|
 It’s
strange how time takes memories from pure horror to amusement. Let
me tell you of such a story that happened in November of 1991.
My husband was out of state for business. The boys and I had gone
out for pizza and I was baking cookies. About 10 p.m. the phone
rang. I foolishly presumed it was my Mac calling to tell me how much
he missed me. Nope, it was the landlord from out at our shop. He
yells into my ear, “There’s water in your shop. We need keys to get
in. Come right out and wear your boots.” With this he hung up. I
panic. The toilet has overflowed or the hot water heater is leaking.
I throw on my snow boots, my son, Matthew, hurries into his hiking
boots and away we go.
It was snowing to beat the band and we had to clear the car of snow.
It was 15 degrees out and I drove quickly on slippery streets. When
my headlights swept our parking lot, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My
heart stopped for a second. The water tower had broken a seal and
the entire contents flooded our property. One point one million
gallons of water dumped on the property. Water was up to the door of
my car. I got out into the ice water four inches over my boots. I
ran to Bill, our landlord. Envision me running through three foot of
ice water in a snow storm, asking the intellectual question, “What
happened?”. Bill yelled at me, “I told you to wear your boots!” Now
I’m mad and scared, “I did!”, I scream back. “They are just under
this &#*# water!” I lifted my knee high to show him a drenched boot
in the beam of his flashlight. I don’t think I’ve ever been that
cold before or since.
I could not have dreamed a nightmare this bad. It is the middle of a
bad snow storm, “steam” is rising into the inky sky from the three
foot and rising water, my son is stranded in the car because now the
water is even higher than when I got out and he can’t get the door
open. Our entire livelihood is going under water; all this is caught
in the headlights of our vehicles and flashlights while I stand in
water and am getting screamed at by a madman. Someone, somewhere in
the dark of the night, was literally blowing a duck call. Was it my
landlord? It. Was. Surreal. I started to cry but tears freeze
rapidly under those conditions. I determined immediately that was
not the correct course of action to take. I’m trying to be a big
girl.
We shine lights in our shop windows trying to see the extent of
damage, but the lights just reflected back at us. We couldn’t see a
thing. The door wouldn’t open because there was too much water in
front of it and besides it would have flooded the shop even worse.
Water surrounded the entire complex.
Bill had sandbags in the back of his pickup, and we started
sandbagging the building. A city truck pulled in and asked us if
there was anything they could do. Bill told them exactly what they
could do and where they could go to do it. Thanks, we could have
used the help. All we see are their tail lights.
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Finally, the tower emptied, our flood crested and then receded
enough for me to get in. My hands shook so hard from the cold, Bill
had to put the key in the lock for me. The sandbags had done the
trick and we had minimal disaster. I waded back out to the car to my
Matthew and we drove home.
I call Mac and try to explain the events to him. “The water tower
fell over on the shop?”, he cries into the phone. “No, fool.”, I
scold. “Listen to me. It broke a seal and all the water tidal waved
toward us. The shop is OK, but my feet are not.” “Go to the hospital
if your feet hurt,” he said and instantly dismisses my feet. Then he
asks a hundred questions about the shop. “My feet.” I demand equal
time for my feet. Finally, we both calmed down and decided he should
stay in Wisconsin at his meeting.
The next day, my employee Scott, and I swept and scrubbed and
cleaned and were thankful there was really no damage. There was a
small dry path to the landlord’s end of the building. I carefully
tightrope walked my way down there to see their damage. When I came
back, some idiot had parked a van on this path. I was stranded
because water and ice were everywhere and I just had on my tennis
shoes. I yelled for Scott and informed him I couldn’t get there from
here. He says, “Hang on. I’ll help you.” I had visions of him
carrying me or some such grand gesture. He came back with his high
buckle chore boots and throws them to me. Scott raises hogs. I
caught both boots by their soles. Shudder. I put them on and clomped
my way through our Lake McQueen Head held high in the perfect pout,
I plodded by a chuckling Scott trying to regain a crumb of pride. It
was not to be. The boots wouldn’t come off. They clung to my tennis
shoes. I pulled, I kicked, I rubbed my feet together, I scraped my
feet across the floor, I talked to God. Hog manure was all over me.
Finally, in exasperation, I had to ask for help to get them off.
Scott was thoroughly entertained. I was humiliated.
Erma Bombeck said, “There is a thin line that separates laughter and
pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.” I agree and add we might
as well find the humor in life. It’s the best medicine ever.
L. Maxine McQueen may be contacted at
maxmac.1@juno.com
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