The Looming Flood

When our community went through a record-breaking flood last year, it left all of us with vivid memories. One of the strongest for me is the sound of the clay trucks, growling past my home one after another. For a few days that year, the trucks ran day and night, hauling beds of heavy clay to build the dike at the end of our road. I'd hear their reverse beeps as they turned around in the nearby church parking lot, backing down the street past our home. A few minutes later they'd roar past again, this time empty, on their way for more clay.

Again and again and again.

And now, as we prepare for yet another terrible flood, I hear the same sounds. My house is quiet. The kids are asleep and my husband is two blocks away building a dike with sandbags. Yet every few minutes I see the shine of headlights through my living room curtains and hear the grumble of a clay truck.

The water is rising. The community is uniting to hold back the water, neighbors helping neighbors, strangers helping strangers.

And the clay trucks keep on coming.