Tuesday - Qld Floods

The night flees to darker places, and Tuesday arrives in a new dress of sunshine. Finally we are having the summer we were meant to have; the warmth and sunshine we dreamt of, as day after day of rain lashed at our holiday plans.
~~
Today the Brisbane River lays flat as a mirror, until a small boat forges a V, and wrinkles its skin.
~~

Monday: Qld Floods

Ten pm and I’m almost asleep; just a few threads of consciousness remain, snapping off one by one allowing me to slowly sink into the arms of the night. My mouth relaxes, and begins to fall open when I hear it. The noise. A rattling, glassware-tinging sound. Someone is in the kitchen! Expecting any minute to hear the sound of breaking glasses, I rush naked out of the bedroom and tread cautiously up the hallway, only to be confronted by a very large possum, which seems just as equally surprised to see me.

We both freeze.

He dives down the stairs with me in full pursuit; trying to find an escape. Opening the front glass door, I stand back, there’s no way I want him running up my leg, but I tell myself this is Australia, and it’s a possum, not a squirrel. I think I’ve watched too many Holiday Vacation movies. Still, it pays to be wary, and I keep an eye on the cats, who sit nearby watching with disinterest.

Oh, good on you, cats! A big help!

After a few more bangs on the glass door, the possum heads back upstairs. Uh oh, this could go on all bloody bight, and I’m now worried about the state of my house! Fortunately, he ran onto the deck and scampered down the tree to safety. Repeat the same act at midnight. I’ll have to cut that tree branch off that extends over to the deck.
~~
Today we have the assessors report on the house. To build again, to renovate, time will tell.
~~
School returns, and a new normal will glide into place throughout the suburbs. Mums will kiss their children a little more, and hold them a little longer, today. Across the city, children will recount their flood adventures. Let’s face it; no one really had a holiday: too much rain, too much wet, too much flood and mud. Teachers will open fresh books that smell of hope, and students will sit awkwardly in knotted ties and new shoes, a squirming picture of duty and the future.
~~

Love you Queensland

Saturday - all day.

We had a day off from the flood yesterday. My dear mate Johnno arrived last week from Townsville, to help his brother in the truck accessories shop, cleaning down the muck. He wanted to talk about anything but the flood. On the way to collect him from the train station, a fat white Qantas plane glided above. Resisting the urge to run my hand down its firm, hard flanks and tickle its smooth underbelly; the plane went on its way, as silent as an overhead shark at UnderWaterWorld.


Phone calls to neighbours and friends, come, share, enjoy; and then I’m making dinner for eight of us; and I can’t wait to hug them all and laugh loudly at nothing. I do love my house to be filled with friends, and strangers; chatting, embracing, eating and making memoires; it makes our house, a home.

~~

On the deck, with Johnno: the orange waning moon is so exquisite it hurts my eyes to look at it. There is always something so melancholy about it. I have been, seen, and now its time to leave, my pinnacle is over, until the next time. It’s like watching a retreating wave on the beach, its only when the water recedes that the real beauty of the sand and her treasure of crushed shells is fully exposed. We sit in the dark loud night-silence and hear the possums and the neighbour’s birthday party. There’s something so wonderful about old mates; we can sit and just be in each others presence – no need for words or unnecessary chatter – and we submerge ourselves to the summers night sky, and feel embraced.

~~

Today I have edited three video clips – I am behind in my work and need to catch up. It’s good to be back in the saddle, to do what I love and know so well. The rhythm of work and the creativeness of the projects engages me, I commit to sitting here for the next seven hours and working. My ebony cat climbs onto my workbench, looks at me, and flops on his side; already asleep. The day screams at me to join it outside, but my mind is made up. I must work, I must! Sunshine washes over my garden, teasing me; I have to stare at the screen with all my will. Insert, copy, paste, edit, render. Repeat.

~~

My sons ring me excitedly from the Melbourne pub, Young and Jackson. Together with their partners, they are toasting to Chloe. It has become our family tradition each time in Melbourne to honour her with champagne and a toast. To Chloe!

Poor, statuesque, dead Chloe; so beautiful in her painted glory; so silent, watching the American-cruise tourists and interstate visitors, sit and gossip below her. She never blinks.

~~

My husband takes Johnno for a spin in his blue Lotus. He hasn’t driven it for over a year, and I wave them off with a sigh of relief. It gives me time to edit, and I know they will enjoy each others company. It’s going to be a boy’s day, and its no place for me. I resist the urge to click my heels, but I do grin all the way back up the stairs to my computer screen.

Saturday

I yawn open-mouthed like a hippo. Again and again, until finally the nice young man sitting at the table next to us turns his head and looks. I don’t care, I can’t stop the yawning and the over-whelming tiredness; I’m exhausted and I can’t be bothered hiding it any longer.

My husband folds his hand over mine protectively, and we eat our steaks in silence, punctuated by grunts of happiness and hunger.

~~

Last night 10,000 men dreamt of mud, and 10,000 women dreamt of their homes and family. Possums mated above our home, hissing and chiacking under the waning moon. My cat checks in on me at 3.10am, to see if I am still sleeping; batting my hand with his love. I stroke him until the dreams come again.

~~

My blog at http://qldfloods.org/pattycam/brisbane-flood-2011-patty-beecham is receiving some amazing comments. It’s humbling to be privy to some readers own stories, in the private inbox. Thankyou for sharing your stories, and remember to keep a little piece of your heart flood-free, and visit it often.

~~

Waving off my sister-in-law as they drive north to unpack yet another furniture truck of mother-in-laws life, my legs suddenly buckle and collapse from under me, and I crash awkwardly to the footpath. Someone has pulled the string on my puppet legs, and I bruise my shins, knees, hands.

~~

Today my old mate from Townsville arrives. We’ll drink too much and talk too much, enjoying each other’s rare company, face-to-face. He has been in Brisbane scrubbing his brother’s shop in Archerfield – all week – and is clearly ready to go home. He’s had enough. We’ve all had enough.

~~

Thank you for my strength Patty

One readers heartfelt response to my blog.  Thankyou, *deep respect*

My Dear Patty,

You have taken us all on a journey of words that is repeated across our great State of QLD, your story times 10,000.

I give thanks for your awsome ability to write so well and to take us with you through your experience, for it is our experience, you write for us all.

You will never know just how much you have given each of us who read your memoirs. Not just a story to cry over but the gut and heart of us all.

I find myself nodding in agreement or acknowledging the same feelings in places as it could be our story too.

I live in Glenore Grove in The Lockyer Valley and the destruction, cleanup and pain is palpable. We too have our angels in abundence and tomorrow I head out with a group to Helidon and Murphy's Creek and later to Granthem if they will allow us.

I must suck up my emotions for this cleanup as they have lost so much and so many of their small community. I will need strength and endurance as you have done and keep my weeping to myself in a quiet place.

I will take with me in my head your story to give me courage and keep me going emotionally and to ebb the tide of fatigue as it will surely come and I have already dug out my Simon & Garfunkle album for the drive there and my Bee Gee's for the drive home.

Thank you again for your eloquent words, your story, our story, QLD's story of the Floods of 2011.

Thursday - continued, Qld Floods, Continued...

I dream of loose teeth; of missing teeth. I have nightmares of being stuck, perched high above the earth, on a small rock ledge. Above and below me there are 1000 metre cliffs. I am doomed and I know it. Waking in sweat, I bump around the kitchen at night, fetching glasses of cold water to gulp down in the dull light of my computer monitor.

~~

Meeting my old friend Nicky at our favourite haunt, the Black Cat Bookshop. We hug, and hold each other, arms locked in embrace. She offers to give me an oil treatment, a spiritual cleansing to which I readily agree. Three small bottles are placed in front of me. Choose one, Patty, she tells me.

One is a warm, sickly pink; this is for Relationships. It’s already half empty, there must be a great need out there for relationship healing? The middle bottle is a soft pink, the kind of gentleness you see on sunsets. It’s for Abundance. I shake my head, no, thanks; I already have abundance in my life. We move onto the third bottle, named El Moyra.

It means: Thy Will Be Done, and it’s this small sky-blue bottle of oil that I choose. I submit myself to the universe.

Placing three drops on my pulse points, we begin. Firstly a slow rubbing together of my wrists, then “angel wings” over my head and hovering over my heart charka. It’s all new to me, but this week I’ve learnt so much, this is one more thing to be engaged with and enjoy. Holding my arms crossed in front of me, Nicky begins: “Heal Patty and send her out into the universe,” and I close my eyes, instinctively pressing on my third eye as she speaks. I don’t even know if I believe in a third eye, but there I am, in the Café downstairs, being caught up in the emotion and stillness of this Blessing.

Tears come, and I can’t breathe. I am to slowly inhale the scent three times, but I can’t get past the first breath. It’s choked up inside of me, burning my throat. I’m almost gasping when the second breath hits me, washing my body with oxygen and love. This was something else! The third breath is completed, and the small ceremony is over. I figure it can’t hurt, and together we enjoyed a new aspect of our friendship. Thy will be done. Amen.
~~
Last night, watched by an indulgent full moon, we unpacked the first of the neighbour’s garages, relieving them of my mother-in-laws contents. Hubby hired a small furniture truck, and after an hour and 5 adults carrying, packing, running the gauntlet up the steep steel ramp, the truck rumbled and lurched its way north, to safety and shelter. I drove my sister-in-laws car, the older 4wd whining and groaning with each gear change through the hills of Brisbane suburbs. Eventually, we growled our way home; to flop in front of television, computer screens, and to lie flat faced on white pillows, dreamlessly sleeping. Hubby and his sister and partner drove to Caboolture, to unpack and reload the truck, arriving home at midnight, exhausted. Today we repeat the whole thing another two times.
~~
The night was thick with sleep, the city dull with rain. Banana bread is in the oven, and my sons’ old bedrooms are full of children sleeping. It’s beautiful to have kids within these walls, again. Today we pack, and drive, and unpack, repeat.
~~

The Brisbane Flood of 2011

For full screen image please click here.

The Brisbane Flood of 2011

Wednesday – Qld Flood hump day

Soft, candle-smoke clouds snuggle into Mt Coot-tha’s folds, hiding from the sun. A smudgy fog hangs over Brisbane; as though we need the filmy protection from the grim reality. The mud is back; the stench; the storms have come, gone, and will return again; and still the clean up continues.

The other afternoon an engineer came to my mother-in-law’s house. My husband and I met him, and then Blisters (I always turn up after all the hard work is done) drove down the long driveway.

The men all walked around the house; pointing here, photographing this crack, measuring with a bright yellow metal tape, the heights, the lines of the house.

Basically, the flood broke her back; the slab has tilted and shifted and major damage has been done.

There isn’t a straight line in the building.

A laser tripod is brought out; it’s spinning laser beam giving proper levels, accurate readings of the structure. It’s grim, but we knew that.

Dried mud lies in permanent puddles of grim dirt where cream carpet once lay. Mud splatters the walls, and the pool is a stinking mess of brown. God knows what’s underneath the waters. A cane toad swims in circles in the corner, as a child’s toy floats in the muck.

There is one final pile of rubbish to be dumped on the street, and my husband and I begin the shovel loads of water damaged everything into plastic bags. So many of my mother-in-laws university books and papers; so many childhood books. I wonder if my husband lay on his bed in a winter’s afternoon, reading this story.

My little sis-in-laws fashion drawings. I photograph each one, to honour her memory. Sleeping bags (the one hubby used in New Zealand walking the Milford Track?) electric blankets and so on, a household and a lifetime of stuff.

Inside the cupboard, below where the tv used to be, below where the stereo played classical music, below where the numerous photo albums lived, the set of World Book Encyclopaedias sticks stubbornly within the cupboard.

Three days ago I watched one of my Mormon Angels (LDS a.k.a Latter Day Saints) try to wedge out the books with a shovel. It took me a while to work out what he was trying to do. Beginning carefully, he tried to prise the books out; but they were too swollen with Brisbane River mud. After a good ten minutes, he continued to use the shovel, but out had gone the carefulness, and into the room came sheer strength and muscle power . But it was no good, the books remained where they are, still.

So it’s true, the pen is mightier than the sword. Or shovel.

Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund

Everything I am I owe to Art and Simon.

I have always sung; I am a singer. There is a song in my head for every occasion, and for this I am eternally grateful. Blame long church services, and me; restless with youth and the itch to run and do and play, I would gladly burst into hearty hymns led by the booming voice of my father, an Anglican Priest in Rockhampton.

In our small street, there were three churches. The Methodists, who always looked so sad; the Seventh Day Adventists; who had recorded bell chimes, and us, the small, rowdy and dirt poor community of St Barnabas. I’d swing off the single church bell at 6.30 am, after a quick shake awake from dad. That man had so much energy; it exhausts me to recall it, even now. Thirty-three rings Patty, no more, no less, remember? Yes dad, you tell me every Sunday morning, and off I’d go; getting a good hard pull, enough to raise my skinny brown legs off the ground to my own hilarity. I am a clown, and together our black cocker spaniel and I would bay and howl together, totally forgetting to count the pulls and chimes.

As I became older, visiting the teenage years of sulk and flounce, my weight kept me grounded. The bells simply rang, and our dear old cocker would lay on the dirt nearby, one eye open to watch me yank the cord crossly in exasperation.

The singing, however continued; and I discovered the amazing world of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.

In the stinking heat of Rockhampton, where the gasping sparrows found refuge under the eaves of the old Rectory, I would listen to each word, noting every guitar chord and sweet, melancholy utterance. They became my dearest friends, teaching me so much about the world, and making sense of the insensible.

They sang me of love, (Kathy's Song) sex (Cecilia) crime, (Somewhere They Can't Find Me) self belief (I am a rock) death (Richard Cory) architecture (So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright) light-heartedness (Feeling Groovy) graffiti (A Poem on the Underground Wall) and so on. I will always be eternally grateful to their music.

And so today I drive down from the coast, listening to their album in my car, singing with each, sweet note. I vibrate energy inside, in my heart. It’s my gift to myself, leaning on the old familiar strains and chords, lifting my voice to swell with delight to a favourite song. Driving back towards the steadying horror, which seems to have peaked and is now ebbing - each day fading the Brisbane floods from my memory.

Today the engineers arrive to inspect the house. Their report will decide the future of my mother-in-law. To bulldoze and rebuild? To buy an apartment? To sell the land?

In the silence between the music tracks, I am reminded of the Mormons Helping Hands, and their familiar catch-cry: “Good job!” Each thankless task, greeted with a cheery call.

“Good job Josh!”

“Good job Steven.”

Good job Brisbane!  We have shaken off the much lauded big city title, and have reverted back to a 'big country town', where neighbours help each other, and are involved in each others lives. Real people matter once again,  and communities are re-born.

Good job Brisbane. Love your work!

Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund.

The Clean up

Banana bread is baking in the oven, my cat sits beside contently purring, outside the birds are singing an opera, and all is well with the world. Uh, wait, there’s the flood, and the mess to clean up. Yesterday I drove over to begin a most horrific task, cleaning out the mud whilst it was still wet and pliable in my mother-in-laws home at Indooroopilly.

It’s impossible to know where to start, so I begin by photographing everything. For me, for the insurers, for my mother-in-law (who is staying at the beach house) and to share with anyone who is interested.
Someone has already been here; small footprints lead into the lounge, turn around, and come out. I don’t blame them! I feel like doing the same. In the 2 inch thick mud, small crabs have spun in circles, birds have left their imprints, and over here, in the family room, a cricket swims for his life to higher ground on the tree which floated into the family room.

Walking as carefully as I can so I don’t slip, I tread carefully though my husbands childhood home. I wonder what they did on Saturday afternoons? How they spent their time, as a family? There’s no doubt they were loved, and cherished. Childhood blackboards still hang outside, ready for a chalk drawing.

They say it’s the smell of the mud that gets to everyone. The stench of it all. For me, I am delighted, as the smell reminds me of my own childhood, happily exploring the muddy creeks of Pumpkin Creek at Keppel Sands, up to my knees in the thick sludge, laughing at a crab tickling my toes. The smell embraces me and protects me from the unfolding horror of cleaning the sludge off, before it dried like concrete.

I upload a few images to Twitter, I am a sharer, and have always been an open book in the cyber world. I am doing nothing different than I do every other day, it’s such a part of me the routine gives me comfort.
I begin to hose a walkway around the house; as we’ll need to access certain areas, and we don’t want to break our necks. By “we”, I really mean me, although I keep turning around hopefully imagining someone walking down the long driveway.

After two hours of solid hosing, I can see the house emerging, from under it’s new skin. On Twitter, offers of help come via my Blackberry, and I organise for someone's assistance tomorrow, (thanks Darryl King aka @ireckon!) but the reality is the mud must come off today.

And then it happened.

Two ladies walk down my driveway, introducing themselves as my neighbours, and asking if I needed help.

“That would be great!” I stammer, “Yes please!”

The thing you need to know about me is that I am a Capricorn, a no nonsense girl who just gets along with it. On my profile I say I am a do-it-now gal, and I am. It's not really for me the tetanus shots: (Dr didn't answer) or the trendy gumboots: (mine are in Maleny) - I just prefer to roll up my sleeves and get on with the task at hand. Perhaps it's my Rockhampton upbringing, but I have common sense in abundance; what a blessing.

They tell me how much of practical help my sister-in-laws were to them, helping them pack solidly for 4 hours after we had cleaned out their own house. It’s time to return the favour. As their house was slightly higher up, the water damage to them is minimal, in fact, they were hoping to move back into the downstairs family room that afternoon.

I’m shocked but happy for them. This house is going to take months of work. Months!

They leave, smiling. I continue to hose. Within three minutes, a band of eight yellow-vested men walk down my driveway, grinning.

They may as well have had 8-foot white angel wings attached, and walked in slow motion. I am having a small weep even typing this, I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to see them.

I begin to sing in my head the Abba hit, "I believe in Angels" and it becomes my earworm for the day.

They are part of the Church of Latter Day Saints, the Mormons, the ones we mock and hide from when they come knocking on our doors. I’m ashamed of my previous attitude to them, especially for me, as the youngest daughter of an Anglican priest. No one in my own family, my sons; or my husband has rung. No one from my in-laws has phoned me. To see these happy, strong able-bodies was such a joy.

Things have to be done before the mud dries. Carpets need to come out (so heavy, so full of mud), rubbish needs to be moved to the footpath (so far away, argh!) and mud needs to be shoved, swept, hosed, gurneyed.

They arrive already filming on video, (my camera is with my sister-in-law) and bring 200 metre power cords for the two water gurneys they have brought. Soon there is the sound of hard work, and I begin to relax, just a little bit. Two women, June and a younger girl, begin to hose out the kitchen and hallway. Now this is housework on steroids, and I love it. I start with another hose on the bathroom; built only last year, it’s spanking new and the reality is, we’ll need to pee at some time!

By the time I finish the two rooms, I’m happily shocked to see some rooms already stripped bare: nothing remains. Carpets and underlay are crumpled wetly around the garden like a war zone, to be dragged up the hill, inch by painful heaving inch, and dumped on the footpath.

At lunch they leave with an invitation for me to join them, but I keep working, giving them some peace. Within minutes another yellow-vested man walks towards me grinning; holding a pizza box and a full, unopened packet of TimTam biscuits.

“Here’s your lunch Patty. Make sure you wash your hands really well.”

In the afternoon, Telstra arrives to transfer and divert the phone to a mobile number, and the work continues. My husband sends down a larger gurney which doesn’t need power, and this makes short work of the carpet samples we have to keep for the insurance bloke.

Later, I drive home, a little shell-shocked, but delighted at our progress. Today we must do the pool area, remove green rubbish and tree branches, and pull out some built-in cupboards which haven’t’ survived.

There’s banana bread in the oven, our morning tea. It’s the least I can do to say thankyou to my yellow angels.

My son - my hero

For the third time this week my Eldest son has become my hero. On my birthday earlier this week he tidied my garden and blew the huge lump of wet leaves in the courtyard; saying to me in his quiet, deep voice: “That’s what I’m here for, mum,” and a little piece of my heart breaks. I don’t want him to just be here to serve me, but boy am I grateful that he is.

He places his arm around my shoulders, and when they rise and fall with a gentle sob he holds me until the noise subsides.

Earlier this week he climbed onto the roof of the kitchen, in the belting rain and pitch black night to replace a broken roof tile. Our kitchen ceiling was in huge danger of collapsing under the weight of rainwater and to cut a long story short, he saved us, he saved me, and he saved the house.

My hero!

Today he came with me to see his grandmother’s house, and how it had fared in the flood. We gingerly step here, and there; picking our delicate way through the mud, careful not to slip, careful not to step on some unknown broken thing hidden within the brown.

He takes photos for me. Holding my camera he grabs images, noting a straight horizon, and focusing in on the subject, as I have taught him. It’s almost funny to see my mother-in-laws house now.

“Is that a tree in the kitchen?”

“Yes, why yes! That IS a tree!” I mock, and at any moment I expect someone to wake me with a pinch and a hearty: “KIDDING!!” yelled in my ear. But that friendly, silly yell never comes, only the shocked silence of us both trying to comprehend the enormous force of the flood waters. How the hell am I going to get a tree out? Perhaps it will float out, as it floated in, on the rising tide.

In the distance, through the unbroken window panes and past the bending, yielding mangroves, you hear it. The roar of the water. The Brisbane River gallops past us like an unbroken stallion, a monster of a beast, it’s back hunched with fury and a wild, untamed mane of foam and flotsam.

It’s sheer madness to watch!

Once home, my son wordlessly empties the dishwasher for me. He has lived in his own flat for the past 4 years, and I am too tired and grateful to fight him. To my delight, he then goes to my front deck and begins to remove the last of the Christmas decorations. I had taken down 80% of them but then we had the drama of the flooding kitchen, and the great flood of 2011 to deal with. Thank you for helping me today son. I loved watching you become the man I always knew you were. My hero!

~~

At home my cat sleeps behind me, dreaming in the soft way that cats do, as I work on the computer. Suddenly he starts awake with a loud hiss and his eyes bolt open, craws dug in deeply to the sofa. Even he is having bad dreams. He’s shaken and unsettled, and I peer around my kitchen for ghosts or spirits. Perhaps my father-in-law is back, angry we left his bed to the flooding waters. I am so sorry Dennis, we did our best. We did our best. We saved so much, we simply couldn’t get it all. I stroke my cat back to sleep, until I too, am settled.

~~

When mothers age, we speak to them less. We still talk, of course, but we tell them less real information, as it only worries them. My voice is still cheery; really you wouldn’t know that in my lounge room a step ladder has taken up semi-permanent residence.

That my blue sofa is now green with mould.

That I’ll have to throw away my husband’s favourite cushion.

That my back garden is ruined, my young son’s bedroom is ruined, the kitchen ceiling is stuffed, whole interior walls will need replacing from water damage and mould; really you wouldn’t pick it at all.

“Hi mum, yes, we’re all fine,” I lie, but really, we are all fine.

I just have to remember that.

~~

Packing up our memories, and watching the waters rise

The white sycamore bed was made for her wedding day; in fact, the whole suite of bedroom furniture was handmade by her father, who owned a joinery shop in Ipswich. Her five children were conceived there, and it is where her husband passed away, sleeping peacefully on the left-hand side. For more than 44 years it has overlooked the Brisbane River, and now I watch with sadness as the muddy waters lap relentlessly at the bedroom door.

We can’t move it. There’s not enough of us, and nowhere to store it. We have no tools. We have to make executive decisions on what to take, what to leave. I spent an entire day packing up my mother-in-law’s life. I drove through pouring rain to begin the melancholy chore of packing, wrapping, sorting, rescuing her home.

It has endured the 1974 floods and already I can see the waterline has crept up past the eaves of the garage shed. Two tyres swirl in a backwash eddy, spinning lazy circles. A bush turkey looks confused, standing on the water’s edge, peering in.

Handing my camera to my brother-in-law, I ask him to walk around and photograph the house before we begin. Starting in the dining room, I rescued a beloved china dinner set, wrapping each plate in Qld Country Life newspaper — ironically with headlines of the flood — and placing them in old packing cartons.

I decide not to take certain glassware, as these can easily be replaced and we have to prioritise. Photographs and pictures from the walls are rescued and stacked carefully. My mother-in-law is an enthusiastic photographer. We open cupboard upon cupboard, drawer after drawer, to find with dismay more photo albums, more slides, more negatives, more, more, more!

In frustration I crossly opened one album, only to find myself staring back at my family, grinning into the camera. I’ve never seen these photos before! I am dressed in white and 15 years younger, sailing the Bay of Islands in New Zealand. My husband is skippering the yacht. We all look so happy.

My sister-in-law arrives and we move as a team, packing more boxes, cushioning the contents with newspapers and care, securing them with love. She grabs insurance papers and filing cabinet stuff. Yes, there is flood insurance. My other little sister-in-law and her American husband arrive soon after. I insist we stop and take a photograph of us all, and the home that will never be the same again. Chairs are hurriedly pulled together, the timer is set. Smile!

Strangers arrive with a shy smile. “Can we help?”

“Do you have any storage room, please? A garage?”

As we speak, I glance out the window to see a pontoon floating past, unmanned. It’s shocking, but we were to see far worse, as the day unfolded.

More neighbours arrived. No, we are not looting. Yes, we would love you to help. Lists are made: furniture, boxes, storage. We have to keep track of it all.

I update Twitter in between cartons, noting how my fingers are black with printer’s ink. Towels are spread across the front door, not to keep out the water, but to keep us from slipping. I wear my old lady’s shoes; red leather (like the Pope’s) as I cannot afford to fall and hurt myself. We all walk deliberately slower than we normally would. It’s like a bad dream; everything happens in slow motion.

I open a huge drawer under the bed. It’s full of wrapped newspaper parcels.

We weren’t rescuing stuff, we were rescuing memories. Mother-in-law kept everything, good or not, useful or not, worthless, worthy. It was all sentimentally kept.

Another pontoon breaks loose. A very expensive speedboat is perched on it, gaily sailing down the river; sightseeing, spinning slowly. There are rips and eddies out there. The river is an untamed child, kicking her heels in defiance. I won’t do it, I won’t go, I must, I must, I must!

There are two sets of children’s encyclopedias. To leave, or to take? They are probably worth money, collectables. They are probably worthless, redundant. A family discussion: they are saved.

The following day my son and I arrived just in time to see the water swirl around the house, and as we watch, water laps onto the cream carpet. Our timing is superb. We nearly cry, but don’t; it’s pointless. You can’t change Mother Nature, and it’s only a house.

The home has all been packed away, for now.


This article was first published on Crikey.com