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Memories of the '57 Flood
by Larry Arrowood, Copeland, KY larryarrowood@msn.com

It came without warning. We didn't have the convenience of a meteorologist. Of course we had The Old Farmers Almanac, but it gave us generalities, not specifics: when to plant and harvest, when to fish, and when to expect dog days and Indian Summer, but we shied away from the Zodiac emblems. So, you wore a raincoat because it was raining, not because a weatherman said there was a fifty percent chance of rain. We called it the flood of '57. It was the same year Chevrolet produced its masterpiece in hardback, fastback, and convertible-what a winning combination for Chevrolet; what a catastrophic year for us. The rain first created conversation, but as the water raised higher, and the rains kept coming, conversation turned into concern. This was new to us, though quite predicted by Dad. In 1950 he had dissuaded a potential prospect from buying a piece of property by convincing him the house would surely someday flood. The day the buyer backed out, Dad bought the house from Sid Allen. Sid had moved near Quicksand. Dad wasn't 'saved' just yet-that wouldn't come until '53, so his ethics were still a mite on the rough side. And he was quite the gambler then-Mom had not saved him from that either, though she would, even before Jesus took over his life. But Dad's predictions came true, for that 'someday flood' had come. The flood crept up the banks like a cat stalking a Blue Jay: deliberately yet relentlessly. Uncle Billy and I spent the day checking our gage: it was a wooden stick notched to indicate inches and stuck in the ground at the water's edge. We checked on the rising water every hour, and in my impatience I went back on the quarter hour. 'Two inches per hour' we would report. Dad was 'way up north' working, so Uncle Virdie took charge-he's the one who blamed the rootie for killing the dootie. Uncle Virdie went to Grandpa Charlie's to borrow his mule and sled to move our furniture to higher ground. Grandpa, in his mature better judgment, felt the water wouldn't get in the house, for it had 'nev'r got that high afore,' or maybe it would do less damage than Uncle Virdie turned loose with his mule, anyhow, he refused to loan ole Jack. All went to bed that night in hopes the morrow brought sunshine. It didn't. Darkness fled the dawn of another red streaked sky-more rain. Bill and Ida Deaton-our teacher before the consolidation and postmaster before they sold to Saul and Mary Emily Clay-being the educated couple they were, slept the night as if they had a handle on things. He awoke to a swishing and tapping in their bedroom. Throwing back the covers, he bolted upright in bed scared that someone was in the house. Before his feet touched floor, he recognized immediately the feel of wet. Momentarily blaming the dog, he reached for the lamp switch, and turned it on, and swallowed down terror, for muddy water six inches deep covered the bedroom floor. The sounds he heard were the sounds of floating objects in the water, in particular, his shoes, like twin boats, bumping against the lamp stand. We waved to the school bus as it passed by that morning on the other side of the river. That was about the only good reason I could come up with for school consolidation. The new schoolhouse stood miles away on the opposite side of the river. Mom thought it best we stay home. She was right. Reports of devastation squawked across the radio and we observed the same before our own eyes; a house floated down the river, its top crashing into our swinging bridge, ripping the bridge apart. We were stranded. But somewhere upriver someone was homeless; or worse yet, dead. Being stranded didn't sound so bad. It's funny how other peoples' sorrows cure your own-immediately. Each new day brought its unique calamities. A concerned neighbor, Langly Davidson, yelled to us from the other side of the river. Though he was not in harm's way, his demeanor caused doubt as to who was shut off from whom. His voice skipped across the swirling murky waters like a rock thrown into the water on its flat side, carrying a certain element of alarm, for his report was of a disastrous nature; Dad's car, left parked on the side of the road (evidently Dad had carpooled that week), was in immediate peril of falling into the river, as the road was about to slide into the raging current. Saul Clay, who made a good living driving a coal truck and who was the same Saul Clay who bought the store for his wife Mary Emily, from Bill and Ida Deaton, thus inheriting the post office, came to the rescue. Getting the car keys from Mom, he stepped into a boat, pushed off the bank, and immediately the raging current swept him downstream. Paddling hard enough to beat the water to death, dodging floating trees, bloated animals, and partially submerged logs, Saul finally landed the boat about a half mile downstream from where he put in; we all breathed a sigh of relief. Langly met him at the car, walking around it and signing like a deaf man stuttering, first at the car, then the river, then the sky, back to the car, and across to us. We waited. Saul never attempted to move the car. We assumed, too dangerous. An hour or so later Saul came back, reversing the treacherous crossing. He wouldn't even comment; he simply shook his head in disbelief. The car, we later learned, was not at all in danger, but the event, told and retold by eye witnesses who were present and not so present, remained a lingering controversy. Langly Davidson later swore to Dad that if it hadn't been for him, the car would have been swept away down to the Gulf of Mexico, and it would have cost a lot of money to retrieve it. Saul, was tempted to refuse Langly credit at the store, but he felt a charitable responsibility to Langly's wife and five children. When asked about the misunderstanding, for months he still shook his head and refused comment, especially to Langly, who occasionally reminded him of the miracle, since the car wasn't washed away. Saul eventually mellowed a bit, but not much-he did endanger his life because of Langly's exaggerated reaction-both the making and martyrdom of some heroes. Saul, the good hearted soul he was, later reasoned that Langly must have felt so cut off from the community that he concocted the story just to have someone to talk to. After all, what fun is it going through a flood if you can't share the drama with someone. That's like a preacher getting a hole-in-one on the only Sunday he ever skipped church to play golf. Only he and God can share it; it's questionable that God even cares. We lost almost all our furniture. We moved in to an abandoned house until the water receded. Living on the side of the river opposite the road, we were cutoff from most rescue efforts. Sid Allen, who sold Dad the house, and who also worked on the L&N Railroad, helped to orchestrate a train stopping to give us food. Grandpa never did apologize. Somehow he felt his decision was right: not loaning the mule and sled to my Uncle Virdie. He probably was; who knows what might have happened otherwise. Uncle Virdie reminds me of the flood once in awhile. 'Ya know, he begins, 'yer Grandpa Charlie was a purddy good man, but I'll nev'r understand why he wouldn't let me borrow his mule and sled, fer yer Mom would still have her furniture if he had've,'-as if Mom is still mourning over the loss of used blond furniture that would now be about forty-five years old. 'And another thang,' he always adds, 'he should nev'r have let that snake handlin' preacher, Raney Noble, hold that reviv'l. Ya know it twas your Dad who stopped it, don't ya?' I answer depending on the mood I'm in-sometimes to hear the story again, for Uncle Virdie is a good story teller, sharing details of dates, names, places, and opinions. A negative nod, or silence, quickly brings the story to life-the snakes 'gitten' madder and multiplying in number' each time he tells it. He was right about Rainey Noble, but somehow the two (the flood and the revival) don't go together, like saying the Colonies should not have allowed the Boston Tea Party and they wouldn't have had to beat that General Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg. Time and context have 'narry a meanin'.' Uncle Virdie has a gift for grouping the past and the present, thus always able to conjecture an opinion for the future. Once the rising waters rested, Mom reclaimed our house, scrubbing out the mud as the water receded. It's best to time it just right so as to use the receding river water for scrub water. My older sister Joyce, worked by Mom's side, grousing all the while about her irresponsible siblings, which would be Sue and me. Sue sat on the elevated railroad tracks that ran in front of our house like a silent reporter and a camera-less photographer-just watching. She still possesses incredible mental pictures of the flood, though she was only five. Uncle Billie and I paddled the boat round and round the house like we were in the America's Cup. Of course we won every race. But the most fun was catching items floating down the river. We gathered balls, dolls, and lots of bottles (Surely the bottles were antiques and would be worth a fortune.). Our biggest catch was a bottle of Jim Bean, straight from Bardstown, Kentucky, by way of Perry County, for our county was dry, so the boys had to cross over the line to buy booze. Now I've always been against bootlegging, but I'm still puzzled why men could, and still can, legally buy theirs but can't make their own. I've yet to buy into the "healthier and safer for you" lie of the distillery companies. From a distillery or from a Cumberland still, it all gives too little pleasure in return for what it takes. Uncle Billy's better judgment kept him from trying liquor again, and it could be a while before he needed the liquor to get a speeding ticket fixed by the Justice of the Peace, Woodrow Moore. Uncle Virdie still swears it to be true-two dollars and a pint of whiskey could fix a lot of mistakes. So, we found a more expedient way to use the liquor. My yellow tomcat, Tom (either before the accident or else Tom the II, for I can't remember), lazily occupied the bough of the boat most all day. Uncle Billy coaxed him into his lap, uncorked the bottle, and cajoled him into drinking the Jim Bean. Boy, did it take a lot of cajoling! What normally was a docile creature suddenly sprang to life. He let out a tiger yell and jumped five feet into a tree we were passing. He stayed there, like it was Noah's ark, till the flood receded. Mom, out of concern, demanded an explanation; we told her Tom had jumped in the tree after a bird and we were mad as could be at him for killing that little innocent thing. Mom insisted Tom shore was actin' peculiar jest settin' in that tree. We suggested it might be a feather caught in his throat. Served him right. Dad came home the next week. "Reckon we might start looking for another place," he casually commented.

He left two days later. That was the way it was. Whether working on a railroad section gang, on a "Happy Pappy" project, or in Michigan where his brother had gotten him on at GM, Dad would board for a week or two, then come home for the better part of two days-he arrived home early Saturday morning and left Sunday after church. There were no expressways then. I would later drive that trip on I-75. It was long and tiring even after the expressway was built, but Dad kept making the sacrifice because he was a provider for his family but didn't want to let go of his Cumberland roots. The second flood came in 1962. Dad was away again working. It pleases me today to think about him away working, not that he was away, but that he was working. He was a working father, not a workaholic: not abandoning fatherly responsibilities simply to make lots of money, but to make enough money. He worked because he had seven children and a wife to clothe and feed. He worked until the day illness stopped him-we had all left home by then. It was not an illness caused by riotous living, but a rare disease doctors could not cure. He was fifty-nine. Not being able to work was more life threatening to him than the disease. While he waited on permanent disability, he applied for SSI. I went with him. By then he couldn't drive himself. We waited in line until it was his turn. An impatient clerk fired questions that he answered, almost in a whisper (due to his sickness). I suspected she had gotten her government job through some special program for the poor. Surely she would understand. But she showed no compassion for the poor. How odd. I wanted to scream: "Lady, he is one of your own. He is a democrat, a common laborer like yourself." But too many democrats had already parted from the faith Dad and his Dad before him had strongly supported and truly trusted. Dad was by now crossing party tickets at the polls. I wanted to walk away and take Dad with me, to shield him from her barbed arrows of cynicism and critique, to tell him we had made it without their help before, and we would somehow make it still, but that wasn't fair to him. And Dad had seen enough hard times to be shed of the bride worn by many of us. He had worked hard for forty years-never taking a dime he hadn't honestly earned. And he sometimes worked two jobs, or supplemented his income by selling garden goods he had planted with his own hands (but more often than not giving them away to those in need). No, he was not like her. But this day was many years of hard labor later. The immediate task in 1962 was saving his family from the peril of another flood. Again, he mentioned finding a safer place. He did. It was a few miles down the road, Dry Bread, still in Breathitt County, but this time on the right side of the river and on higher ground. The house we rented in Dry Bread still lacked indoor plumping. We carried water fro a spring down the road. Today we pay about a dollar a bottle; back then it was free for the taking. Am I wishing the "good ole days?" Not on your life. It was a long way to the spring, especially carrying a bucket of water. And one bucket doesn't suffice for the daily needs of water-it was several trips. Dad rented our house in Copeland to the Coy Wells family. When they moved out, Uncle George Lee moved in-without permission. What a heyday for him at our fishing hole. George Lee was a bit assuming at times, and for some reason he had a way of pushing Mom's choleric button. And this was no exception. She wrote the eviction notice. We needed the money to pay our own rent; George Lee's family needed a place to live. Mom expresses regrets about some of her actions in her younger years. "I wasn't a Christian then, and bein' raised in a family of brothers I learnt ta fight," she explains, "so it wus not always easy fer me ta hold my tongue as ta what wus on my mind." I'm not sure how Dad sold our house. Maybe he used another one of his real estate pitches: "This house has paid its dues. It shouldn't flood in another hundred years." He always was a good horse trader. You learn that when life depends on your own decisions and not someone else's. Letch Bellamy bought the place. It has since burned down. Dad knew what he had to do, but he was slower than usual making up his mind. He could buy a different car without hesitation, even while on a trip, but this moving decision was an emotional one. Roots were deep. Perhaps pulling them bit by bit lessoned the pain. The factory in Michigan had a lay-off. He got on at a foundry in Cincinnati-Reliable Castings. A friend told him they were hiring. He rented a place for us in the Cincinnati area-on the Kentucky side of course, on a street named Liberty. That would not be quite so painful, still living on Kentucky soil on a street called liberty. We were packing again, but this time for the move up north. Neighbors came by to ask questions about where we would be living and wish us well.

"How fur is it?" they asked. And before you could answer, "Don't thank I would like it, livin' way up ther," they would conclude, somewhat in the form of a question more than a statement. I sensed a bit guilt for not feeling sad-saying goodbye to my friends. But I was excited in a frightening way-somewhat like Halloween. Yes, they came to save us, to save us from poverty and ignorance, to turn our sadness into joy. But they were too late for some of us. Oft times we had saved ourselves. Other times we accepted the loss and prayed for strength to go on. Through floods and drought, through sickness and sorrows, in death and pain, and most times without a doctor, we had made it. Without Billy Graham or Ed Sullivan. We made do with Preacher Charlie and created our own entertainment (though we could have done without the snake handlers). This is not to brag; we didn't feel like victors, rather, survivors. Maybe we needed saving, and maybe life would have been easier with their help; it's just that they were too late for my family. And maybe we needed what they offered, but we did not want their pity, as if we were poor hillbillies destined to die without happiness. They associated happiness with money, things, and conveniences-as if happiness was impossible void of these. We perceived it differently. Honor was above wealth; one's honor was his wealth, not money. And when money was weighed in the balance beside these, we didn't feel poor. And a family that loved each other as much as ours did would never die as paupers-alone and forgotten. You can't take a dime with you out of this life, but you can take love; its stored in the heart. Happiness wasn't too complicated for us. Happiness, Jesus taught (and Preacher Charlie reminded us), could be had by the poor, the meek, and the mourning. And happiness we had. So their offer seemed a gamble where happiness was the stakes. Should we trade what we had for what they promised? We were trapped in a game of statistics; unable to compete with the world around us because we didn't quite understand the rules. We had few reference points, but we had experienced happiness. They came to save us. They came with social programs to get us through the impending night, a long night in which we dreamed about their promised tomorrows with uncertainty. The logging companies offered us treasure for our trees. They took our trees and kept their treasures, leaving us stumps and waste land. They failed to mention the erosion to our soil and muddy streams from the runoff. The coal companies promoted the advantage of selling mineral rights-immediate cash and lasting jobs. But idle tipples and rusted iron tracks were reminders of world wide troubles-not too encouraging to our world which already lagged way behind the rest. Their improved road system brought promises of a better life. The roads came in; businesses did not follow. Paradoxically, our workers followed the roads out; then entire families left. It was June of '62. Dad made the decision. We were now on one of their roads, State Route 15, snaking north on dead man's hill out of Jackson. I sat in the back seat, right side, next to the window-being second oldest next to Joyce Marie. She set on the left side, next to the window, right behind Dad, holding our one-year- old sister, Sherry-simply Sherry, no middle name-on her lap. Brenda Sue and Roland-simply Roland-like Sherry, no middle name-had already gone ahead with Uncle Fred. The other two, Doyle Eugene and William Freddie (How he hates that name, Freddie. Fred is okay; Fredric classy; but Freddie has a lingering child ness to it.), squeezed in between, front and back. At about five minute intervals Doyle asked "Aur we thur yit?" Dad drove and Mom cried-I'm not sure from joy or sadness, but with life as hard as it had been on her the past fifteen years, it was probably from joy. Estel Gambrel followed us in his coal truck carrying our few pieces of furniture. The '60's Impala hummed a certain but unfamiliar tune as we sped along the blacktop road. Intermittent white lines reminded me of the countdown at the beginning of a film on the screen at the Jackson theater-a scene I had not often witnessed, for it was a luxury we could seldom afford and, per Dad's strong Christian faith, a vice we could live without. The scenes of the countryside whooshed by much faster than when you are laying flat of your back on a grassy knoll, swatting flies and counting cotton candy clouds drifting across the wide open sky. The wind made my burr haircut stand straighter on end. Life was beginning to speed up a little. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what lay ahead.