Waterworld

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As I watched large puddles form on my basement floor on Sunday, I knew I was in for a bit of work on Monday. Of course, I prayed to the Goddess that my basement would host no more than large puddles while it rained and rained and rained. By the way, I wasn’t calling on the Great Cat Goddess for this favor; well, we all know how much cats hate water.

I consulted with Demeter, the Greek Goddess of Earth, Agriculture and Fertility, and, for good measure, I also chatted up Latis, the Celtic Goddess of Water and Beer. I thought that was an interesting Goddess combination; although when you think about it, it seemed like a natural progression, especially if barley and hops were sandwiched between them.

Anyway, by Monday morning, I knew I’d better begin Phase 1 of Flood Preparedness, which was Find the Shop Vacuum. I sensed I’d be vacuuming up water and not dust kitties for once. I had also better figure out how it worked again, because I’d last used it 9 years ago when my basement flooded pre-sump pump.

I ventured downstairs. I gave the expanding puddles a dirty look, and then I said to myself, “Ring Demeter and Latis again. Obviously, they weren't listening the last time I spoke to them!”

I found the vacuum in the deepest and darkest corner of the basement. It was covered in cob webs, and it was missing one of its three wheels. I tried to put the wheel back on, but it looked like a job for when I had more patience.

I lifted it up and moved it into the light. I started to have flashbacks to the last time the basement flooded. There wasn’t a pump left in town, and the young man at the hardware store said, “You could always use a wet/dry vacuum. We should have pumps coming in later this afternoon.”

Needless to say, during the flood of ’01, I spent the whole day in the basement vacuuming to keep the water at bay. I finally went back to store later, and I was able to get a small pump. By that time, the rain had stopped but since my lower back was just about broken from dumping the contents of the vacuum into the sink, I was willing to let something else work for me.

This morning, I switched the nozzle on the vacuum from the dry to the wet port. If truth be told, I did that later after vacuuming up two puddles, because I assumed it was still set to vacuum wet. So, I ended up with a bit of wet in the dry, and then I feared that if I didn’t electrocute myself somehow while using this vacuum, I would count myself fortunate that I didn’t become one of those “most accidents occur at home” statistics!

I began Phase 2, Prepare for the Worst, by gathering up two of everything. Uh-oh, one cat wouldn’t make it. How would I choose between them?! Okay, I didn’t do that, but the way it was raining, I figured an ark and all my possessions might be the better strategy at this point.

As I was moving boxes off the floor, Liam wandered by to visit the litter box. He said, “Don’t you dare move these boxes!” I told him I wouldn’t, though after a later discovery, I wished I had moved them to a drier part of the basement.

Guess what happens when you mix kitty litter and water? The answer is cats with dried cement on their paws. They then proceed to track it all over the house!

I then began Phase 3, Think of Past Floods in Hopes That This One Won’t Be as Bad as Any of the Previous Ones. My parent’s basement always used to flood. The unfortunate thing was that my Dad had a postal stationery business and kept all his stationery in boxes in the basement; there were hundreds of boxes.

I remember spending countless hours lugging boxes of wet paper up from the basement. I was then given a towel with which I began to press each envelope. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. It was just incredibly boring.

The worst thing about the basement flooding was my Dad’s anticipation the night before it happened. He’d be up all night pacing, which was intermingled with a thud-thud-thud as he went down the basement stairs to check if there was any water. When the first sign of water was detected, my Dad shouted, “We're taking on water now!” as if our house was the Titanic.

At that point, I’d hear him thud-thud-thud up the basement stairs, and then thud-thud-thud up the stairs to the second floor. I’d hear the bedroom door to my parent’s room open and then close. The wait was over, the water was inevitable, and my Dad gave in to Mother Nature and went to bed. I think it was almost a relief at that point for my Dad.

My parent’s finally installed a sump pump years later. I don’t know why it took them so long to do that; however, I did have those bad flood memories. And, they were the ones I held onto when I said to myself yesterday, “There’s no way my basement will be as bad as theirs was,” and I had myself feeling a bit better.

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. As with my father, the anticipation was always the worst no matter what the water level was. I went down to the basement once every hour yesterday, vacuumed my three major puddles, and dumped out the vacuum in the backyard. I knew I was only taking out what would eventually come back in, but at least I felt like I was controlling it somehow.

Anyway, I was lucky, because streets were closed, buildings were totally flooded, and all I had was a sore lower back from dumping the vacuum out. Later in the day, I got a message from Bill saying, “How about a field trip tomorrow morning –either by bike or car – should be some interesting sights around here!” When I replied with “Yes,” I felt like Helen Hunt responding to Bill Paxton in the movie Twister. Let’s go hunt down some floods!

When Bill picked me up, as usual, my cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee was there to greet me when I climbed inside the truck. Bill headed toward Main Street, and he began to tell me about everything I had missed overnight due to the fact that I had been drowning in my own puddles of sorrow. Apparently, I had missed a lot!

Main Street was closed. In the 22 years I’ve lived in the area, I’d never seen it that bad. Of course, Bill knew the detour to get around the flooded area. I do believe he began flood hunting without me earlier in the morning. But being Helen Hunt, I had to dust off and stare at my Academy Award for an hour before leaving the house!

We drove by a business that was right on the Nashua River. They had done a wonderful job of restoring the old brick building that stood there for many years, and it was sad to see it being engulfed by the raging river.





We walked over a rope that had the sign “Do Not Enter” hanging from it. We’re profession flood hunters. The rules so don’t apply to us!

Bill pointed off to the right and said, “Hey, that’s the road we used to bike down. That’s Walker Road.” For a moment, I thought Bill was losing his flood hunting edge, because I saw no road. All I saw was the river, which was now as wide as three football fields.

Bill said, “Up there.” I took another look. (Note to Self: Wear your glasses when flood hunting!) I saw the road sloping down from the hill, and then I saw nothing but water. I think he could tell I was amazed, and then he said, “Look over there. There’s the rest of the road.” It was pretty wild, just like the water rushing by in front of us.

After we had our fill, it was time to head over to West Groton. Bill said that after West Groton, we’d make our way to Pepperell. As we walked back to Bill’s truck, he said, “This is what we old retired people do!” And, in that moment, I was really liking being old and retired even if I still wasn’t eligible to join AARP.

Of course, flood hunters have a plan of action; however, because of the nature of our business, we had to expect the unexpected. As it turned out, many routes to the flooded areas were marked with “Road Closed” signs. It seemed like we turned around and went back as much as we went forward striving to get orchestra seats to Mother Nature’s aqua symphony.

Again, this doesn’t apply to us!



This is what I like to call flooding irony.



And, this was also a road we once biked down.



Before we went to the covered bridge, we stopped at the bridge that was about a mile upstream from it. Everyone was out on the bridge. Like us, everyone seemed to think the flooding was a far better way to be entertained than by spending $8 at the movie theater.

The water was so high that it was flowing over the road; it definitely had a mind of its own.

I loved the way the water danced over this grate.

And, there’s nothing like playing in the puddles even when you’re old and retired. Of course, there’s nothing worse than cold wet feet, but it was worth. Even when you’re old and retired, you still want to feel like a kid again!

This is more flood irony. No swimming. Are you kidding me?!



This captivated me. When you think of power, you often think of powerful people. I do believe that I often forget how powerful nature can be, even when it’s in my own backyard.

Eventually, Bill and I tore ourselves away from the bridge. It was hard to leave all the excitement. But, we had a date with the covered bridge!

When we arrived, we passed a condominium complex that look like it was totally flooded out. I felt really badly complaining about my puddles then. At least, I did not have to leave my home; as we walked by, I could see a couple packing up all their belongs in their car.

As I walked toward the bridge, I could see that the crane was still there and that the thingies that comprised the “covered” in “covered bridge” all appeared to be on now. There didn’t seem to be too much going on; however, it was really starting to look like a bridge. To me, it was beautiful, and I do believe it was almost like an architectural Picasso in some ways.



As we walked over the bridge, I anticipated what the flood had done to the water level. Usually, there is 25 feet between the bridge and the river running underneath it. When I looked down today, there was 4 feet of clearance, if that.



As Bill and I stood there amazed at the construction and now with the water level, a man came up next to us toting a camera. He wondered out loud to Bill about this “fake” bridge they were putting up. Bill said, sounding a bit perturbed, “What do you mean by fake?” The man went onto explain that he didn’t think the bridge looked like a covered bridge. Bill explained to him that it would when it was finished.

It’s funny, because when Bill used to take me by the bridge, I was very “Ho-hum” about it. As it took shape, I became just as excited about it as Bill. When Bill spoke today with authority to this man about how the bridge would look and about the bridge’s history, I said to myself, “You tell him, Bill! Our bridge is no fake!”

Many “Road Closed” signs and a “fake” bridge discussion later, Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt headed for home. In addition to cyclist, Mom, baker, cat whisperer, vintage fashionista and Sephora addict, I could now label myself a flood hunter. After Bill dropped me off, he sent me a text message that said, “We should have checked the Ayer fire station this morning – the back and the apt building next door are all flooded.”

I had to laugh. I was really beginning to love being Helen Hunt when I wasn’t being old and retired. Most importantly, I was in such very good and like-minded company. ♥