Dry humor

Knock on wood, we made it through this 100-year flood unscathed. As the kids and I cheer the sunshine and dance in the mud, we know just how fortunate we are. Several friends had to be evacuated. Others have inches of nasty water to pump from their basements. Days before Easter, the road leading to our church is still closed, and they have a foot of water in their basement meeting hall.

I can't help but recall the Flood of 1984. You may not remember, but if you lived in Western Massachusetts less than a mile from the Connecticut River, you'll never forget that spring. Days of rain and melting snow resulted in a river so swollen it breached its banks, passed the main road and inched up our driveway. (My sister recently posted some photos from those days, although I thought I burned all the shots of me with that hair!)

My sister and I, who were teenagers at the time, thought it was exciting to be evacuated. We packed up to stay with friends and then would sneak back to our home through the nearby woods, averting the police posted on the other end.

Meanwhile, my mom was a wreck. She snapped at us. She cried. She paced the yard as my dad joked with the neighbors, punchy from too-little sleep. He tried to lighten the mood by sailing my old Barbie sailboat down the street-- sometimes with a Barbie; more often than not, with his beer. My mother was not amused.

Over 20 years later, I get it. I spent two nights barely sleeping on the couch so the kids could share my king-size bed on the other side of the house, away from the swaying, soggy-footed pine tree. The days were spent staring at the wetlands next to my house, watching the water inch up the back and side yard, closer and closer by the hour. I no longer have the fingernails that took two months to grow in.

With warming temperatures and a dry forecast, I can breathe. I only wish my dad was still here to keep us laughing. And that I kept the Barbie boat to float in our new backyard wading pool. Instead, we have a family of mallard ducks.