After The Flood

To other people, it was just stuff. To me, it was my last connection to my father

- Sharon Mangas, Columbus, Indiana

I LEFT MY PURSE AND KEYS ON THE counter and headed to the computer. I needed to make dinner, but I’d just gotten home from work and wanted a breather. I logged onto Facebook and noticed I had one unread message. It was from Harold McKee, a friend from my college days at Indiana University.

“Hey, Sharon,” Harold wrote. “I was cleaning my attic and found something I borrowed from you when we lived in Willkie Quad. I know you and Mike lost a lot of stuff in the flood of ’08, so you’ll be happy to get this back. I put it in the mail a couple days ago.”

I wondered what Harold had found. Maybe it was my Beatles’ White Album, which had mysteriously disappeared from my dorm room all those years ago. I suspected someone had made off with it. Well, at least I’d have one of my old records back. The rest of my collection of albums from the late ’60s had met a watery demise.

I logged off Facebook and went to the kitchen. My husband, Mike, and I had lost our home and most of our personal possessions in the worst recorded flood in Indiana history. News reports that summer had called it a once-in-500 years event. I just hoped it was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Sometimes it felt as if we were still recovering.

The morning after the flood had been hot and humid. Mike and I hadn’t slept. We’d spent the night at his mother’s. Luckily, her house sat on higher ground. The sound of helicopters and sirens had kept us awake. Cable was out. Phones didn’t work. No paper delivery. What would we find at home? By the time we picked up some bottled water and walked back to our house, the sun was high and the stench of the flood was heavy in the air. Mike was waylaid by neighbors. I headed to our back patio to assess the damage.