Our Post-Flood Sojourn
I hope you read Jeff Wick’s humorous account of his “Waco Summer.” I thoroughly enjoyed it and told him so. One reason I found it so amusing is that it reminded me of our experience following the flood of October 18, 1998. I’ve told you of the trauma we experienced when the Colorado River invaded our home on River Road with five and a half feet of its murky water and left it there for the following three days. Today, 23 years later, I will tell you what happened in the interim before we were able to move into our home on the bluff.
On that fateful Sunday morning, we were awakened at 6 a.m. by the sheriff announcing we had only until 10 a.m. to escape the raging water before our escape route was overtaken by the river. What to do? Where would we go?
While Freemon was gathering important papers and other necessities, I was on the phone…and frustrated to the point of tears!
“No ma’am—sorry; our last U-Haul has been taken.”
“No ma’am, our last motel room has been rented.”
Since the water was coming from the floodgates above Austin and heading south, everyone upstream had begun preparations on Saturday morning, 24 hours before we realized our own imminent danger. Austin folks and their neighbors, after exhausting their own supplies, began invading places further and further down river, including Fayette County. I called all nearby motels--not just in the immediate area--but in Columbus, Giddings, Bastrop and every other town nearby. I at last found a place that could take us and our pets, Fred and Ethel, and I booked the room, sight unseen, for two nights “just in case.” How naïve I was in my thinking!
We arrived at the motel before noon and took our belongings inside in a dozen or more black Hefty garbage bags—no time for packing. I looked around the dim interior (it was still raining) and murmured, “I guess this will be okay for a couple of days until we can go “home.” Again, I was naïve and much too optimistic. This dreary room and small bath (we filled the bathtub with a dozen bags and covered the second bed with the others) would be our place of residence for the following five weeks and four days until our church allowed us to move into the second parsonage from Thanksgiving Day until December 31st. Today, I can look back and find some humor in this experience, as Jeff was also able to do.
The following weeks were, to say the least, a memorable time in our lives. One of the first things I noted was that many of the residents were temporary guests like us. Extremely temporary—moving on after only a very short stay. I figured they were traveling between Houston and Austin or other destinations and had grown tired while driving. They simply became sleepy and needed to stop somewhere for a nap before continuing on their way. It was my husband who offered a different explanation, but I disagreed, thinking “Surely Not.”
There were many warm days yet to follow and many nights I looked at the empty swimming pool and wished I could take a refreshing dip. Unlike Jeff’s luck, we did not have a Hilton Hotel next door where the pool security was lax. I would just heave a big sigh, go inside and unload the tub of its Hefty sacks; and then, after a brief tepid shower, reload the bags which had temporarily been moved to the vanity and on top of and around the commode.
I did go outside for a breath of fresh air in the evening. I would drag the desk chair over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. I soon noted other residents choosing the same option. Most of them were ladies (I only remember seeing one man) and instead of using the motel room furniture they’d somehow acquired their own plastic lawn chairs. These women were not as friendly or as talkative as “Ms. Geranium” when she came out to water her ‘beauties’ each morning. I really liked her. She chatted with me about her grandchildren and gave me all sorts of pointers on planting and raising flowers. The plastic lawn chair ladies usually emerged around dusk and were dressed up as if they had plans for later. Some evenings one or two welcomed guests and the plastic chairs and their inhabitants moved inside, leaving only a hint of perfume in their wake.
One night, after going to bed, I was awakened by loud thuds and loud voices coming from next door. I jumped out of bed and peered through the drapes. A woman on the sidewalk, wearing only a nightshirt, was crying and trying to fend off the blows of a larger man (her husband?) so I rushed to call 911. Yet, by the time the police arrived, the woman had been pushed inside a car and the couple had hastily left the parking lot. I still wonder what happened to her after their escape.
Another memory that always comes to mind from this sojourn— breakfast rarely varied. For almost six weeks, we began our days with Egg McMuffins and coffee sipped from a paper cup!
Now, do not ask me the motel’s name—even you most faithful readers of the past 15 years. I will NEVER divulge the name or the location. All I will say is this: Our experience there for all those weeks was memorable; the owners were nice; and we were more than thankful for the shelter they provided when we needed it most.
Brenda Miles is an award-winning columnist and author formerly of La Grange now living in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas. She responds to comments sent to brenstar@att.net