On June 13 of this year, the Cedar River, passing through Cedar Rapids (CR), IA, reached a record crest of almost 32 ft, 12 ft above the previous record (1929). Over 4000 homes, 1400 blocks, 9.5 sq miles were flooded in CR alone. The flooding that affected the state’s entire river system of 9 rivers has now resulted in 80 of 99 counties being declared Presidential Disaster areas. Though there are amazing pictures on the web, an event of this size is difficult to capture in pics. One has to travel it a bit, witness it, smell it, feel it. And mostly, it helps if one knew ‘before’ so one can understand ‘after.’
Palo, IA, a mere 4 miles from my house, had all but 10 of 473 homes inundated by the flood. Drive to Palo today, and there is a mountain of flood debris waiting to be taken somewhere, a mountain of furniture, personal items, siding, doors, cabinets, insulation, appliances, and all that makes up the houses we call ‘homes’. People say they want to rebuild. State and Federal officials haven’t come to conclusions about such things yet.
In CR, I drove the neighborhoods early Friday evening for the first time since the flood. I’ve been through different thoroughfares since crest, but I’ve given time to homeowners to go through the gruesome process of dismantling their lives and stand in shock and grieve the neighborhoods they knew and loved.
Pictures capture moments. Where life has motion, even film doesn’t truly capture ‘catastrophe’ because catastrophe takes the ‘past’ and removes it in big swaths. It takes the weave of everyday life and pulls all sorts of threads right out of the fabric in which we wrap ourselves. Catastrophe takes an assumed ‘tomorrow’ and leaves it in piles of debris, in which no tomorrow has any clarity or order.
We drove the streets of vibrant neighborhoods with names like ‘Time Check’ (the people use to receive paychecks that couldn’t be cashed until a few days later), Czech Village, home to the nations Czech Museum, and Ellis Park. Block after block of dirty grimy watermarks topping windows, across picture windows, across business display windows, across gas station pumps. You could look through areas and up streets and see how the river slowly got lower and lower on homes as it moved out of its immediate valley.
Unlike in vibrant neighborhoods, blocks and blocks could be traveled Friday evening and not see a single human being. No one out playing, no one out mowing, no one walking pets or children. Worse, no one working on their home, their landscaping, painting for the myriad of do-it-yourself-ers. Broken out windows, open doors, gutted homes, home reduced to nothing but the 2x4 stud walls. No one in garages working on cars, but garages all over the neighborhoods broken free of their foundations, and leaning against buildings, trees, smashed into homes. Decks all topsy-turvy and broken free and sent hurtling into anything in their path. Two-story boat-houses sitting up 15 feet above the river, wrapped around utility poles. Large business buildings closed, with their guts in their parking lots. Schools boarded up, maybe never to reopen.
Former ‘homes’ with crushed walls, missing basements, houses in the middle of the street, nothing looking like a ‘neighborhood.’ All one could see was ‘catastrophe’…
Two weeks ago, the streets had been piled high with all the guts of these houses, but most of the debris has been cleared in many areas. All you could see was the littered mess left by the equipment rushing the streets trying to get this toxic waste off city streets. Water wasn’t just muddy. It had all sorts of industrial and agricultural chemicals within it, as well as fuels from flooded vehicles of all sorts. Sewage treatment facilities were overrun all along the rivers.
Neighborhoods of absolute quiet on a beautiful summer Friday evening, at 6PM. No one in sight. Nothing happening. Just one large empty junkyard of former ‘homes’ and lives. Unmowed lawns, dead bushes, weeds of all kinds everywhere in abundance. Green tags, yellow, pink, red, purple. Green was re-inhabitable, all the way up to purple that meant that one could be arrested for entering the dangerous structure. Spray-painted messages on houses – ‘No Go’. Sentimental messages – “I lost my life here.” Religious messages quoting biblical passages mentioning rivers.
No one knows yet what the future holds. The current estimate for rebuild is $1.3 billion. Upwards of 2300 homes will be torn down. Government buyouts? Former neighborhoods made into Green Spaces? Will jobs still be there? How many businesses will reopen?
‘Catastrophe’ comes from the Greek root of katastrephein - to ruin, undo, to overturn, and later, ‘conclusion.’ It took Grand Forks, ND about 10 years to recover from their devastating flood in 1998. They were still picking up the debris 2.5 years later. For Iowa, this flood is a great overturning, but not yet a conclusion for the thousands of lives it has touched.
It’s a beautiful summer morning here today, after severe storms last night with high winds, hail and awesome lightning. Is this heaven? No…it’s Iowa.
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Loreli
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Jul 20 @ 10:13AM
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It is so sad.
My son lost the house he was buying in Time Check, my daughter's Grandpa is rebuilding in Czech area....donwtown is a ghost town but for all the pumps and trucks.
Sad. 
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redtigr
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Jul 20 @ 3:13PM
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You have managed to convey through your descriptive prose, a personal sympathy and empathy often lacking in photographs and news footage. Without words or personal knowledge/familiarity, photographs of a flood might be any flood, any where.
You've brought the tragedy that is flooded Iowa right to me in the heart of drought. I agonize for their pain and suffering - and wish better times to all there.
~*~
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missliss78
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Jul 20 @ 9:27PM
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Excellent blog, observed.~*~
I've been "there," too....not in Iowa, but right here in eastern NC in September 1999.
The good folks from Grand Forks helped us...I hope we all can help Iowa, too.
If a year from now, things there are normal, I will be surprised.
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