasing one of those thirty-eight homes had a paper trail somewhere in their closing package explaining the arrangement.
Most never read it.
That is not unusual.
People read the amount due at closing.
They read interest rates.
They study inspection reports if they are careful.
They often skim easements until the day an easement matters.
For more than a decade, the arrangement caused almost no trouble.
The system did exactly what good infrastructure is supposed to do.
It disappeared into normal life.
Someone turned on a shower.
Water came out.
Dishwasher ran.
Washing machine filled.
Pressure remained steady enough that homeowners rarely thought about why.
My father handled testing and maintenance.
After his death, I took over.
I made some technical upgrades.
Replaced aging components.
Improved monitoring.
Kept the county records current.
Kept quarterly testing.
Kept the old notebook.
There were occasional calls from the HOA about maintenance invoices or scheduling access, but nothing remarkable.
Then Brenda Kesler bought lot 47.
She moved into Pinecrest Meadows in February 2021.