BOB THOMAS - SIX HOURS TILL MIDNIGHT

Bob Thomas has worked as a professional writer/communicator within the business community for many years.  Six Hours Till Midnight is part of a collection of related short stories entitled Anachronisms, which are portraits of people out of step with their times.  He is currently completing a novel (Divided States) and co-authors a relatively new blog related to business communications at: 
https://brandbuildingforsmallbusiness.com/.

Six Hours Till Midnight
​

 
I
 
When the future narrows to a tightrope suspended above a darkened world, most halt, step left or right, then quickly backward, away from dread jobs, deadened experiences . . . toward childhood streets, remembered neighborhoods:  a time before DECISION.
I am now forty, though yesterday, merely thirty-nine.  Perhaps that's why, despite leaving the valley twice, I've returned; each minute has become too momentous, bringing consequential change, unsettling instability.  In just one day, I turned middle-aged . . . already sprinting forward to another stage.  My birthplace, heavy with history, a lodestone during crises – called again . . . and I came, praying for perspective.
Yet, I, Joshua Jones, should've known my town and people would be gone, having witnessed the events driving them away; could've saved myself some money and some pain by taking this journey mentally in the comfort of my home, but in a sense, really had no say:
For I am a writer, who not
writing, asked, “Why write?”
 
* * *
 
 
The radio announced, “Six hours till midnight.  Meteorologists and river-watchers predict a crest of 29 feet, flooding only low-lying areas, homes damaged by 'Marianna' in 1936. Officials, nevertheless, warn precautions should be taken in case the situation worsens.”
My father sighed and said, “You don't suppose they'd withhold information? 'Thirty-six' put a little water in our cellar.”
“Move the downstairs furniture up?  On the off-chance they're wrong,” hedged Mother, “or just wait to see what happens'?'''
Tired, my dad looked about the room and thought, glance lingering on a few possessions.
“I'll wander down and find out for myself.  If the news is bad, we'll still have time to take their – pre-cau-tions.”
Heading for the door, he swore, “Of all the goddamn nonsense,” hearing the song to which the Titanic sank.  “Disc jockey's scared the wits outta every older person . . . . Aw hell,” he gestured to me, “let's get going; be back shortly.”
Surprisingly few people walked the streets that night because the rain still drizzled and giant puddles impeded access to opposite corners.  And yet, as we passed through our familiar neighborhood, many folks still stood on sheltered porches, listening to radios, calling excitedly across the empty road – seeming friendlier than they'd ever seemed before.
Mrs. Wilson, from two down, asked us in for cookies. Mr. Kaminski, a near recluse from the house facing mine, offered a beer . . .  to Dad. Even Mr. Flannigan, who never liked kids and always kept baseballs that bounced into his yard, stopped and wondered if I enjoyed the weather, adding, “When I was a boy your age, I remember storms such as this.  My daddy used to say, 'Come hell or high water, He'll split our ears with a thundershower to remind us of his power, recall in' Noah's neighbors to threatenin': don't be bad. . . .”
“Just somethin' to tell your grandkids, Josh,” my father interjected. “Mr. Flannigan, how serious . . . .”
“ . . .  pretty,” he replied. “Already at the top of the dikes and seepin' in uptown. A gang's tryin' to sandbag now, so you know it's wors'un 36!”
“We better keep moving, Josh; daresn't delay Mr. Flannigan . . . and besides, if we don't see the river soon, may come to meet us.”
Goodbyes said, we again headed down the sidewalk to cheerful, bantering remarks, but my father's expression grew solemn . . . .pace, increasingly rapid.
“Why,” inquired I, “is everyone happy when they've gotten awful news?” though he didn't appear to hear . . . and just kept walking, lips tightening, jaw tensing, with each step taken.  Pedestrians enroute to the bridge were excited, those returning, anxious and upset.
Reaching the first steel overhang, grabbing the iron rail, fiercely, we had a clear view of rippled black swiftening to white caps carrying unexpected, northern debris:  a chair, shed roof, and baby carriage; large timbers lodging against the piers, then continuing downstream.
The Susquehanna had swelled to twice normal size, both banks submerging. A cold, wet wind whipped our cheeks; the pavement swayed back and forth beneath our feet. Only an arm’s-length separated road from water below.
Those few folks now present, simply stood and stared – awed, as several of the more timid retreated to safer ground; all were quiet.
Staying merely a moment before hurrying toward home, my dad and I re-experienced exchanges between porches, but animated voices seemed silly, an irreverent blaspheme of the violent force we had seen. He spoke to no one.
 
 
II
 
 
Long before I was that colloquial “gleam in my parents' eyes,” our valley lay cloistered by a worn rim of Appalachian Mountains.  The Susquehanna River bisected 10 area communities into a geographical rivalry persisting several centuries, expressed first, through guns, later, athletics: “Square-head east'ners” versus “Shit-shanty westers,” once frequently bloodthirsty archenemies.
Wooded hills, well-watered, low-lying grasslands originally enticed Shawnee Indians, then Europeans, to create farm/hunting settlements that flourished until the mid-1800's, Unfortunately, the new Industrial Age demanded natural resources, not rural beauty, and large deposits of coal had been found; trees, wildlife, and residents were uprooted to extract it, scarring landscape and citizenry irreparably.
Dozens upon dozens of collieries were constructed in all save two towns (owners’ domains), miners traveling deep beneath the ground to remove minerals dormant many millennium. Barns became shacks, grain elevators . . .  air shafts, and cows . . .  mules, oxen, or donkeys. Landless rustics learned to live as moles in a secret, subterranean society gradually burrowing toward Hades.
By the “Crash of 29 and 'Depression of 32,” a billion ton of anthracite had been blasted, sold, and burned, retaining too few rich veins for profitable excavation.  Consequently, aside from a brief flirtation with strip-mining in the fifties, the industry had departed, taking with them – THE MONEY.
 
 
 
 
A harsh Spring wash follows the January thaw.  As I drove muddied highways alone, splattering splattered windows, I knew at least this much had not changed; did not wait to confirm my hotel reservation before walking the main thoroughfare through town. The new seemed an almost familiar gray.  
I now realize my childhood Lewisville was dying, though its rather unique heritage still lived.  So, when a kid, I never recognized advanced symptoms of decay.
Old unpainted “company houses,” those two-family, clapboard dwellings with large porches but small, ten-foot, mud-caked yards, stood row upon identical row on every identical street within every identical town. Fields were empty graveyards for the skeletal steel remains of abandoned collieries; vacant lots meant shallow tunnels/weakened earth, the danger of buildings “settling” or eventually collapsing into the pits originally inspiring their birth.
As a boy, just such a place was my playground, though each parent warned, “Ancient shafts gobble hide-and-seekers.” Mine was a youth of tales and lore from working days long-gone. I knew men left the “breakers” like sad, mourning clowns in shiny, coal-black grease-faces, shuffling and wheezing to the nearest bar, spending half twelve hours pay to cut another layer of “damned dust”. . . . I knew, as clearly as if present, the “company bell” tolled, “ACCIDENT . . .  and death,” a small gas explosion or interior avalanche. The wagon soon would pass, all holding shortened breath till it chose a stricken household and widow – who henceforth made her living room a grocery or tavern, early “disability compensation.”
Lewisville was a world of fear and warning, stubborn, helpless surviving. Toughness, humility, and modest expectations were the legacy given me . . . and a thousand others also confronting crises with a desire to close ranks against “outsiders,” safety in collective privacy. For though the valley then existed above ground many years, no new jobs or way of life had been found, and we “natives” understood, instinctively – avocation, of necessity, was identity, a comfortable hair shirt or second, scarred skin.
 
 
* * *
 
 
“Five hours till midnight,” the radio blared as we reached our porch. “Five hours till the river crests at 32 feet. Several northern New York dams have broken, much additional water rushing our way.  Civil Defense Authorities, not yet alarmed, are reevaluating the situation.  Readings suggest half of each low-lying town will suffer damage; individuals following directions remaining unharmed.
“Is it really that bad?” my mother asked. “No one seems too upset.”
“Let's get to work.”
As my father and I carried the couch upstairs, Mother telephoned friends and relatives, passing along the news we'd seen and heard. Between trips, I could hear her in the kitchen, imploring precautions . . . failing, though I don’t know why. They didn't appear to want to listen, as if disbelieving a flood of any severity would affect them, “Should the unlikely occur.”
Eventually, my mom rejoined us, packing food and clothing, a few sentimental objects impossible to replace, easy to transport.
In our upside-down house, the second was now the first floor, bottom emptied except for the most expensive appliances too wide for curving, narrow steps.
Stopping to dine, having finished an hour's labor, talking, joking neighbors still concealed a lurking silence waiting to overpower this ominous evening.
 
 
III
 
 
Yesterday, my family celebrated this fortieth birthday early, wife Kathy, children Doran and Danny, either anticipating my trip . . . or telling me not to go.  Unfortunately, I'd already, like a salmon, swum upstream – to enter Mr. Burstein's cluttered, cobwebbed Hardware; to buy penny candy from Widder Hiller' s Grocery.
And I know neither exists . . . that none of the maize once encircling the “Square” has survived, but still somehow feel the need to see this community; walk below modest high rises of glass and concrete, not the squat wood, stone, or tile jogging memory.
The business district, seen through the mind's eye, was never “pretty,” just an unplanned warren of nook-and-cranny stores with unintegrated, but practical, decor.  The side of Moore's “Bar 'n Grill” was a billboard for beer – giant Indian with giant hand on giant mug, upstairs window, a draped, pastel ear.
Loud and offensive, Lewisville, nevertheless, had the leisurely informality of oiled, saw-dusted floors and welcome signs posted on every door. Natives were greeted warmly, strangers, chauvanistically, perhaps afraid a visitor's face might mirror the word – DEFEAT.
Now 40, not writing, forced unconsciously to sum up where I’ve been and will be going, I realize young perceptions can be naive and distorted, yet hate the urban pace my legs assume, expecting time to slow down in this hometown.
Avoiding my hotel, I take a right onto Elm, spotting an enormous tree instilling, momentarily, the certainty I seek.
A PLAQUE.
 
 
 
 
Weaned on hard work . . . seldom acknowledged suffering, like Welsh, Polish, and Irish ancestors, the townspeople sought churches, bars, and firehouses for communal recreation – quiet solitary consolation. Their only fortune was time, a coin spent too freely on days of life-long boredom.  Perhaps that is why, when a real, tangible cause for discontent occurred, they reacted in seemingly strange ways.
The valley had inexorable patterns of behavior; existences scripted decades before individuals were born.  As a youngster, I'd grown accustomed to these unexciting inevitabilities . . .  and had definite ideas about the “properness” of every interaction.
Mrs. Wilson was a nice, slightly stooped, grey-haired lady who offered milk and cookies; Mr. Kaminski, an unpleasant man, hid in his house during daylight hours; Mr. Flannigan hated kids and had to be avoided; Mr. Johnson was terrorized on sight. I knew the Smiths were Jamie's parents, the O'Shays – Anney's, and Donovans – Davey's.  I never questioned these perceptions; did not doubt their range or accuracy – for each always conformed to expectations.
Life was simple and well-known, people familiar, largely friendly.  You stayed away from old miners when drunk . . . from miner's wives getting out of church. Otherwise, they preached. The unemployed or striking, as well as shifts heading home, could be tense and dangerously irritable . . . but even that didn't last very long. Basically, the present was pleasant, future, quite certain:
I'd go to school and, if grades were good, leave for college, never to return, except vacations.
 
OR
 
A bad scholar, I'd get a factory job the day after graduation, then marry a seamstress – working, drinking, and retelling mining tales, leaving northeastern Pennsylvania once . . .  for a weekend at “Honeymoon Haven.”
 
That was “everyman's” biography in our provincial, circumscribed community, a small anomaly cut off from society by a mountain we seldom, if ever, ventured beyond . . . at least not until the summer I was 10, events altering the secure certainty of valley lives.
For strangers moved among us, looking stern and official in olive drab, mirroring the news, “Lewisville is dead . . . and has been for some substantial time.”  We, in turn, commemorated a plaque:  “To brave soldiers who ensured our recovery.”
 
 
* * *
 
 
 
 
“Four hours till midnight; the river is expected to peak at 36 feet. General Geiger of Civil Defense has begun evacuating citizens in the lowest-lying regions but warns, 'Everyone should prepare for possible relocation to Red Cross centers in higher elevations.
This measure will guarantee public safety, if each of us cooperates with local authorities. You may return to your homes once the extent of flood damage is known.  Stay tuned to this station for further news bulletins. '”
My father and mother, still at the table, glued to the radio, continued talking while I, suddenly restless, went to the porch.
Sitting on the steps, looking up and down the street, I could see Mr. Kaminski, the recluse, drinking beer and putting his arm around Mary, a high school senior/Davey's elder sister.
Unable to hear their words, I watched him point inside as she pulled away, unsuccessfully.
The Widow Wilson just stood quietly, but in dim evening light, cried silently.
The O'Shays and Donovans, my best friends' folks, argued, then gestured, each mother separating each father from the fray.
Everyone performed a little scene worth attention; I was deciding which to check . . . when Davey came searching for his sister.
Glancing at Kaminski's glider, where the two now sat, he stopped with me to study her, not yet ready to complete his errand.
I asked, “People seem a bit runny tonight?  Mr. Flannigan was really friendly?”
“Wha'da'ya mean funny?” he stared at Mary.  “Don’t be a shit-shanty.”
“I'm not,” I continued, “but they aren't actin' right.”
Still watchful, he saw his sister drink from Mr. Kaminski's bottle.  “You're off your rocker.”
“Just look at Old Lady Wilson, and the Hermit havin' a fine 'n dandy time . . . not as they're supposed; weird night!”
I was getting mad, cuz Davey ignored me, and added, “Even Mary's strange. Likin' that . . .  “
“. . . wha'da'ya mean, Shit-Shanty! She doesn't!  Not every day a big ol' flood happens. My Ma says it's an omen; Pa calls it excitin’.  But anyway, I gotta leave,” said he, standing quickly, then heading across the street, sister on the threshold into the house. Instantly, a car door slammed and Mr. Pudalski, who taught English to the eleventh grade. “Helloed” and went inside, searching for Dad.
He wore his battered baseball hat, championship letter sweater, the kind my father received but wouldn't wear, yet seemed peculiar, sweating and covered with mud.  Our one Korean war hero was tired – shuffling . . . bent-over . . .  beat-up.  I followed, as always, cuz I admired him but listened from the living room, not kitchen.
Softly.
“ . . .  going to lose everything. I was uptown; saw 'em workin' on the dikes. Governor's called in the National Guard. The 'Flats' are underwater, and we'll get it bad, too, so I'm off'ta help the wife but had to warn you.  When evacuated, phone me; they’ll open the gym. On a hill.”
“Thanks, Ralphie,” whispered my father gratefully, “I guess we just wait. Better go; Ida'll be worried. I'll shoot a flare if we need you,” he laughed  “Promise to do the same?”
“Sure,” he agreed, now passing through the entry, “though, Christ, I’m SCARED . . . . Worse than people imagine.  Little will be saved. Damn blood pressure's up another twenty.”
As he left, my mother begged, “Drive carefully.”   My father turned away, hearing the buzz of the special bulletin echoed by a hundred radios tuned to one station.
The “bee'zzzzz” swarmed, then left, becoming the spooky silence of unrest.
 
 
IV
 
 
My first reconnaissance completed, single suitcase unpacked, I feel an antiseptic sterility in this plastic hotel . . .  and wonder why I came. In person. Physically, the town I'm here to see is gone . . .  or buried beneath 20 years of earth, a mere geological oddity.
I've a decision.
When I went to college, my valley script intact, I planned no return, except vacations.  Curiosity, financial necessity, and insecurity drew me back . . . to a job as a reporter . . . who watched Lewisville change unwillingly.  Money, not poverty, finally broke them, erasing old traditions permanently.
Never knowing whether exile was “home” or away, I again left the day this community became a city, drifting for a time, a brief rootless hiatus, aimlessly.  I took several positions, each further north, revisiting my college, eventually meeting, then marrying, Kathleen.
Settling, my writing grew serious; children do that.  Five springs, I've now fictionalized exclusively, worrying together a livable wage, a stable though inconstant trade – till the pen stopped . . .  and not working, I wondered, “Must I fight it?”
To write means lonely hours of dredging, recreating, but never forgetting my horrors; painstakingly fixing a word fifty readers will speed read.  And I'm middle-aged, more experience behind than ahead, that moment a half century's preparation should accede to fruition . . .  but hasn't – materi-or-person-al-ly.
So why fight? What, exactly, did my artistry accomplish?  Where, in the future, will this present land me? Even if I do “succeed!”
Recently, the question was defined imminently: an offer from a New York magazine.  Should I leap at this opportunity? Steady money giving my wife, son, and daughter needed security?  Does the place they are raised really matter?  Can “dirt” alter values and identity, instilling the certainty I had and always seek?
They seem happy, but I must decide, too soon . . . and ran, immediately, to the valley, waiting for the wind to whisper answers, chasing a magical key through unfamiliar streets, to unlock yesterday . . . and tomorrow.
 
 
* * *
 
 
“Three hours till midnight, when the river is expected to crest at 42 feet. Civil Defense Martial, General Wilbur O. Geiger, has announced completion of Phase I evacuation; all from low-lying areas are safe. Early estimates suggest damages surpassing '36,' a now invalid point of reference. Residents above Fourth Street will be relocated; others should take precautions.  Stay tuned to this station for up-to-date disaster information. . . .”
Everyone must have known we were the ones warned, but not a word was said for minutes-hours-days. Frozen silently, they stood staring into space, retaining oddly jovial, preannouncement expressions.
This neighborhood would suffer, too!
Flanked by my parents, seeing the strange scene of people halted in mid-motion, I received my second surprise of the night.  Instead of reverting to natures I knew, our friends reacted in an equally unexpected way – rechanneling excitement in a new direction.
Kaminski swore loudly, “Bastards have been hidin' things,” though he did not seem unhappy during this tirade. “Never worry about the common folk, those self-important jackasses, long as Number One gets the best of care – Goddamn hypocrites. Should'a seen it comin'; tryin' ta nail us for years. Start a war; then, close the mines; now, stay afloat in a flood. Don't matter.  Half got emphysema; can't breathe. Nosiree. Rest's nearly dead.   Yeah-sir-ee. . . . Well, I've HAD IT,” he screamed, collapsing and slumping in a chair. “I’ve had it,” he repeated more softly, choking a sob . . . slipping slowly into tears.
The Johnsons went to help him while we scurried, unfrozen, save Mrs. Wilson – who'd lived alone in her big, old house, unwell several seasons. She kept standing and crying and looking like nothing mattered, as if she wouldn't know what to do if it did.
My mother hurried over, calling Dad.
The next hour felt almost normal, neighbors rushing from house to house, moving furniture upstairs, offering support. My father and I got the Widder's lacey, rose couch beyond the steps . . .  through to the front bedroom, Mother unsuccessfully repairing her spirit with encouragement answered by the same sad phrase:  “I'll never leave; been here since I was married.”  Again and again, looking frail and shaken, eyes glazed and misty – seeing scenes none of us could see.
We got the car and drove her to her sister without being given milk or cookies.
By the time Dad and I'd returned, everyone was packed, awaiting a “happening” of any sort, mood less festive than anxious.  Instead of across-the-street, “Howarya's? “/ “Hearthelatest?” softer whispered consolations, blurred by parting-crying, substituted tonalities for words.
 Yet, they remained happier, at least more animated, than before: time till midnight dwindling, spirits soaring, all perception of real consequences ignored.
Davey's parents visited at five to 10, Mr. Donovan reducing the volume of his pocket radio and reaching for my father's hand, though neither knew the other well.
“The Mrs.” gave my mom a cake, saying, while glancing, “Ain’t it a shame; musta been pretty. Breaks the heart to think about our kitchen.”
Seconds lapsed.
Dad asked, “Any news?”
Scratching his huge belly, pausing to proclaim his thought, he brought forth, “All bad. Don't seem there's an escape. Still, if we hang together and act like good neighbors, we'll see ‘er through, right?”
“More to it,” said the Mrs.  “A test.  Remember the Bible . . . “ but was interrupted by a buzzing, that voice announcing . . . .
 
v
 
 
Dark outside, a dim, incandescent bulb softening the bureau/bed/chair-and-desk harshness of this hotel, I feel grey . . . like a succession of late-winter days creeping inexorably through March and into April.
I remember my first springs, a boy with ball-and-bat hurrying the snow away; a college student recovering from a bout with “cabin fever”, reading his books outdoors to expand contracting walls, making work suddenly seem like play.
Then, last month, I began a story about the season that never changed, a dirty snow destined to stay, a world remaining January always.
A. family of five peopled this tale, individuals locked in separate spheres touching tangentially, but not meeting, celestial planets in an orbit propelled by mood . . . eventually decaying.
My purpose was to examine “mind over matter” . . . but thought continually drifted to old age, stilling my pen . . .  my literary voice, leaving me abandoned . . . betrayed.
At the outset, I tried tricks to fight my mental block, but I ultimately wondered, “Why bother?” For even fiction couldn't delay the Ice Era I envisioned . . .  and offering my few readers that – appeared futile or perverse.
Sole certainty sad, uncertainty worse, I retreated to avoid surrendering, praying early intimations could exorcise this curse.
 
 
 
 
Just what was admirable about valley folk?  Were they, indeed, special?  I've often wondered; have since decided:  yes, they were, living lives expressing, and instilling, positive values.
During the mines’ adolescent days, conditions their bleakest . . . accidents frequent, the price of life seemed cheap, laborers little more than slaves. Yet, risking bread and butter, in essence, survival – first generation miners fought to unionize through the Molly Maguires.
Most people, I believe, numbed by hardship and existing in darkened, threatening caves, would be broken, becoming simply biological functions.  Few'd have the energy or sense of identity to retain finer qualities, gradually building a better future for unknown progeny:  the accomplishment of these pioneers.
When the collieries closed, the will of the second generation suddenly broke, joblessness depleting self-respect. And yet, spirit gone, principle enabled them to accept limits gracefully, often with dignity, ignoring poverty and helping others beat defeatism.
I remember, when young, getting cokes from the corner gas station. There, the unemployed, now dependent upon seamstress wives, the government, or exiled children, would be sitting talking or quietly playing cards. One day, a college freshman returned, having difficulty with Harvard courses . . .  the unfair jeers of sophisticated classmates-- who thought over-sized brogans poor taste.
These kibitzers, unable to persuade Jack to go back, went from friend to friend, taking a collection, buying an expensive, but terribly tacky suit:  a sad attempt at encouragement and escape from their fate.
Though never knew why, Jack tried again, wearing those awful clothes with an air of defiance, a ramrod challenge to disparaging remarks.  I prefer to think he recognized the warm, generous intent of his patrons, the valley quality of meeting tormentors with a smile – bending, even breaking, but never completely forsaking a courteous, caring manner or open heart.
On the other hand, perhaps he, too, had bad taste, a second local characteristic resulting from a century’s over-burdening preoccupation with survival, never enjoying the freedom or personal inclination to have STYLE.
They lived life and death.
 
 
* * *
 
 
“Two hours till midnight.  Evacuations proceed as planned. Recent estimates predict a crest of 46 feet, 20 above normal depth/20 above the height of the dikes. Late reports from New York describe severe flooding, major property damage, and six drownings.  Officials now call this, 'The worst natural disaster in Pennsylvania history,' declaring a state of emergency to deal with this catastrophe. More news in an hour.”
A knock on the door prevented resumption of our previous conversation with the Donovans, still anchored in their chairs. The Smiths and O'Shays, heading for relatives, had come for a quick, “Goodbye.”
“Had to wish you luck,” said OShay, lighting a cigarette. “Kind of abandoning ship. Don’t want hard feelings . . .  And Donovan, about our fight, hope all is forgiven, then forgotten.”
“Arr-right,” he agreed, lifting his weight from a stool and placing a hand on his friendly enemy's shoulder. “Buddies.”
“That's the spirit,” laughed Mrs. Smith. “See you tomorrow.  Nothing will happen; we're prepared . . . so bygones should be bygones.”
Driving up the street, the two families were followed by an official rescue truck, loudspeaker chanting: “Everyone must evacuate 11:45; leave home no later than quarter to twelve. DO NOT DISOBEY THIS ORDER!”
On and on went those words, siren blaring between redundancies, red light flashing continuously, Finally, they disappeared around the bend.
“Guess that says it,” offered Dad.
“Better get the kids to Mother's!” Mrs. D. blurted. “By the way. Old Kaminski was taken to the hospital.  Terrible.  A stroke, I’m afraid.”
“Gotta go.”
“See you soon,” my mother, father, and I called.  “Maybe Sunday.”
Air warm, despite a new cooling rain, the Donovans walked diagonally down the road, not noticing houses darkened as on any ordinary night. Yet suddenly, I felt horribly alone, emotionless, the currents of excitement once filling this neighborhood vanishing with each vehicle passing slowly out of sight.
I tried to visualize the flood, remembering the power the river commanded . . . and saw an awesome tide the breadth, the height, of a building crashing at us.
I shivered, then wondered why the moonlight cast altered shadows, exposing strange faces before varied flights.
My world lay on false foundations.
All understanding of a person had been an understanding of behavior toward me:  Mrs. Wilson's kindness; Mr. Flannigan's hate; Mr. Kaminski's unusual aversion. Abruptly, I recounted stories.
The Widder' s children abandoned her the year her husband died.  Mr. Flannigan lost two sons in the mines.  The recluse, a war hero, returned to find his wife missing, job gone.
Such tales are local legend, but I'd not observed the loneliness, helpless frustration, borne by tragic moments of personal history.  I'd simply witnessed ways of concealing pain and maintaining dignity – oblivious to the link of past to future.
I don't know why that night bared buried souls. Perhaps deep emotions, springing from the event made the ordinary impossible. Maybe those with the strongest feelings need slow, hum-drum times for self-control. Then again, if each had a threshold of anxiety, the dam might have filled; spilled in a wave of relief, interminable, quiescent self- restraint requiring immediate release.
I could not answer questions posed vaguely by my mind, but wondered, subconsciously – through mournful restlessness, whether valley life would ever be the same. Our patterns had lost meaning, rituals . . . mystery, persisting because reassuring, like habitual old friends, not uncomfortable “company.”
Would change bring common purpose?  Renewed vigor? Recovery? Was the “Donovan Doctrine of Togetherness” an unexplored path . . .  or passive retreat?
As I stood upon the porch making sense of this evening's mess, articulating thoughts non-verbally. I saw my parents turn and heard that liturgy move us one step to the future away from past centuries.
 
 
* * *
 
 
Unable to sleep, I imagine my wife and children home in bed, breeze whistling through the trees, moon crossing the thawed lake.  We live in the country, though today, even the isolated mimic forms seen on TV.  No provincial is a hayseed.
I'd find it difficult to leave that barometer of the seasons, a microcosmic world. December's ceiling seals aquatic life within, a cell one can't escape, an icy lens distorting shapes glimpsed far above.  By July, hostile elements have ceased, at least softened, the horizon seeming warm . . . infinite . . . inviting – an open, not closed, entity.
Each spring we sail, become the wind, till a summer swim unlocks that other universe. Winter skates an uncontrollable slide, slipping . . . tumbling, unexpectedly, ending our ride.  In fall, multicolored reflections mirror man's face, his place upon a vast and lasting earth.
Was the valley merely climate? And geography?  Or more?  Why must I feel like a child stealing cookies, tasting no sweetness, when I DISOBEY?
 
 
VI
 
 
I prefer the old Lewisville to the new, though perhaps I know the latter superficially, like my understanding of the “Widder,” Mr. Flannigan, and Kaminski before the flood.  Or, maybe I remember the former too intimately, all of its virtues . . .  and flaws.
The valley's “recent” history was a survival struggle of constant pain. Normal, everyday adversities were an archenemy and foe:  getting food on the table, a daily strain; meeting a month's bills, glorious victory. Security became happiness . . .  so, they bet their bankroll (a lifetime's minutes) obtaining it.
Lewisvillians were defeatists without alternatives for living life; who chose from a narrow spectrum of possibility.  They'd forego ecstasy to escape excessive injury, creating, and perpetuating, certainties –  traditions exorcising dread inconsistencies.
No wonder a person stayed . . . or rejected the place completely, refusing to return. Such illusions accepted or hated.  And yet, this witchcraft was surprisingly successful half a century. fear of fear dominating desire . . .  until nature swept the community clean.  To try again.
Perhaps money corrupted old values. As “Disaster Dollars” poured, a kind of greed . . . or sudden freedom, made it impossible to always do with less, though less was always “just enough.”  At any rate, the toll of Lewisville, the tribute each paid, taxed too greatly to simply ignore.
My father’s brother abided the ancestral code. High school golden boy, star student/athlete, local favorite, Joseph immediately entered the mines after graduation, no university tuition, qualifying too late for GI compensation.  He rose quickly within the organization:  miner to foreman to office worker in a year.  World his, he married . . .  had a child, taking, yet earning, more than the area'd given.  When the colliery closed, Uncle Joe, foregoing transfer, joined the unemployed – who split days between a bar and grocery. Still young at 28, idleness aged him exponentially.
I vaguely recall my father's efforts to persuade his older brother to go elsewhere; can’t forget his sad unwillingness to do so. “Having seen the top, why return to the pits?” Defeatism trapped, then defeated him.
During the war, Joe recaptured a bit of the man he’d been, rising to the rank of colonel. Unfortunately, set in his ways, armistice brought further mistakes. He came back, “To get his feet on the ground,” searching for stability, “after that experience,” the call of security immense, vision of existence beyond this cloister too small. He missed his last chance to escape,
Joseph Jones talked, played cards, and drank; received a monthly government check; raised his children – dying at 45, already unable to survive. His “meat and potatoes” life lacked the spice . . . of hope and expectation.
 
 
* * *
 
 
“One hour till midnight when the river crests at an unprecedented 50 feet. Civil Defense reports a smooth evacuation completed within 30 to 60 minutes. Current estimates project property damage to 75% of the town. The Governor publicly applied for federal assistance, instituting martial law as of 12:00; an early evening curfew begins tomorrow. Stay tuned for emergency bulletins.”
Hearing this, I immediately went to my parents on the porch.
“Anyone checked Mr. Flannigan?” I asked.
“I don't know, Son,” my father said. “You'd think somebody would.”
“Maybe they've been busy,” offered Mom. “Besides, most of the neighborhood's gone. Please, look.”
Heading up the vacant, mournfully silent street, we crossed, then knocked, despite a light, to no answer.
Turning the knob, “Unlocked,” the door opened easily and my father called loudly, “Mr. Flannigan? You all right?”
Still no answer.
Pausing but a moment, we entered.
Inside, furniture was covered with plastic; walls, drapes, and curtains with dust. He sat on an old-fashioned rocker at the far corner of the room, jaw pointing left. An ear plug lay on his shoulder; a half-leafed, over-sized book on his lap.
Is he dead?”
“Not likely,” Dad laughed. “Asleep . . . without his hearing aid.”
Positioning us to be seen, he startled the man, who wakened, closed his text, and stuck the dangling wire in his ear.
“What the devil' s go in ' on here?”
“Sorry. but we knocked and no one answered, saw that lamp and worried.  Certainly didn't want to intrude.”
“'kay. Just restin' from the excitement.”
“Catch the announcement?” my father quickly asked.
Confused, Mr. Flannigan started, “What . . . ?  Been sittin' in this chair. Not completely deef, ya know, even if I do use a contraption.”
Fingering it, he added sheepishly, “Guess I could've drifted, looking through these pictures . . . You realize I had a family?  Two sons?”
“No,” my dad lied.  “I assumed you were a bachelor.”
“Not me. Had a pretty wife away-back-when; see,” said he, halving the folio, “got a photo . . . a dandy.”
Easing over to his seat, a young, dark-haired woman with braids piled high stared up. She wore a funny, little, feathered hat and lacey, choke-collared dress.
Nifty.
Ready to show us another, Dad stopped him, “The police ordered our evacuation. Water's coming, so we have to leave before midnight . . . or be stranded. Supposedly far worse than '36'.”
“Nonsense . . .”
“. . . no, Mr. Flannigan, we must go. Josh'll move your belongings, and we'll drive you wherever, but please – BEGIN SOON. Time grows short.”
“I won’t.” Angrily.
Kneeling, preoccupied with the floor, not having words to convince him, my father remained quiet, while I broke the silence.
“Mr. Flannigan, for me?  You can't stay without getting hurt.”
Sitting, gazing into . . .  and beyond, my solemn face, the old man's eyes filled, as if to cry. Voice cracking, he whispered, '''kay,'' but no more, rising, then starting for his coat . . .  the door.
We packed a few possessions, though he insisted not to bother, impatiently standing on the porch.
Cajoled, persuaded, he settled the issue: “Just my album.  Don't care 'bout the rest . . . .You listen – OR ELSE!”
Rain poured and the sky clouded, as we three walked toward home, Mr. Flannigan telling a mining tale I'd never heard before.
“Once, a Mister MacCreedy worked the Scotsrun shaft, an “Old Worlder” who loved his labor and felt blessed to have a job. Well, Roger . . .  to friends, Rojo, had seen lean years, till he scavenged escape from da 'Tater Blight' in Ireland. 
And America was all Rojo hoped. He bought a house, earned good money, and felt free to live for the day his sons would join him down below.
Unfortunately, his lads thought differently, hated the deep, dark shafts filled with gas . . . endless diggin'; plannin' better than suff-o-catin' in dank tunnels. They'd be farmers.
Needless ta say, Rojo’d not have that. Ya stuck with the sure thing and shouldn’t take chances: 'Too easy ta go hungry.'
Bitter times followed the 'forbidden-future' . . . but, obedient, his boys did as demanded, makin' him happy, still certain in his wisdom . . .  
. . .  till that fateful company bell announced their departure. An explosion killt 'em . . . and left Mother grievin', a bit crazy.
Rojo changed his ways too late to help his sons or lady, who died cuz she couldna shake her sorr’a, leaving him with nuthin' but memories and regrets.  In fact,” he concluded, “some even believed Rojo haunts 'ole number two', searchin' for the bodies of his poor, unfound dead.  
Too much the ghost story for me . . . .”
Tale complete, the night seemed yet quieter than before. His unfamiliar yarn with recognizable characters made me want to speak the unspeakable, though I couldn't and shouldn't broach the subject.
Dad wondered about the flood.
For the water had risen rapidly since we'd gone, creeping the street inch by inch. My vision of instant devastation-- ridiculous. watching the “tide's” incessant snail-crawl . . . a stubborn, single-minded swelling, perhaps, more unnerving.
“You all right?” my mother called, as we finally approached. “Been so long, I started worrying.”
“Let's go.”
“See it moving up the road?  Radio says problems might happen fast.”
“Telephone your mom?”
“Just as it went dead; they're expecting us very, very soon. The lights died at midnight, so . . . ,” she began cautioning, when a siren sounded at the top of the street, an amplified voice warning: “Depart immediately. Anyone remaining after 11:45 will be arrested . . . or worse, if not found. EVACUATE NOW!”
Gathering odds and ends, we loaded those few, pitiful possessions, my father locking the door, then getting into the car, indulging a desultory look through his window.  With four people, plus baggage squeezed into the seat, Mr. Flannigan, in the front, arms wrapped about his album, barely glancing. as Dad joked, “Least we missed the caravan,” a feeble attempt to lighten oppressed moods.
We were the last to abandon the neighborhood, dark and desolate as the night.  Already silent, we remained so – past forlorn houses . . . empty stores.
For how do you say goodbye to a way of life?
In but minutes, we were safe atop the ridge surrounding our basin and witnessed, personally, the cause of this evening's excitement and confusion.  
The valley, in the distance, was a lake touching mountain on four sides, only the peaks of several buildings . . .  roofs of a dozen homes, still in sight.  The remainder of every town, beneath water, had been swallowed by the tide.
The scene grew extraordinarily black, as power failed in the last pin-lit structures. Up could have been down, but for the unnatural light of an overcast sky streaked with lightening blinking to a thunderous beat, brightening then doused, then brightening.
A chill coastal breeze trembled trees, as a helicopter appeared, whirring blades of the hovering machine cutting stillness – violently . . . and soon followed by 20 more bearing search beams crisscrossing a setting too alien to have meaning.
Speechless, we stood, until Mr. Flannigan said, “Colliery Number' Nine's been covered.”
“Mill's the same.”
“Just one church-spire,” offered my mother.
“Can't find the school or theater.”
“Jake’s was there . . .  “
“ . . .  and Tommy's.”
“No factory . . . “
“ . . . barns . . . “
“ . . .  or foundry.”
“Even the old warehouse has suddenly disappeared . . .
“ . . .  the Anthracite Museum . . .”
“ . . .  the library.”
Sadly:  “Our neighborhood's underwater.”
“Not forever, Mr. Flannigan . . . .  Don't cry, Honey.”
“Will anyone in the hospital survive?” asked Mother.
“Probably out first.”
On and on the conversation went, as we strained for familiar signs which might reassure . . . and help us recognize the valley.  Yet, scanning the vista for the smallest landmark, a point to get our bearings – we knew all was lost and eventually grew quiet, trying to accept the seen and heard, surreal evidence of eyes and disbelieving ears.
We gathered close . . . in awe, until the military arrived, row upon row of trucks, then jeeps, thundering down the road. They ordered, “GO!”
Thoughts turning to past scenes, brief moments of well-being, the car again trekked up the hill . . .slowly away from the world we had known.
I visualized people in familiar places to fix them, everlasting, in my mind, sorry for those who’d left too soon to realize they must seize memories now – before hardships consumed both energy and time.
The old Lewisville would be gone upon returning, the delicate fabric of a million-billion lives which composed, then closed, the borders of an era's unique design. The community, like a person, had died but would rise from the rubble to weave another line through history. Henceforth changed. Eternally.
And we drove, reaching the other side, heading toward the bottom of the mountain, radio recaption crackled, unclear – then static magically broke . . . the instant that VOICE eulogized:
“Midnight, July 25th, 1965, the Susquehanna River rose to 50.6 feet, spilling its banks and causing severe flooding – an estimated 14 trillion gallons of water inundating the valley.  
 
Property damage in each of 10 towns is catastrophic. Fortunately, no one was hurt . . . .”
 
 
Epilogue
 
 
After the flood, a new valley replaced old.  Gone were mining traditions; tales of our distant heritage.  Gone were clapboard houses, empty fields and the skeletal, steel remains of abandoned collieries.  Gone were neighborhoods of familiar faces.
Mr. Kaminski and Widow Wilson never recovered from their trials, the ORDEAL. He had, indeed, suffered a minor stroke/major collapse; she stayed at her sister's near a year, but her mind, turned inward, never reached out again. Rumors place her in a rest home far away.  Even Mr. Pudalski failed to return, escaping south to re-establish, not salvaging the neglected and unsalvageable.
The Donovans, Smiths, and O'Shays recovered first, organizing a clean-up, trying to regroup the PEOPLE. In fact, for a while, they successfully transformed Lewisville's anthracite identity through a mythology of TOGETHERNESS, losing leadership once the community rebuilt; their ethos failed them.
Soon, conversations obsessively recounted the disaster, too many new faces and “weird” ideas dissolving the isolation previously keeping regionalism alive; each family left the “bloc” within two springs.
Perhaps Mr. Flannigan managed best. Unlike others, he simply shifted with the tides of change, not struggling against ideological undercurrents.  He'd walk, watching buildings built, still telling mining tales to willing listeners.  He retained the same house, street, and town, seemingly oblivious to a so-called local strangeness” . . . his awareness – pictured in an oversized book often shared with kids, but seldom out of sight. “Newcomers,” finding him on their porches . . . in yards, wondered about his age, believing him a hundred.
The water had come and gone in three days, a short time, considering the damage done; little of our life remained. Rooftops, garages, and traffic lights-and-signs were submerged. In swift, downstream areas, homes, lifted from foundations, landed in peculiar places . . . across intersections . . . upon tombs . . . .  amidst groves.
Yet, my clearest image dates to the noon after evacuation, rowing through neighborhoods in a little, rubber boat, stopping at the dikes . . . and near-indistinguishable river. A thin earthen strip, two feet wide/a half inch above “sea level,” made it possible to “walk on water,” surrounded on every side . . .  save that narrow line receding to infinity.
Water.  Water.  Water.  An endless horizon interrupted by the oddest debris. Children’s' toys.  Soggy furniture.  Floating tires.  Chunks of timber.  An occasional chimney.
This lake told the entire story.
When the flood finally shrank toward the Susquehanna's banks, thick, rancid mud caked each surface.  Houses were emptied, floors hosed – but the putrid smell of acid/of sulfur, another mine legacy, lingered long after disinfected in huge doses.
Clean-up required constant effort for months. 
Heavy machines rid roads of twelve square-foot piles, tenants' discarded possessions . . .  and security.  Two bulldozers, faced-off as if dueling, charged from opposite directions. Jaws meeting, the loser fed the winner, who loaded the referee/dumpster.
Strange sights were a common scene.
Food, clothing, and household stamps, a generous, government supply, became money. Unfortunately, few stores were left – and were besieged by clawing hordes, greedy customers fighting to get the last articles on a shelf.  Frugal people of “Depression Economics,” spent new-found wealth . . . on products they did not want and could not need.  Diabetics, thinking barter, bought sugar; grandmothers, small bikinis or lace panties . . .  which embarrassed until reworked into doilies.
Shopping's surreal warfare was a symptom, and cause, of moral breakdown, a general disintegration of community.
For gradually folks changed . . . or had to leave.  Bundles of “redevelopment monies” enticed financial wizards who could use them.  A modern, suburban city replaced feudal, provincial towns, skyline rising from the human to mountain. Highways grew lanes, mutant appendages over roads; malls crowded-out living room entrepreneurs who, decades ago, lost husbands to the mines. Even industry now sought the forgotten valley, creating jobs financing “ranch-styles” in clapboard neighborhoods. A new wave was crushing an old, long since become a mere ripple . . .  and people had difficulty coping, the elderly vanishing submissively into the twilight.
As for me, I also broke tradition by returning after college.  My parents survived the flood and accommodated most local alterations till, having talked of “getting out for good”:  they did.  We could see that older, perhaps finer, certainly more comfortable, world beneath this thinly disguised landscape . . . and were too young to live with such ghosts.
No one missed the boredom, oft repeated mining stories, or cloying familiarity of existing without anonymity; many hated the loss of character. For better or worse, the valley was a presence as well as place; had a personality imbuing a stubborn sense of pride which, like the mountains, only slowly eroded away.
Inhabitants of cities will never understand rituals evolving from dependence upon the land and faith in history. Lewisville, however unappealing in many ways, taught continuity, when unchanging, transience, as it ebbed, forcing everyone to learn about themselves and other people, dismissing superficialities, seeing simply essential strength or weakness invested in the sum of successful or failed days.
 
 
* * *
 
 
Belongings packed, trip completed in 24 short hours, I gaze from my window toward the entirety of this unfamiliar valley . . .  and witness a marvelous Spring morning.  The season, like landscape, has changed. A robin wings to the park below; bare trees suddenly have buds; dirty snow, yesterday oppressive, melts surely to pure, crystalline puddles.
The sun, a kite, frolicking children, thinking vacation, cry: “LIFE!”
Even now, Davey and Anney enjoy a distant May, buying candy from Mrs. Miller's, stopping for me, then heading off to play. . . . My encounter with Lewisville's shadows has not disappointed; this space will be shared throughout time, one story overlaid upon another. earlier charades not forgotten, but continuing simultaneously . . . eternally – a balanced permanent/impermanent design.
Doran and Danny must someday do as I; must eventually, at forty, look into a blue sky and reverse course to a childhood universe, theirs and mine.
Having seen the forces within me, I return to my family; DECISION MADE.
Accept the job?
Or write?
Neither question was the pertinent one, and thus, have easy answers.
Once knowing certainty, I’ll always seek to regain innocent confidence but realize material security is illusory. Valley neighbors pursued that grail, sacrificing happiness to an arbitrary choreography, a present and future ultimately failing them. Enduring patterns are not etched upon the earth by human beings; design is perceived, not created – each a contributor to, but not author of, life's changing shape and substance.
Assuming my pen again, I'll tell this story, examining memories/rewriting experiences to elicit inherent order, not winning fame or money but surviving and satisfying a craving.  For, difficult though my chosen path may be, going well or badly, the pain and confusion of ignoring it is worse; our ghosts demand appeasement.
And Kathy will be pleased, understanding this land and I are inexorably intertwined, my birthplace identified with writing . . .  writing – a natural function I either exercise till old or watch wither, becoming progressively less healthy . . . as the hours until midnight tick 6 . . .  5 . . .  1, speeding like a thief during “getaway.”
In mere moments, I'll check-out, trip completed, but not wasted, grasping the question I should've asked . . . and answered.
At middle-age, when the countdown begins and that company bell just might toll for you:  
 
How does one behave?
 
 
Most neighbors, facing the flood, death of a life, grew excited – pretending no threat existed . . . not suffering distress till, inescapable – they were crushed, losing accumulated wealth because unprepared. A manic-depressive on a euphoric arc of frenetic, ignorant bliss seals no memories . . .  packs no emotional baggage, only subconscious restlessness instinctively “admitting” awareness of danger.
Evacuation imminent, people superstitiously “protesteth too-too much,” denying doubts “double-negatively” expressed.  Final despair, disguised as lethargy, forced each to depart – crucial, mental autobiography incomplete; “rightness”, suddenly “wrongness” . . . unease.
Mr. Kaminski, Mrs. Wilson, and a host of others recognized their foe, yet couldn't cope, hiding from the seen and heard, collapsing into the vacuum of closed minds: a star, gone nova, then black hole.
A few, like my parents, saw the future clearly; took prophetic precautions –
doing what they must to “meet their tormentor with a smile.”  For my mother and father lost valley lives which, in a sense, nevertheless remained intact, now conclusive and perfectly symmetrical; security, to them, immaterial.
So perhaps, I've found an answer to the unasked, that question driving me to this place. As mortality asserts itself and six hours until midnight becomes five, then four:  confront fate with grace and dignity; winter must fade before spring can be reborn.  Nature's positive, optimistic certainty.
Presently, I leave or pay for another day but go knowing I still have a home, a subterranean world retaining personal and public history.
My children, too, deserve such a lodestone, though theirs is neither mine nor New York City.  Rugged roots require better than sour, scavenged soil; need the fertility of community not property . . . a land offering solutions to their problems, supplying the identity to survive crises . . . endurance to seek meaning from small victories as well as great defeats.
 
 
Car radio fading, the announcer explained in mid-story, “Fortunately, no one was hurt . . ..