Lyndon State College - Northern Lights Yearbook (Lyndonville, VT)

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V E R L Y N Davis sat eating his supper in a down- town restaurant. The door slammed as the clock beat out the hour of six. Davis crumpled his napkin, rose and sauntered to the coat rack. He contem- plated the glistening street with a wary eye as he struggled into his jacket. Behind the hotel across the pave- ment the silent river continued its ceaseless, fettered way. Davis bit his toothpick in two, paid his check and went out. He did not enter his hotel as he ordinarily would have done but climbed into his car and it was not many minutes before he was rolling along the broad highway that stretch- ed away to the north, out of the valley to higher, safer ground. That night he would sleep more easily. His dreams presumably would not be troubled by rushing rivers and straining dams. The luminous dial of a ticking watch shone faintly through the Stygian gloom. The hour was eleven. There came a heavy step outside the door, a sharp rap followed quickly by another. Mr. Davis opened the door to be con- fronted by the landlord who stood up- on the threshold. In one breath and half another Mr. Davis was informed that he must leave. Flood waters were rising and the dam above the town was reported to be in danger. The strain was nearly to the breaking point. A few minutes later, truck, landlord and three choice pigs were heading for higher ground. Then, pork and owner safely deposited, man and truck sped back to town to hear reports. The railway station was packed to overflowing. Message after message crackled over the sagging wires. Stories of death and disaster came in dots and dashes. Across the room a woman sobbed quietly. In her hand she held a bit of ribbon and a tiny shoe. Davis with the rest watched the op- erator as would a gambler the wheel of Fortune. He, with the rest, noticed a sudden intensity of concentration in the manager’s air. His nervous fingers clenched and with the other hand he adjusted the ear-phones a little more carefully. Evidently the need for a written message was unnecessary, for suddenly the pencil dropped and quite without warning the operator faced the breathless group. “Any of you fellows a mechanic? Waterbury is calling for gasoline and fuel and a couple of experts. They are in a bad way and say that our road is the only possible entrance. You know, the one that’s being cemented.” There was silence except for the heavy breathing and the scuffing of nervous feet. The tense crowd moved uneasily. A couple of overall-clad workmen looked at each other, one shook his head; they broke the gaze and dropped their eyes. Davis felt stifled, his throat was dry and his hands wet. The woman suck- ed in her breath hesitatingly in little broken gasps. She no longer cried aloud but only sat and stared at the bit of pale yellow ribbon and little wrinkled shoe that was a little scuffed. Fifty miles to the westward his fam- ily would be waiting in helpless anxi- ety. Why not go home instead of risk- ing his life on such a hazardous mis- sion at this was certain to be. One by one the faces of his family rose before him. Each turned away, silent thoughts unspoken. The old house with that funny misshapen shrub, the uneven lawn, the crack on the second step [4]

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January - 1938 Flood By RICHARD DOMEY Davis climbed into his trouble shoot- ing truck and nosed out into the cold damp dawn. For the last two weeks the mornings had been more or less alike, each wet with gusty winds and a steady depressing drizzle that filled every nook and cranny, every cellar and depression, even foot prints left in sandy places. At first after the warm summer the welcome rain disappeared into the thirsty earth as if by magic. Then little by little, the level spaces, the hillsides and then the wooded areas had reach- ed the saturation point. Then winter had dipped her icy fingers into the wet November weather. The earth stood still and stiff at her approach. It still rained. The already over-taxed earth presented an almost impenetrable armored surface and the falling rain trickled from the wooded areas, over the hillsides and level spaces to the rivers. Each harvested garden and every open space that had before lain choking with dust had in a fortnight become sodden and soaked and now lay drown- ing. Davis thanked his lucky stars for a comfortable house, a grand wife and three of the most perfect children in the world. He shivered at the thought of having to tramp and wallow across that soggy meadow over there on the left. The highway for him, he would stick to the world of gears and wheels awhile yet. Machines made the world go ’round, and men like him made ma- chines go. His philosophy was per- fectly simple. If everyone worked hard the machines went and the earth progressed. It was too bad that man, as clever as he is, could not have pro- vided for all this unreasonable amount of rain. He guessed God had better practice temperance. A few familiar landmarks indexed the nearness of his destination. In the distance the coppery glint of the state capitol building reared its golden dome. Silently the oily river slithered onward. A road sign just as silently sprang out of the wispy fog, for the mists had not yet left the low- lands. Montpelier, it might be said, is built at the junction of two rivers and on each, power companies had seen fit to erect a dam. As he passed that morn- ing, Mr. Davis made a mental note of the unusual volume of water topping the dam, even with the spillways full open and roaring with the foamy tide. For once the power magnates need not worry. Their dynamos would have power and plenty; maybe too much. In times past, Montpelier merchants had been forced to suffer large losses due to flooded cellars in the lower part of the city because of unforseen high waters. They had seen fit to protect themselves with a curfew which auto- matically warned them in time to allow the safe removal of their valuable stock, when the treacherous stream reached a certain danger point. By the visible indicator on the cur- few tower Mr. Davis imagined that the warning whistle must have performed its duty not so very long ago. That night after finishing his work. [3]

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January - 1938 brought an uncomfortable feeling of homesickness. He wanted to go home. Then, as flashes upon a screen, the streets of the endangered village flitted past. If he could only stop thinking; but he could not. In his imagination rose a vivid picture of turbulent waters on the cellar walls that crept to the window sills, trickled over and filled the room. The wall paper dampened and curled. Higher, driving man, wo- man and child to the house tops, crept the merciless tide. Up the blinds, mocking at the eaves, sneering at the roof itself, rising every second higher. Sure he had to go. He was the only volunteer wasn’t he? Everything might turn out O. K. There was a chance anyway. In those few seconds the past and present, a lifetime flashed by. Davis was a bit surprised to hear his voice, quite dry, but perfectly clear to all in the room. All eternity seemed to hang upon his words. “I’ll go.” The operator had not expected this answer. He looked up, a little lop- sided smile of disbelief on his face. As if to test the validity of Davis’s state- ment he said. “Not over that road you won’t. The Governor has ordered all heavy vehi- cles off the road by midnight. Bridges are going out right and left. You would have to have wings to get through. Not only that, the French and Conley Con- struction Company just sent a warn- ing. They’ve lost a box of dynamite in the confusion and haven’t been able to trace it. It’s on the road you go over.” “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.” “It’s a long chance. There’s enough explosive in that box to blow the whole State of Vermont to Kingdom Come!” “Never mind that. I said I’d go and I’m going. Tell them if I’m not there, not to expect me!” Then in a mo- ment of grim humor, “There’s more than one way of finding a box of dyna- mite !” Davis was standing by the door as he said this. Now he turned the knob. The door clicked open and when it shut Jimmy Davis was on the other side. Outside there was neither moon nor stars, nor beginning nor end. There was just now. His truck loomed near like a smudge of charcoal against the pale yellow buildings across the street. The rain streaked his glasses, dripped from his shin and ran in a chilly stream down inside his coat collar. For a mo- ment he wished he hadn’t said he’d go. He could turn back before it was too late. Jimmy stopped in his tracks. Dynamite indeed! The man was right: he’d have to be an angel to get through. Childishly and in a half amused man- ner, he wagged his shoulder blades. Angel or no angel he’d make one aw- ful try. Davis stepped off the curb, stum- bled on a sewer cover, recovered his balance and crossed to his truck. He surveyed the oil tins with a practiced eye. “Lucky”, he thought, “to have sal- vaged those.” With the oil he already had it would be quite a help. Tires O. K. Good brakes. The battery was in “Al” condition. Sure, he took care of his truck. It pays to be good to your truck. Jimmy slipped into his old ac- customed place. His foot found the starter. The engine turned over, shivered and started with a roar. A second to warm up; then he slipped the gears. Water obliterated his tracks [5]