Sunday Storytime: The Flood

The August before 7th grade, in Elmhurst, IL, it rained. A great deal.

Maybe it rained in surrounding suburbs as well. Or maybe it rained all over but only flooded in our corner of town.

On our corner of our corner of town, on Van Buren and Hawthorne, it became clear that what had always seemed like flat land was actually a slope. This intersection, the one my house sat on, stayed dry. It was an island. The ocean started in the streets in front of houses three doors down from ours in each direction.

I loved that flood!

The first morning of it, we awoke to learn it had rained all night. Leslie had not left for her Dean Whitter office because--lo!--the streets were already partially under water. She, John, Janice and I walked down to the creek about 200 yards from our house and found a lake that began at the last house's yard and yawned out for acres.

The woman who owned that house--a neighbor, I guess, but she was old and I never ever remember seeing her outside of her home--was standing on her porch, looking at the water, looking at us ooh and ahh over it. At the time, I didn't realize that she was probably thinking, "I am so screwed."

And in general, it didn't cross my mind once that there was an enormous amount of property damage afoot and that losing stuff to flood water really sucks. To me, it was just an amazing adventure.

Janice and I went in a row boat with Mike McKiernan and his uncle/our neighbor, Mr. Undine. We sailed swiftly up Jackson street, but found the current far too strong to row against, so we turned onto Spring Road and it was like. . .like a Red Neck Venice or something. There was literally boat traffic, among them was cousin Bill, who was dating "the girl next door" to us, on the her family'ss boat, standing like a gondolier as he rowed.

Both he and Valerie were wearing garbage bags swaddled diaper style. This was because the flood and the Salt Creek were now one. And the salt creek and the water treatment plant were now one. But come on. Gargbage bags?

We were one of the only houses that could get a phone signal. Remember these days? When there were only landlines and, in our house, that also meant a phone with a long twisty cord?

Neighbors and some strangers would come buy to use our phone, even though it could take several minutes to get a dial tone.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped, and the water was tall. Mr. Herline knocked on our door, looking for Dad.

I didn't make the connection that he was looking for Alderman Ferrone.

Mr. Herline said, "We need bags. I can get the sand. But we need bags for it."

Still, no connection.

But above all, hospitality, right? Be helpful, right?

So I walked over to the pantry and pulled out the Dominik's brand box of sandwich baggies-- Not even the zipping kind!--and offered them to him.

They got bags from somewhere else. And I loved making sandbags along with the whole neighborhood.

I spent a lot of time babysitting the Sorce kids while the parents were down on Fairfield helping to bag those houses.

A school bus came by to take people out to get tetanus shots. John ran along side it down Hawthorne with the mission of knocking on doors of elderly and others who weren't out at the sand pile with us, to let them know about their ride out.

Why, I wonder, didn't a nurse bring a case of shots in?

Mr. Sorce rowed a boat up Van Buren to the water's edge at Parkside, or so, to grocery shop for necessities. He came around with a pad of paper to take orders.

And Dad walked to church that Sunday morning. Mrs. Sorce said she thought this was so wonderful. That it made her feel "represented."

So much good will abounded. So much teamwork.

(Except Mrs. So-and-so, who wouldn't let one of our neighbors--I forget who--in to use the telephone, as they were one of the few others to get a dial tone. It was astounding: You mean she wouldn't let you in? Nope. She said she'd just washed her floor. Sorry.

When Leslie heard this, she said, "She had a lover trapped in there!"

And I thought, "Mrs. So-and-so is married with children. Women who are married with children don't have lovers." )

Yes, mostly good will and teamwork.

Though, I got to school a few weeks later, and learned from my classmate Alissa that she and her family had worked very hard on sandbags to. Had, in fact, bagged their house all around with over 300 of them. "And we needed every one!" Alissa said.

I thought, "On our street, we very specifically didn't bag houses individually. We made walls in front of all the houses, otherwise the water would get pushed from the one well-bagged house onto the less-bagged house."

A few weeks into the school year, the topic came up: consideration for the many over preference for the few. And our teacher said, "So, for instance, when a community floods, you can choose to put all your efforts into protecting your own house with an excess of sandbags, which creates more flood water for your neighbors. Or you can consider the many and sandbag along with the community."

This teacher, ahem, lived 3 doors down from Alissa. I thought, when the teacher said this, "Alissa has no idea you are even talking about her family."

But as for the Flood, it was exciting and wonderful to me. Turned out to be a pain in the ass for Dad, of course. Meetings about the Flood lasted the rest of his term. At one point, a woman shouted at him, "Your house didn't flood because you're the Alderman!"

And it was bad for so many who suffered a great deal of damage.

My friends who lived on Spring Road--Jorie Kenny, Larry Reedy--commented every now and again for years afterwards about such and such item that "floated away." I wonder if this flood is a bad memory for them now, or if they, too, look back it and think, "What an amazing thing to live through."