My hometown floods through the years:
My grandmother's basement floods. All the canned foods and dried apples and onions are down there, and that's the only food to be had. So they put my 5-year-old grandmother in a washtub with a broom and made her row back and forth across the creepy basement to deliver jars of soup and okra and preserves and chow chow, which is something horrible that I can't describe.
I'm in high school, and our town floods again. I have lots of fun walking barefoot in the backyard up to my knees until I step in dog crap. The golf course at the country club is flooded, so the rich kids throw snorkeling and skinny-dipping parties. I learn this later, when I get my yearbook, because I was tragically unhip.
I'm in Chickfil-A drinking diet lemonade and watching my children clamber around on the indoor playground when the week's rain culminates in a mothertrucker of a wicked storm. I drive home at 30 miles per hour in my SUV, hoping the winding, country roads to my house aren't flooded out. I'm worried about the new roof, the old basement, the trees in the back yard, and my husband's route home. I also can't find my debit card, but it's not my biggest worry.
My daughter asks me if we can go fly a kite in the rain, and I mutter something about Thomas Edison and lightning and galoshes and the milk and diapers I was supposed to get at the store. I look at pics of a flooded downtown Atlanta on Facebook and express amazement. My parents' house is flooded, and my mom has bronchitis. Our favorite playgrounds are underwater.
Kinda makes me wish for a washtub and some green beans, you know?