“Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink . . . Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink.”

So said Samuel Taylor Coleridge in his 1834 epic poem, “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”.  Granted, the reason he couldn’t drink the water was because of the salt content, which was also the reason the boards of the ship were shrinking even though they were submerged in the offending and practically useless liquid.  But the point I want to make here is that he was literally surrounded by water . . . lots and lots and lots of water.

And so has been our situation for the last several days, but not salt water.  Just nasty, muddy, smelly, catfish-laden river water that has slowly crept across the fields and hollers of our county and surrounding area, rendering people helpless and often homeless in its progression.  It has been and continues to be a flood of historic proportions, rivaling the great flood of 1973 which was, at one time, memorialized by a high water mark carved into a post at the Botel, a boat/restaurant/hotel that sits on the banks of the Tennessee at Pickwick Dam.

The region at large and the population in general seem fascinated by the devastation.  And for a while all the memes and such made the rounds on Facebook, like the one where the Welcome to Tennessee sign sits above one that states “No Lifeguards on Duty”, but those quickly turned to pictures of the flooding, pictures taken from every corner of the county.  Then came the warnings.  Quit sightseeing—it endangers those who are trying to save what few things they can, including livestock.  Watch for snakes—the water has brought them out of hibernation.  Turn around—don’t drown.  The currents are strong, even on roads that have never flooded but have now become tiny rivers, tributaries to the real thing.

In all of this, we have come together to help each other survive.  When the call went out for trailers and pasture so livestock could be saved, it was answered.  When businesses needed help moving fixtures to lessen their losses, people came.  When the Red Cross began preparing to open a shelter for those driven from their homes by the rising waters, so many people arrived to help that they were amazed.  They honestly believed the volunteers were families needing housing.  That doesn’t even count the local restaurants that willingly provided food or the grocery stores that called offering the same.

But in spite of all the coming together, in spite of all the community and compassion, there is so much loss.  We have been fortunate in our county; no human lives have been taken, but livestock is another matter altogether.  And, although no human life has been lost, a way of life has been for so many.  Over 1,000 homes are flooded, many more are unreachable.  The clean-up to come will be a monumental task and there are material possessions which have been lost for all eternity.  If you were to ask any of those who fled the flood or were rescued as the rising waters threatened, I’m sure they would tell you they’re simply glad to be alive.  But as the days turn into weeks and months and they face the daunting task of cleaning or replacing or rebuilding, they will still be grateful, but they will also be grief-stricken.

Yes, you can buy a new dining room table, but you can’t replace the one that belonged to your grandparents.  If your personal pictures didn’t make it to safety, and you didn’t have a back-up plan in place, then a tangible reminder of your past is gone . . . the visual record of those memories no longer exists.  Farmers are struggling with fields that are lakes or livestock that has been lost.  Not only has a significant part of their lives been destroyed but also a significant part of their livelihood.  And through it all, there is one theme that stands silently in the background of every picture and every Facebook post and every interview . . .

The things of this world are fleeting and often fickle.  Nothing—not grandma’s dining table or pictures from your child’s third birthday or your own life—is safe from destruction and devastation.  But if we support one another . . . through losses of any kind . . . we can and will survive.  And come out stronger for having done so.

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