the sound of rushing water. i check the side window.”uh, mom, there’s water in the gully.”
mom’s at the patio door and surveys the normally dry gully between her house and the neighbours.”what? what it this?”
she runs to the front door. there’s water flowing across the front lawn, effectively cutting the driveway off. we’re an island, cut off from two sides. the ditches are filling with water, finding it’s way, inevitably, to the lake, and it’s moving fast.
the neighbour across the road, Mr. Tooley, waves while Mrs. Tooley madly sweeps flood water off her driveway. her body is rigid, her face serious. it’s a losing battle. muddy brown water is taking over. when a large propane tank floats past, i realize we’re at the end of the line and someone farther up the debris flow is in trouble.
we wait. the telephone works although the electricity is out. the firemen shout from the end of the driveway that we have 15 minutes to evacuate. there are fears that a section of hillside, high above, clear cut and cluttered with debris, will let go. there are days of heavy rain dammed by fallen trees.
“what do i take?” asks mom. a wedding ring, a picture of dad, her purse. at the door, a fireman says, “there’s no time left, ma’am.” without thinking, i push my feet into mom’s shoes.
“don’t wear my good leather shoes. you’ll ruin them,” says mom, clearly annoyed. i want to laugh but know better.