The notch

That Spring, Mother Nature and Old Man River had an illegitimate child. And now it was out of its bed, awake and terrorizing the neighbors.

“It’s a bastard alright,” thought the Sheriff.

Round after round of severe thunderstorms had pounded Arkansas and the Ohio Valley that April. Streams and creeks overflowed. Bigger tributaries drank the water and threw it up over the towns as it passed. Eventually a wall of water rolled down the Mississippi River like a steamroller. Cairo was saved. Memphis took a blow. The Mississippi Delta was next in its sights.

He paddled his flatboat across what had been a wheat field. “Just one more week and the crop would have made it. The farmers of the South Delta will suffer yet again.” His boat nudged a hog carcass. A little good news at least — Wild Hogs were the animal version of Kudzu. Each sow would have up to seven piglets and could wipe out a field of corn before you could say, “Panther Swamp.”

He scanned the watery horizon and saw a huge Cottonmouth slither past at 2 o’clock high. He hated snakes. He hated water even more.

TV didn’t do a disaster justice, a little fact learned first-hand after Katrina. He had been a deputy sheriff on the Coast after that Hell storm. Trying to understand the destruction by watching television was like looking at the world through a toilet paper roll. Add to it the other senses not being brought into play. The smell of rotting animals still took him back to that horrible August day.

This flood grabbed four of his five senses. The smell of death. The feel of the oily water. The sight of flooded land. The taste of the salty tears. The only thing missing was the sound. The water creeped up on you like a silent killer.

A fire-ant ball floated past. He smiled when he thought about the fancy-pants National TV anchor who had gotten into a floating nest of them in Vicksburg. The sight of him in his L.L. Bean waders dancing the ant dance still gave him a good laugh. The man could have won Dancing With The Stars that morning as he was screaming in pain on national TV.

Still, he hoped that the reporter would come back in a few weeks. That’s when the real work would begin. Gutting the sheetrock. Replacing the electrical system. Throwing your water-logged memories in the dumpster. It would be a long, hot, soggy summer.

He paddled down his street. He saw eight deer on his neighbor’s porch. It was every creature for itself. An alligator hovered greedily at the foot of the steps.

He turned the tiny boat toward the sun. Southwest. He was heading toward his family home.

The house had been built in 1924. His mother showed him the mark on the door frame at the foot of the stairs from the 1927 flood. The house had been spared thanks to better levees in 1937 and in again in 1973. Water made its return in 2011. It came up in the night from the Yazoo River, sneaking past the hastily made levee and into the front door. His family was safely in Canton, Mississippi by then.

The boats momentum carried it forward as he stopped to wipe the salt out of his eyes. His radio squawked. Another rescue near Eagle Lake. Another homeowner trying to do what he was doing — Trying to go home again.

A National Guard helicopter buzzed the tree tops, heading toward Yazoo City. Probably the Governor checking on his house. This flood was hitting rich and poor. But the poor would suffer the most. Flood insurance wasn’t cheap. The Sheriff tipped his hat the to pilot. The chopper swung back around to say hello. The rotor wash caused ripples across the water. The surreal beauty of a disaster.

The Sheriff pulled up to his home and climbed to the second floor porch. He opened the door and whistled. A meow greeted him. His daughter’s white kitten had been left behind in the rush to leave. The Sheriff pulled an aluminum foil packed out of his vest pocket. Tuna. The cat ate greedily, realizing he was better off than most of the animals in the county. Mission accomplished.

The Sheriff put the cat in the cage and lowered it down to the tied-up boat. He went down the steps, pulled out his Buck knife and put another notch on the door frame and carved, “Flood of 2011.”

He prayed he’d never have to carve one higher.