Reflections
A photograph of an acrylic painting on Arches paper painted about year 2000, photographed and digitally adapted 2016. Illustrating the wetness of the geography where I am planted
Bayou Beau
Ink Jet Print, 2016
Swimming with Koi
Ink Jet Print, 2013
LA Very Wet
Louisiana is very wet
The date was Friday, March 12, 2016. The previous night we had heard flood warnings from the weather media. We were accustomed to flood warnings, life as usual, we thought. Since 2002, we have been on this knoll which sits higher than the intermittent wet lands between the house and the creeks. The highest water that we have ever seen came to about ten vertical feet from the house.
Washington Parish is about 70 miles north from New Orleans. Maybe 150 miles from the Gulf Coast. It is an area of rolling green hills cleaved by beautiful sandy bottom fish fertile streams.
I awoke at 5am, Dave was up about a few minutes later. As is his habit, he turned on the TV. We drank coffee. The weather channel painted a dour picture for the Parish. I was waiting for the sun to come up, predicted for 6am, so that I could look out the screen porch toward the bog and see how high the water had risen. Dave took a flashlight and used it to peer out the porch screen. He saw water surrounding us, on all four sides of the house. We were shocked to find ourselves in the middle of a flashing wide river.
Dave said, "We must get the cars out, now!" We dressed quickly. Both of us in jeans and t shirts, and rain coats. I grabbed a cashmere sweater that I had treasured for more than a decade. I grabbed my over the shoulder purse and two bags that I keep packed with useful stuff. Dave said, "What are you doing? We are coming right back, lets go! If the water gets any deeper, we wont be able to drive the cars out." I told him, "Shut up!". I think that is the only time that I have said those cold words to my wonderful partner.
I could not find my phone or glasses. Later, I found my glasses hanging around my neck.
I grabbed bags #1, #2, and #3. Haha, is that OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) or what? Numbered bags? The prioritizing of prepacked bags may seem inconsequential to you. Why bother? Experience, Dahlin, 72 years of adventurous spirit experience.
The "bug out" bags contain flashlights, soap, hard candy (Werther's), a few pills, Benadryl, aspirin, a flask of vodka, etcetera, so forth and so on.
We had our keys in hand and waded through 12 inches of water to our vehicles, Dave in his 10 year old extended cab, Dodge truck, me in my 2003 Toyota Camrey. Both are dented here and there, but run well. Dave led as we drove out the driveway. We could not see the road for the water. Visual cues were the line of trees on the east, which we knew to be about 20 feet from the asphalt, and two half drowned mail boxes to the west. Our box and our closest neighbor's box sat in about two feet of water. In the distance we could see relatively dry ground and the two lane asphalt road rising up a hill.
Water seeped into the floor of my car. I was pumped full of adrenaline. The few inches of water at my feet were inconsequential to my current mind set. The situation was dangerous. My attention was one pointed, get myself to the dry area. Attend only to the perceptions necessary to proceed to safety. Slow and steady foot on the gas, and steering with intense concentration on the few visual cues for navigation. We eased our way carefully through the current of water. My car began to wobble, loosing grip with the road, starting to float. Intuitively, from experience of driving on muddy woodland tracks, I kept my foot slow and steady on the gas. Soon, I could feel my tires grip the road securely again. Stopping in mud, or sand, or water may cause a car to get stuck or wash away, somehow the forward movement facilitates gripping for the wheels.
The instability of the car only lasted a few minutes until I had driven to a bit higher ground. On the right we passed Bob Boy's brick house, sitting out of the water on a elevation with water creeping all around. A bit beyond BB's drive was the edge of the flood. The land tilted upward from there. We parked the cars beside the road and began to walk back to the house.
We worried about the dogs, cats, and chickens, left behind. Dave knew that his bee hives had already been washed away from the inundated bee yard .
The sun was above the horizon, shining faintly through the clouds. At this time the rain was intermittent. The water was chilly, but not too cold. Cashmere sweater helped. Adrenaline soaked fear. We kept on the look out for snakes. The strong current pulled at our bodies, threatening to wash us into the deeper water around the tree line. Fear of loosing our home, our animals, my garden, and all of our 10,000 plus things, our really cool stuff.
We walked into water up to our thighs until the current felt dangerous. Fear of washing away. We turned around, reluctantly, and waded back toward the cars. We trudged away from the house, regretting that we had to abandon the dogs, cats and chickens. We saw Bob Boy waving at us from his porch. We waded to his porch which was a few feet above the water, he was obviously worried that the flood would rise even more.
Standing on BB's brick porch, in front of his faceted glass door, Dave and BB chat. About the flood of course. I was uncomfortable because of some xenophobic treatment that I had received from some locals. Since moving here some people had treated me as an outsider to be avoided. Occasionally, I had felt snubbed. They are suspicious of people that they do not know. They had little experience with people like me, I was different. I want to leave that steady porch. I pinched Dave sharply on the inside of his arm to let him know that I really wanted to go somewhere else, to keep moving. I have never intentionally hurt Dave before this. Fear brought out my inner bitch. Dave didn't even flinch, just chatted pleasantly with our neighbor. BB, had lived here all his life and his father before him and his father before him, raising cattle. He had never seen the water this high before. Well, maybe in the 50's, when that rusty old truck, half buried in the mud behind his house, had washed off of the road.
Eventually we left, after only a few minutes, I think that fear adrenaline slows down the perception of time. We waded down his drive to the flooded road and slogged toward the vehicles. I was in a nasty mood, "He didn't even invite us in. We are evacuees. We cant go home." Yea, we were soaked in vile water and I expected him to invite us into his pristine home. His family was, maybe, still asleep. And he had invited us to sit on the porch. My mind was deranged. Dave has a way with hysterical females, he ignores them.
I want security. Seems like I have been trying to keep my head above water all my life.
Approaching dryish ground a phrase popped into my mind, for the first time, and then later, it flashed again on my brain screen a few times through out the day. "I will write this", I thought. It popped into my consciousness like some kinda screwey message from beyond.
When we got to the vehicles I took my bags and put them in Dave's truck. From the trunk of my car I take yet another bag, one that has been riding in my car trunk for several years, a backpack filled with extra clothing. There were a few people driving on this short stretch of road and they stopped to discuss which roads were open and which were flooded and "How high do you think that the water will rise."
We headed toward the small town of Franklinton, the seat of Washington Parish Government, usually just seven miles from the house. We knew that route 32 was flooded and tried to make it to route 404 but ran into more flooded roads, low spots where creeks were escaping banks, so we tried Sylvest Road and made it to 25, which is a more traveled road and higher. Twenty five is the route that proceeds from New Orleans, across the Causeway, Lake Ponchatrain, north to Franklinton.
I said to Dave, "The next thing that I want to do is get a motel room," (there is only one motel in town). "I am an old lady, I need to be comfortable, and I have credit cards", I pronounce emphatically. "We need to go there first, before the rooms fills up."
Driving through town we passed the Winn Dixie parking lot, flooded. I notice that all the chain fast food joints, McDonald's, Subway, etc., were closed. Only a locally owned restaurant, Caddy Shack, was open.
We pull under the portico of the motel. Inside the motel office, an east Indian man, who speaks very little English, made us understand that the place was already full. I left my number with him and attempted to impress him with the importance of calling me if anyone checked out. I am an old lady with credit cards, and I need comfort. My huffy inner bitch is not that far from the surface. Back outside, I wait under the portico while Dave walked around to the back of the motel to pee. A strapping farm boy, about thirtyish, walked to the entryway while fiddling his phone. I asked him if he was checking out. He explained that his family had arrived last night after their house took on water at about 3am. This cowboy is in a serious mood. We exchange numbers so that he can call me if they check out, they might go to his wife's family home.
"We are going to the Caddy Shack now for breakfast," Dave said. "Like this?" I said indicating our stinking soaked jeans. "Yea".
Walking, dripping my way, through the casual country diner I carry a couple of bags. A few people stare at my wet jeans, this is a time of a "special situation", I sense them speculating about how we arrived there, looking like something the cat drug in. And, I sense, yes, I do sense, a feeling of commiseration.
In the restroom, I strip off my jeans and put a bit of shampoo, from an old hotel sample bottle, bright green thick liquid, on my hand, and rub it onto the parts of me that I think are most smelly. I don a set of surgical scrubs, you know, the original green scrubs with a stamped hospital name and logo that I had liberated from a hospital and kept in the trunk of the car before I (joyfully) retired, about three years ago. Also in the bag are a pair of high top white athletic sneakers that went out of style approximately a decade an a half past. And socks. Dry socks.
Leaving the restroom, I see that Dave has a table by the window, looking out on the main drag of Franklinton, a table that I would have chosen, had I been the one doing the choosing, because I need a lot of space, I need to see out the window, not sit in the middle of this restaurant, where I might be surrounded by people, and I need to sit where I can see the door. Another OCD tic. Or, paranoia? Yea, you need to face the door, because, you know, shit can happen. The eatery with boots and cowboy hats, is peaceful.
This is in the country of Louisiana. Of course you know that Louisiana is southern USA, settled by a plethora of ethnics back in the day. It is most celebrated in the south of the state for Cajun culture, renowned for a food and pleasure loving French peoples. Laissezz les bon temp roulez! Citizens that acknowledge and celebrate that living well is the best revenge.
Bumping up against Cajun culture is the Bible Belt world view. Southern USA Baptist culture is hell fire and damnation. Walk a narrow path and follow the rules. Good upstanding people, reliant and trustworthy, and judgmental. Bless their hearts.
So, what we have here, if I may over simplify and speak metaphorically, is a border, between two extremes, a love of sensual pleasure and a fear that sensual pleasure is the path of the hated evil devil. Kind of a middle ground. Most of the people here embody southern charm, they are kind and welcoming.
A few are disdainful of outsiders. Or maybe, I am too quick to take offense. Maybe, now, I have lived here long enough (14 years), and maybe since the arrival of Dave, who is such a four square sociable guy, people have been more friendly lately.
Anyway, Caddy Shack restaurant is a warm border between sensual celebration and the rejection of enjoyment of sensual. It is a good ole boy's fuel up place, and the food is good.
Generous servings of moist scrambled eggs. Sides of greasy patty pork sausage. Hash browns or grits? A large glass of orange juice to balance the fatty pig meat. Dave sucks up the calories, my appetite is down, but I eat enough to keep going.
After fueling the body, we drove to my friend Karen's home. She and husband David welcomed us with open armed southern hospitality. Karen put covers on her sofa, so we could sit without ruining the upholstery. She made coffee and offered food. I washed my stinking jeans and changed from the scrub pants. Then, I talked Dave into changing into the scrub pants. He looked good in my old (stolen) pants. We chatted and watched the flood on local TV channels.
We watched the water level from her back porch, it came half way up her large yard. When the water went down slightly, I insisted on returning home, even though Dave thought the water was still too high to wade.
Driving away, I thought again, again this poped up on the screen of my brain pan, "I will write this".
We struggled back through the flowing water. It was risky, we could have been washed away. But, I was determined to get back home. We could have drowned. Come hell or high water, I was going home! To our cozy nest.
The house was dry. Bed, couch, remote control, coffee pot, bath tub, all still there. The studio was wrecked. Some art was lost. The dogs were OK, cats OK, a few chickens drowned. Garden beds and landscaping were damaged. The power was still on, amazing. Internet and TV were down. I laid on the couch with comfy pillows and read a book.
Why write this?
Why write this experience that is memorable in my life, but rather a small disaster, as far as disasters go. My home is OK. We were blessed with an abundance of help, digging out of the mud. BB fixed our air handler for free, neighborly generosity. I know that my inner Medusa can be pretty nasty, maybe that is a plus, or maybe not. This date, 4/11/16 my studio is ready to roll and I am expecting UPS to deliver replacement Strathmore paper bricks today.
Why write this? Because, a still small voice told me. OK.
It was a vivid experience, by crafting words to record the memory, I own it more fully. By sharing with others I connect my ephemeral time with the consciousness of others. Brain to brain, through the media of words.
A couple of words about the pictures:
The three pictures shown here were painted over several years. I like to paint water. I feel a need to live by the water, My spirit also feeds on the abundance of flora and fauna in the woods and down by the creek.
8/4/16
Four months post flood. Our neighbor, Bob Boy, humbled me, by fixing our central air handler for free. The home, here and now, in the sweltering summer heat and humidity of this August is cooler than it has ever been.
With in the week after the flood family and friends came to help with the clean up. Pink fiberglass insulation washed from under the raised house. When I had first seen it, hanging from bushes, trees and fences, I saw it pink flesh colored, stringy and looking like a set for a horror show. We picked most of it up, but I am still finding strands.
It was a big job to clean the furnishings of the studio. My easel and drafting table were hosed down, scrubbed and sunned.
A wet sketch book from the seventies was dismantled and the pages hung to dry.
9/6/2016
On August 12, 2016, we were drenched by another flood. We saw it coming and prepared by moving things in an upward direction. Old family photographs went up to the loft in the home, where they will stay. Art work was stacked in the rafters of the studio.
We awoke, that morning, to flood warnings and saw the water rising. It was nerve wrecking. We moved the cars out while the road was still visible. We planned to "hunker down", to retreat to the loft if the house flooded. The house stayed dry. The studio got about 12 inches of slimy water. We lost less stuff, and clean up was easier, partly because so much had washed away previously and because we had thrown away flooded, inessential things. That is one way to get rid of clutter.
The sheet rock was repaired, AGAIN.
Today, the sun is out, and, there is a faint hint of cooler autumn weather in the air. I am comfortable in my home. I painted on a landscape, in my beautiful studio this morning. I am feeling a few rusty joints in my 72 year old body. The dogs are sleeping on the couch. The chickens are pooping on the patio. Dave is planning to restart the bees next spring. I love and am loved.
Click here to hear Johnnie Cash singing, "How Highs the Water Mama?":
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