As the Missouri River reached flood stage on Memorial Day weekend, Mike decided to stop shaving. Or, as he puts it, after each day of all-day sandbagging, he was too tired to lift a razor to his face. By the time we had built what we needed, he was going to shave, but he had a good start on the first goatee of his young life, so I convinced him to let it grow — like a playoff good luck charm — until the waters returned to normal. Complementing our many other precautions, it was fun to believe that as long as the beard graced his face, we’d be safe.
Sometime in mid June, the waters crested over 19 feet. Today’s high water mark is 18.3. It has been fun to kiss a guy with a fuzzy face for awhile, but we have started to dare think the time has come to break out a new razor and put it to the task. Mike agreed to sport the beard until the river dips below the flood level of 16 feet, but even with the reduced flows from the Garrison Dam, the river’s height is dropping very gradually. Authorities contend that the worst is behind us. At this rate, by the time the river reaches 16 feet, there could be a lot more gray in the good-luck goatee.
The moustache magic is clearly working. To our surprise, we have managed to put together a fairly normal summer despite our circumstances.
On a recent sparkling Saturday, I became the third fastest female triathlete in North Dakota. 24 hours later, I was the lanterne rouge in my first ever cycling road race, before I abandoned. I am officially sticking with swimming. And have been swimming well, sometimes pell-melling down the lawn, over the levee and straight into the river on the heels of a ride or run in the wicked humidity.
We have learned what “triple digit heat index” means, and have come to appreciate air conditioning, that nemesis of sinus cavities and contact lenses but blessed purveyor of a decent night’s sleep.
We have moved our dining room and most of our living room back into the house, and we enjoyed every moment of the Tour de France on TV, perched on the couch instead of a patio chair. We are racking up the cycling miles ourselves (ill-fated road race notwithstanding), discovering picturesque outposts of Americana a few short pedal strokes from home. Nice men on Harley Davidsons pull up next us at intersections to ask if we are carrying enough water on our bikes during the hottest days.
New running routes are being discovered; many of the best trails are underwater. I was nearly home from a long run the other day when I encountered a police checkpoint guarding the dike I’d need to cross to get there. Fines for trespassing on the levees are steep —$1000 per violation — it is unsafe to walk on them and their integrity is critical to the protection of the homes along the river. The cute cop said I had to turn around, which meant backtracking much further than seemed physically possible in the heat. I asked him to turn around himself, so he would not see me vault a nearby chainlink fence, avoiding the levee by running down the expressway toward home. Thank heaven Bismarck traffic is light and the men in blue have a sense of humor. He waved.
Thousands of sandbags bake in the sun every day – not just those surrounding our houses, but the pallets and piles that lie dormant in the sandbag lots. They are a testament to many busy hands and stalwart souls that believed our efforts could make a difference. For such a mellow and pragmatic crowd, North Dakotans are over-achievers.
I remember a conversation with Garret who shoveled sandbags for us for hours one Sunday morning. He said, “Can you imagine how we will all feel a few weeks or months from now when we know that we have saved the town? When everyone, from the little kids who tied sandbags to the teenagers driving Bobcats to the moms and dads and brothers and sisters who shoveled and hauled and built….can look back at this and realize that it was their efforts that made all of the difference?”
I can imagine it now.
Our neighborhood has become a messy jumble of levees, their tarps tattered by the wind and blowing into the gardens. Pontoon boats cruise our bay on lazy afternoons. Conversations turn to cleaning up, replacing carpet, moving back in….and at our house….shaving.
No comments:
Post a Comment