Flood Friday Read online

  FLOOD

  FRIDAY

  Lois Lenski

  To all the flood children

  with love

  CONTENTS

  Excerpt from Journey Into Childhood, an Autobiography by Lois Lenski

  Foreword

  1 Rising Water

  2 Air Rescue

  3 School by Day

  4 Still at School

  5 School by Night

  6 Haven of Refuge

  7 New Clothes

  8 Clean-Up Time

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  Excerpt from Journey Into Childhood, an Autobiography by Lois Lenski

  THE BIG EVENT OF THE 1940s was the award of the Newbery Medal to Strawberry Girl in 1946. No one was more astonished than I to receive it. Had it been given to my book Indian Captive, the Story of Mary Jemison, which I considered my major and most scholarly work, I would not have been surprised. I had envisioned a series of Regional books, for I knew there were many regions little known and neglected in children’s books. The series was barely started, and I had already daringly broken down a few unwritten taboos, I had written more plainly and realistically than other children’s authors, I had taken my material and my characters direct from real life instead of from the imagination, and my Regionals were not yet entirely accepted or approved. I was an innovator and a pioneer in a new direction, and I knew I had a long and difficult task ahead to earn the acceptance which I was not expecting so soon. But the award focused national attention on Strawberry Girl and the books to follow, so I was very grateful.

  The convention of the American Library Association was held at Buffalo that year, and at various meetings and receptions, I received invitations from librarians to go to many parts of the country—Seattle, Utah, California, Kansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Minnesota—to write about their region. Afterwards, the award brought much publicity, including requests for personal interviews and radio appearances, for personal appearances at libraries and schools, most of which I was unable to accept. Those that I did accept were strenuous and wearing, and I was glad when the flurry subsided, and I could retire to private life again.

  An entire book could be written about my experiences in other regions during the 1950s—in San Angelo, Texas, for Texas Tomboy, in Perry, Oklahoma, for Boom Town Boy, in McLaughlin, South Dakota, for Prairie School, in Remsen, Iowa, for Corn Farm Boy, and other places. The list goes on and on, always a new environment and way of life to be studied, and always good people who shared the intimacy of their lives with me, each region more exciting and stimulating than the last, each region calling for one’s deepest powers of observation, understanding, and compassion.

  As soon as I return from a region, I have a big job to do. I have to copy all the notes I have taken, classifying them under various headings, making them readily and quickly accessible. Then I make an outline for my story, listing the various incidents I wish to include under the different chapter headings. I write my text in longhand first, and often revise it in longhand, then revise again as I type it. (The subject has, of course, been approved by the editor in advance.) I send the typed manuscript in, to be read and approved, copyedited (improving or disapproving of my punctuation!) and sent to the printer to be set into type. If any changes are suggested by the editor, the manuscript or portions of it may be returned to me for this purpose. If any changes in format are contemplated, I am always consulted. For many years, with Lippincott, I worked directly with the head of the manufacturing department in planning all details of type and format. It was in this way that a beautiful format was devised for the Regionals.

  While the manuscript is at the printers, while I am waiting for the galley proofs, having kept a carbon of the manuscript, I am working on the illustrations. For the Regionals, these are graphite pencil drawings on 3-ply Bristol board, and are reproduced by high-light halftone offset. The drawings for the Roundabouts are ink drawings, reproduced by letterpress.

  When the galley proofs reach me, two sets are sent, one for me to read and correct, and to answer editorial or printers’ queries; the other set for me to cut up and paste into a blank dummy, allowing space on the proper page for each illustration, of which I usually make about fifty.

  After I wrap up a large package containing original manuscript, the original illustrations, corrected galley proofs, and the printer’s dummy and ship it to the publishers, my work on a book is finished. The rest is up to the publisher. I see and hear nothing more until months later, when a book package arrives out of the blue, containing the first copy, hot off the press, for me to hold in my hands and marvel at. There is no other thrill so great for an author-illustrator as seeing the first copy of a book he has labored over and believed in and deeply loved.

  From Journey Into Childhood by Lois Lenski © 1972 by permission of Sterling Lord Literistic for the Lois Lenski Covey Foundation, Inc.

  FOREWORD

  “OUR HOUSE WENT.”

  “A knock came at the door. I was so scared, I was shaking.”

  “I saw the neighbor kids in the water, going down and coming back up.”

  “My mother felt bad. She lost her big Bible.”

  “I never saw our house after it went, but my father did. The water took it away at nine in the morning. It went floating down the street. The nails fell out and it broke in pieces.”

  Such words from the lips of children convey the full meaning of the flood tragedy, which struck Connecticut on Flood Friday, August 19, 1955. Such words, too, convey their innate stoicism and courage, their acceptance of the inevitable, and their resilience in the face of danger.

  Thousands of children in the United States have lived through major floods in the last decade. Not only those in Connecticut and adjoining states, but along the Ohio, Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and in California and Texas, children know what floods mean. This book is for them, and for all those more fortunate children who can share their experiences only through books.

  In October after the flood, a little girl in Ohio wrote me:

  “I have an idea for a book of yours. It would be about the horrible flood! How one family was rescued and what happened to them or if they were hurt.”

  I am grateful to her, and to the children of Union School, Unionville, Connecticut, who invited me to come to write of their experiences. Living in the heart of the flooded area of Connecticut, I felt a compelling urge to write this book.

  Lois Lenski

  1

  RISING WATER

  “I’M HAVING CHOCOLATE NUT,” said Barbara Boyd.

  “I’ll take strawberry,” said Sally Graham.

  “Vanilla for me,” said Sally’s sister Karen.

  The three girls were perched up on stools at the soda counter. They began to sip their ice cream. Sally watched the people coming in.

  The little River Bend store was crowded. It was Thursday, a hot, muggy day in August. Outside it was raining hard. The children wore raincoats and rubbers. Everybody who came in was dripping. Cars stopped outside and people picked up groceries. Children came in on errands or to get ice cream.

  “Look who’s coming!” cried Sally.

  Carol Rosansky and David Joruska came in.

  “Hi, Carol!” called Sally.

  “Hi, David!” said Barbara.

  Carol and David got up on stools and ordered cold drinks. Then Angela Marciano, who was thirteen, came in bringing her five-year-old sister Linda. Her brothers, Tony and Al, followed, with Tommy Dillon. Ray and Ralph Marberry came too. They all lived in River Bend.

  “Gee! Our whole school will soon be here,” said Sally.

  “When it rains like this,” said David, “there’s no place to go to but the store. It’s dry in here.”

  The Marcianos and Tommy Dillon crowded up close be
hind the girls.

  “Our back yard is full of water,” said Angela Marciano. “I never saw so much water in the river before.”

  “Aw! That’s nothing,” said Tommy Dillon. “It’s fine weather for ducks. Go take a swim!”

  Tommy Dillon was a small, thin boy of eleven, one of a family of seven children. His house was not far from the Grahams. At school the year before, he had sat behind Sally Graham and made her life miserable.

  Now he pushed and shoved behind her, reaching for his bottle of soda. He tipped it up and drank.

  Sally opened her purse and took out her new compact. It was shiny like gold and had a blue enameled bird on the cover. It was just new. She had bought it the previous Saturday at the dime store in Hartford. She snapped it open, looked at herself, took out the powder puff and powdered her nose. In the mirror, she saw Tommy Dillon behind her, grinning.

  “That’s right! Powder your nose!” cried Tommy. “Did you bring your lipstick too?”

  The next moment Tommy snatched the compact out of Sally’s hand. It disappeared in his pocket. Sally turned on him angrily.

  “Did you lose something?” asked Tommy innocently.

  “You give my compact right back, Tommy Dillon!” cried Sally.

  Tommy set his empty bottle on the counter and tossed a coin to the clerk. Then he made for the door. Sally and Barbara had to pay for their ice cream. The Marciano children took their places on the stools.

  “Beat it, Tommy!” shouted the Marberry boys.

  “Get going, Tommy!” yelled Tony and Al Marciano.

  “Oh, Sally!” cried Angela. “Make him give it back.”

  The girls dashed out in the rain after Tommy Dillon and the store door banged behind them.

  “You’ll never catch him, Sally,” said Barbara.

  “I’ve got to,” cried Sally. “He took my new compact!”

  It was raining harder than ever now. Cars passed both ways on the highway, splashing water as they went. Before they knew it, Tommy had darted across. The girls had to wait for a lull in the traffic. When they reached the other side, Tommy was nowhere in sight.

  “That mean old Tommy Dillon!” cried Sally. She was so angry she was ready to cry. “He’s mean. I hate him.”

  “Can’t you get another compact?” asked Karen.

  “Of course not,” said Sally. “I spent my whole week’s allowance on that one. And it was the only one they had with a bluebird on it.”

  “Oh, what do you care?” said Barbara Boyd. “Who wants a compact, anyhow?”

  “I do,” said Sally.

  Barbara Boyd was Sally Graham’s best friend, but sometimes Sally found it hard to understand her. Barbara never powdered her nose at all, and she never painted her nails.

  “Well, Mother told you not to buy it,” said Karen.

  “She just said I was too young,” said Sally.

  The girls left the highway and walked down a side street of River Bend toward their homes. Barbara’s brothers, Dan and Ronnie, came out of the Boyd house.

  “Where are you boys going?” asked Barbara.

  “Down to see the river,” said Dan.

  “The river?” said Sally. “What for? Going for a swim?”

  “The river’s rising,” said Dan. “There’s going to be a flood. We heard it over the radio.”

  “We’ve got the river right in our back yard,” said Sally. “Let’s go to my house and look at it.”

  The boys followed the girls down several blocks toward the river, where the Graham house was located. They went around to the back yard.

  “The river looks just the same as always,” said Sally.

  “No,” said Karen, pointing. “It’s up as far as the apple tree. Look! The river’s coming to see us.”

  The children laughed.

  “Where’s the doghouse?” asked Sally suddenly.

  The children looked around. The river was wider than they had ever seen it before.

  “There goes the doghouse! It’s floating,” said Dan Boyd.

  “That’s not it,” said Sally, worried. “That looks like a barrel.”

  “Look at all the things floating,” said Barbara. “I never saw things come down the river like this before.”

  “There goes a tree …”

  “And cartons and a wagon wheel …”

  “And look! Somebody’s chair is floating!”

  The children were excited now, pointing and laughing.

  “Where’s Rusty’s doghouse?” asked Sally again. All she could think of was the dog.

  “It’s gone,” said Karen. “I bet the river’s carried it off.”

  Sally looked around and saw her mother coming out of the back door.

  “Mother,” she called. “Is Rusty in the house?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Graham. “He’s playing with Jack and Tim.”

  “His doghouse is gone,” said Karen. “Good thing Rusty wasn’t inside.”

  “I used the wheelbarrow and moved the doghouse up on the porch,” said Mrs. Graham. “Come and help me, children. Let’s bring the table and chairs in.”

  Dan and Ronnie and the girls helped. Soon the lawn furniture was safely under the porch roof, beside the doghouse and Bobby’s and Sally’s bicycles. Mrs. Graham sat down on a chair and took off her shoes and stockings.

  “What are you going to do, Mother?” asked Sally.

  “Pick my zinnias,” said Mrs. Graham.

  “The flower bed is a pond now!” said Barbara Boyd.

  “Well, I’ll wade in,” said Mrs. Graham. “If it’s never going to stop raining, I’d like to have a bouquet in the house to cheer us up.”

  The children laughed. They watched Mrs. Graham wade in the water and come out with a bunch of flowers. The Boyd children said goodbye and went on home.

  “See you tomorrow!” Barbara called back.

  “Sure!” answered Sally. Little did she realize what was to happen before she saw her best friend again.

  “Rusty! Rusty!” she called as she went inside.

  The little long-haired dog jumped up on her as she came in the door. She picked him up and gave him a hug.

  Sally was restless all evening. She saw neighbors passing by, watching the river. They shook their heads, looking at the heavy sky. Perry Wilson, a next-door neighbor, stopped in to talk with Mother. Sally wished her father would come home.

  When he came, Mr. Graham said that several small bridges were washed out, and he had had to make a detour from Hartford. After supper, Sally read a book to Karen, tried to keep the little boys from fighting and gave baby Betty her bottle. Bobby, who was nine, read comics all evening. At last it was time to go to bed. The children trooped up the stairs.

  Karen fell asleep quickly. After all, she was only seven. Sally was the oldest, eleven. She kept thinking she heard voices downstairs. Each time she started to fall asleep, they woke her up. Was it the Wilsons again? Why didn’t they go home and go to bed?

  Once she heard Daddy say, “The cellar’s full already. Why was that outside cellar door left open?”

  She could not hear Mother’s reply. Daddy went on, “We can take the motor upstairs. The sewing machine too. If it comes in here, we’ll just carry everything upstairs.”

  Sally felt comforted and reassured. She knew Daddy and Mother would take care of everything. She fell asleep.

  A loud knock came at the door.

  Sally woke up suddenly. She was so scared, she was trembling. She knew it was the middle of the night, for she had been asleep a long time. She threw back the quilt and swung quietly out of bed, so as not to wake up Karen. As she was feeling for her slippers, she heard voices outside. She tried to listen.

  The windows were open—the night was hot and close. It was still raining hard. But above the sound of the pelting rain, she could hear voices. She looked out the window. She saw people with umbrellas standing in the rain and talking. A policeman was at the door.

  “You’ll have to get out!” he shouted. “The river is r
ising.”

  Sally could not hear what her father answered.

  “It’s coming up fast,” the policeman said. “Don’t try to take anything. Get out while you can.”

  The door banged and he was gone. He was on his way to warn the other River Bend people—the Boyds, the Dillons, the Marcianos and many others.

  Sally ran to the head of the stairs. She looked down and was never to forget what she saw. There, in the place where the floor had been, was water. River water. She stared. Daddy and Mother were wading in it with their feet and legs bare. They were moving things—putting things up higher.

  “Mother!” called Sally. “Mother!”

  “Are you up, Sally?” answered Mother. “Waken the children and help them get dressed.”

  “Why, Mother,” said Sally, “it’s the middle of the night!”

  “Remember when we drove to Maine?” said Mother. “Remember how we started in the middle of the night?”

  Sally woke Karen and tried to get some clothes on Bobby and the little boys. Karen took baby Betty and gave her a bottle. Before the children had their shoes on, Mother brought food upstairs—milk, butter and bread. She put it in a basket.

  “What’s the food for?” asked Sally.

  “In case somebody needs it,” said Mother. Even at a time like this, Mother was thinking of other people.

  The boys saw the water downstairs and thought it a joke.

  “There goes the pancake flour!” cried Jack.

  “There goes the breadbox!” shouted Tim.

  “And I see Daddy’s slippers,” said Bobby. “They’re floating like boats.”

  Suddenly the lights went out. The electricity had gone off.

  “We need cat eyes to see in the dark,” said the boys.

  Sally looked out the window. It was getting a little lighter outside. She saw things floating by on the great sea of water. Was everything going to be washed away? She kept her eyes on the little pine tree in the yard, the tree Daddy always put the electric lights on at Christmas time. She could only see the tip of it. As she watched, the water came up until even the tip was gone.