Blackwater: The Complete Caskey Family Saga by Michael McDowell Page B
Authors: Michael McDowell
Ads: Link
entire stock. And there wasn’t a square foot of property in the entire town that didn’t stink—of river mud and dead things and rotting clothing, rotting wood, and rotting food.
The National Guard and the Red Cross had arrived before the floodwaters had receded, bringing blankets and cans of pork and beans and newspapers and medicine to the encampments that surrounded the town. The National Guard remained a week longer than the Red Cross and assisted the mill workers in clearing away the largest pieces of wreckage. It was estimated by James Caskey, Tom DeBordenave, and Henry Turk that the three mills combined had lost a million and a half board feet of pine—warped, washed down to the Gulf, or simply come to rest and rot in the submerged forest around Perdido.
The worst-hit portion of town was Baptist Bottom. Half the houses had been totally destroyed; the remainder were severely damaged. Those blacks who had had so little before the flood now possessed nothing at all. These unfortunate householders were the first assisted. Mary-Love and Sister and Caroline DeBordenave and Manda Turk spent all day at the Bethel Rest Baptist Church feeding colored children rice and peaches, when they might have been at home superintending the cleaning of their own houses.
The homes of the workers were water-damaged, but for the most part intact. The homes of the shopkeepers, dentists, and young lawyers had fared best, for they had been built on the highest ground in Perdido, and some had escaped with no more than a foot of water on the carpets—not enough even to upset the chairs.
The houses of the millowners, built so near the river, had suffered of course, but the waters there had not reached more than a few inches past the level of the second floor, and most of the household belongings that had been stored upstairs were intact. However, James Caskey’s single-story home seemed nearly a total loss. Because the house was built in a slight depression and stood nearer the river than any other house on the street, it had lain longer beneath the floodwaters than any other structure in town. It was the first to be inundated, the last to be dry.
The schoolhouses, which were on the river just south of the Osceola Hotel, had suffered considerable damage as well, and the remainder of the school year was canceled, though fully a month of classes remained. The children, thus unexpectedly released, had unexpected brooms and pails put into their hands, and they did their part to setting the school to rights. But, though Edna McGhee and her husband had indeed moved away from Perdido and were now sending postcards from Tallahassee with some regularity, Elinor hadn’t yet been called upon to take her place. Under James Caskey’s recommendation, Elinor had been unanimously accepted by the school board. It hadn’t even been thought necessary to write off to Huntingdon College for a copy of her certification. After all, it had been lost in the flood, along with so many other of the young lady’s belongings. The school board felt that it would be adding insult to injury for Perdido to demand that Elinor Dammert produce what Perdido had taken away.
What was discovered in the months following the flood was that not everything could be put to rights, no matter what amount of effort was expended in the attempt. Washing tins of food under cold running water, for instance, did not entirely guard against botulism—or so everyone had been warned by the Red Cross—and all the stocks of the two groceries and the fancy foods store had to be jettisoned; this at a time when there wasn’t as much food as people were accustomed to. Great piles of warped lumber from the three yards were dragged into the cypress swamp in which the Blackwater River had its source five miles northeast of Perdido. It was left there to rot and be out of everyone’s way, though the following autumn it was discovered that many of these logs and boards had been laboriously dragged
The National Guard and the Red Cross had arrived before the floodwaters had receded, bringing blankets and cans of pork and beans and newspapers and medicine to the encampments that surrounded the town. The National Guard remained a week longer than the Red Cross and assisted the mill workers in clearing away the largest pieces of wreckage. It was estimated by James Caskey, Tom DeBordenave, and Henry Turk that the three mills combined had lost a million and a half board feet of pine—warped, washed down to the Gulf, or simply come to rest and rot in the submerged forest around Perdido.
The worst-hit portion of town was Baptist Bottom. Half the houses had been totally destroyed; the remainder were severely damaged. Those blacks who had had so little before the flood now possessed nothing at all. These unfortunate householders were the first assisted. Mary-Love and Sister and Caroline DeBordenave and Manda Turk spent all day at the Bethel Rest Baptist Church feeding colored children rice and peaches, when they might have been at home superintending the cleaning of their own houses.
The homes of the workers were water-damaged, but for the most part intact. The homes of the shopkeepers, dentists, and young lawyers had fared best, for they had been built on the highest ground in Perdido, and some had escaped with no more than a foot of water on the carpets—not enough even to upset the chairs.
The houses of the millowners, built so near the river, had suffered of course, but the waters there had not reached more than a few inches past the level of the second floor, and most of the household belongings that had been stored upstairs were intact. However, James Caskey’s single-story home seemed nearly a total loss. Because the house was built in a slight depression and stood nearer the river than any other house on the street, it had lain longer beneath the floodwaters than any other structure in town. It was the first to be inundated, the last to be dry.
The schoolhouses, which were on the river just south of the Osceola Hotel, had suffered considerable damage as well, and the remainder of the school year was canceled, though fully a month of classes remained. The children, thus unexpectedly released, had unexpected brooms and pails put into their hands, and they did their part to setting the school to rights. But, though Edna McGhee and her husband had indeed moved away from Perdido and were now sending postcards from Tallahassee with some regularity, Elinor hadn’t yet been called upon to take her place. Under James Caskey’s recommendation, Elinor had been unanimously accepted by the school board. It hadn’t even been thought necessary to write off to Huntingdon College for a copy of her certification. After all, it had been lost in the flood, along with so many other of the young lady’s belongings. The school board felt that it would be adding insult to injury for Perdido to demand that Elinor Dammert produce what Perdido had taken away.
What was discovered in the months following the flood was that not everything could be put to rights, no matter what amount of effort was expended in the attempt. Washing tins of food under cold running water, for instance, did not entirely guard against botulism—or so everyone had been warned by the Red Cross—and all the stocks of the two groceries and the fancy foods store had to be jettisoned; this at a time when there wasn’t as much food as people were accustomed to. Great piles of warped lumber from the three yards were dragged into the cypress swamp in which the Blackwater River had its source five miles northeast of Perdido. It was left there to rot and be out of everyone’s way, though the following autumn it was discovered that many of these logs and boards had been laboriously dragged
Similar Books
