The third season is lacking the strength that made the first two worth their while. Just had to get that out of the way.
Our village
considers itself community. We called the
local hall “the community centre” or simply “the hall” (was it really
called Akitio County War Memorial?). We called the local leaflet “the community
newsletter” (I’m quoting my memory here in consideration of being corrected by
some who has certain facts on hand). And though there were many things that made
me question the commonality of our community, now that I think on it, I
remember a moment that was a shining example of community, though the extreme
circumstance may have brought about access to a deeper or universal community
rather than local.
The Flood
Enough said for
some.
Not the biblical
flood, though this one was biblical enough in it’s own way. After three days of
the rain coming down in sheets we knew that it was going to flood. And this of
course was cause for excitement. It
turned the dribble of a creek into an adventure land.
A creek ran
straight through our property. In summer it would sometimes dry up, much to the
chagrin of the eels and sundry other water-life. Which is ok but more curious
than exciting when compared to school bus amounts of water hurtling past bumper
to bumper. I would calculate the amount by comparing it to the school/local
swimming as it demolished all the lower bridges over our creek and crept up our
garden path. Dad started securing them with ropes after the first time. That
didn’t always save them. Dead animals and dead trees would sometimes make an
appearance, getting caught on things and generally making things worse. I would
imagine the force of this water. As you
may be able to imagine these floods where opportunity for high jinks of all manner
of form.
Getting back to
The Flood.
After six days of
this heavy rain thundering down on our roof we started to think that maybe it
wasn’t going to be so good. There’s something disturbing about having to make
sure anything you considered important was stacked on top of closets and
shelves. Thinking about escape plans for various scenarios, such as: on top of
that closet and then if it gets to high, the old, swim out the window and climb
onto the roof.
The swollen creek
would not stop. It rose higher and higher, as we watched through doors and
windows as it surrounded us. Consider that the water level of this creek was
generally three metres below the floor level of the house, when normal.
When it finally
reached that floor level we were given the go ahead to abandoned ship. I
remember running down one of the hallways as the air that was forced up through
the floor boards made the carpet billow and roll. Surreal.
Out the windows to
be carried to “dry land” by an amused volunteer fire brigade. The “dry land” being
the road, our street, which, being raised, was seeming to stop the flood from
reaching the houses on the other side of the street. Our house being the only
habitat on our side.
This was followed
by sleeping on old lumpy spare mattresses at Mrs. Pomana Across The Road’s. And
funny clothes and food, I think there was a rice pudding with lemon? Some
things are hazy. Those days we went from being newcomer outsiders to becoming
outsiders that belonged to the community or the community knew about. It’s ok, fifty
percent of the community were outsiders, it’s not a big deal. Funny the effect
of Acts of God.
The aftermath in
the house was weird, but that’s another story.
And to think that
the local belief was that that creek followed a fault line just makes the
location even more exciting. Add the gale-force winds and it’s location,
location, location.
