Flood of 1965 A True Novelette
ISBN 978-1-4660-8816-0
By Nancy Reil Riojas www.ebooksbynancy.com
Edited by Kyle Brant
U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D. C.
2010 Literary Works by Nancy Reil Riojas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means. As sole owner of all my published stories, they are copyrighted through the U.S. Copyright Office, Washington, D.C. It is illegal for anyone to violate any rights provided by the copyright law without written permission from the owner of copyright. Thank you.
Flood of 1965 A True Story
May 23, 1965
San Antonio, Texas
Anderson Creek flows within one mile of our home. It concerns no one until Sunday morning.
**~ ~ ~ ~**
A resourceful, prideful mother has everyone believing we are not poor by keeping our home in pristine condition: sparkling windows, expertly handmade curtains in each room, clean and pressed linens, polished wood floors, and the most sanitized bathroom in our neighborhood. Obsessively fastidious, she even preserves our antique dining room table and buffet with continuous polishing. Every few years she sews new seat covers for the chairs made from material left over from sewing clothes.
After his high school graduation in three days, my seventeen year old brother Andrew plans to attend the University of Texas at Austin. Nine year old brother Tony is a victorious bicyclist and the youngest brother, five year old Lee often plays with Lincoln Logs and our cocker spaniel Rusty. As for me, a girl in junior high school, I’m a bicyclist as well as a Beatle maniac, same as thousands of other thirteen year olds across the country.
Since my brothers and I sleep in the same bedroom, I consider twenty-five percent of our room my personal space from floor to ceiling, and that is where they reside: posters of John, Paul, George, and Ringo who I can stare at every evening I go to bed and every morning upon rising.
Unaffected amid stifling heat and humidity, Tony, the neighborhood kids, and I consider our bike races the most serious summer endeavors. Father had to save for months to purchase our brand new ten speed Raleigh English racer bikes. Benefitting from the challenge, we practice for two months each year on the arduous, uphill one mile stretch in front of our home. We time each other to the finish line at the city light pole on top of the hill, where the first place winner of the final race is awarded a certificate signed by all. On this Saturday morning, our adrenal glands stand up and speak when we fly down the hill with arms outstretched, passing Mother standing on a ladder while cleaning the outside of our windows and Father push-blade mowing the front yard. While in low gear, we deeply breathe warm, moist wind that captures the aromatic scent of freshly cut grass, which helps keep our immaculate house looking better than others.
Every spring and summer, thousands of cicada bugs select our neighborhood as home and, like a symphony, pour forth their emotional songs from countless mesquite trees. During the hottest days, the heat of the sun and the cicadas’ mesmerizing chant encourage our bicycle group to take afternoon naps under our favorite shade tree.
To my older brother Andrew, an avid reader, there is nothing more beautiful than a room full of books, and that’s just what he continues creating. The collection of hundreds of books and comics reside in his “club house” in the back yard. Alive with shelves that are jam-packed with tales of fantasy, a small one room structure sits and waits for the opportunity to allure us into a faraway world of heroes and villains. Andrew makes this room the most exciting place for me to read, and he only says “no” if his friends happen to be congregating in there.
**~ ~ ~ ~**
On Sunday morning, I wake to the sound of rain tapping on the window. While rubbing my eyes, I see the time is 3:05 A.M. The blobs of rain sound louder and louder. I stare out with Rusty staring out alongside me as bright moonlight becomes intermittently engulfed by darkness. The wind and rain violently whip electrical power lines that look like jumping ropes . . . . forward and back . . . . down and up.
Everyone rests in a deep sleep . . . . or so I think. While still lying in bed, listening and wide awake, I hear footsteps start out slow. They pace faster and faster: Mother scampers in the dark from room to room, pulling back each set of curtains to stare out her crystal clear windows.
She says aloud, “What a horrible storm! I have never seen rain like this before!”When the thunderous sound of gigantic fists pound our roof, she runs into their bedroom and tries to wake Father who listens but is not alarmed. I am, as I hurry to their door.
While shaking his shoulder, she screams, “Get up, get up, this storm sounds really bad!”
He grumbles and turns over. She quickly draws up the shade at their bedroom window which overlooks the driveway. What we see would wake a dead man.
She frantically screams in Spanish, “Will you wake up!? Our car is floating!!”
The 1957 Plymouth, now level with the window, weighs over five thousand pounds and unbelievably floats like a dinghy. All of a sudden, lightning and thunder are no longer considerations. We both grab Father; he finally sits up on the edge of the bed and awakens into a real nightmare. He stares with amazement at his car, only feet in front of him, floating in the window. The three of us gather at the foot of the bed, dumbfounded, afraid, and unable to move; then all goes dark as the lights go out. Mom scurries to light candles and Father scrambles for his flashlight.
Soon the water level rises even higher, and the heavy car suddenly shifts and rocks side to side, side to side. It rams against our home, vibrating the walls. As it rocks, it hits . . . . rocks then hits. While riding the tumultuous water toward the back yard, the titanic car cracks a bedroom window on the last ram. Water seeps in at first; then with thin glass unable to hold back tremendous weight . . . . flood waters burst in!
Mom evolves into a frantic mess, rattling off Spanish I have never heard while Rusty and I run from window to window, all the way to our back bedroom to watch the car bob and shift, seeming like a mile down the driveway. But then I cringe more, as the water’s force spins the car in front of the garage which siphons the garage doors open and sucks our beautiful bikes out. For what seems like a long while, they all gyrate in a whirlpool and s-c-r-e-e-c-h each time they collide – like a horror movie – all three head for my window! I grab Rusty by the collar and throw him up into my arms while I remain focused on the threatening trio that tread nearer and nearer. I walk backward until bumping into my brother’s bed. My mouth opens to scream when I clearly see the front license plate numbers through the glass. As if the car is truly running, it wobbles to an about-face, floors the gas pedal, speeds over the club house with our bikes in tow, and heads for the back fence, knocking it over. The demolition ball and our mangled bikes will surely settle down wherever it suits them.
I turn around. Still not fully awake from peaceful dreams, my frightened brothers stand in their pajamas and face this nightmarish reality (that none of us will ever forget). Not knowing what to do, we scatter throughout the house, terror-stricken, while watching the floodwater seep under the front and back doors.
Mother yells, “Put on your shoes and shirts right now!”
While trying to catch our shoes floating at our ankles, we are too young to realize the ramifications of this harrowing event. In unison we jerk our heads toward the splash and clearly see the swaying water half fill the opposite side of the window glass. When they all seep, not another minute passes before each window takes its turn to burst open, the next step to devouring our home.
None of us has ever moved so fast, as we rush to save some possessions. After shoving the antique table and buffet against the wall, Andrew and Father toss furniture on top: living roo
m sofa, formal chairs, portable stereo, radio, blankets, bedding, and clothing. From the bookcase, Mother and I yank out all family photo albums, music albums, my Beatle scrapbooks, my newspaper clippings of the Warren Commission Report then throw them on top of the stacked pile. But, we soon see our efforts prove a waste of time, precious time we need to get out alive.
Now, the water climbs thigh high. Rusty swims from room to room, reminding me that I am the only one who cannot swim. Our father is not a large or tall man, but he acts like one, waving his arms, hastening everyone to the front door.
Maintaining composure while directing, he yells over the roaring water that cascades in at every window, “You all know we have to get out! We will walk together to the highest point, the city light pole at the top of the hill! Quickly Andrew, you lock arms with your sister. Carry Lee on your shoulders. I will lock arms with Mom, carry Tony on my shoulders, and carry Rusty!” shouts Father.
Because of his strong constitution, we believe we will survive this . . . until . . . he reaches toward the front door knob, the flood opens it for him, and more voracious water gushes in. This is the moment of reality that we may not make it, the moment true fear slugs us in the face, the moment I shiver with fear not cold. The steadfastly devouring water engulfs our waists. We grab each other as he instructs; while Rusty swims by, Father stretches and plucks him out of the rising water.
“Let’s go!” shouts Father.
As Tony sits on Father’s shoulders and grasps Father’s neck, Mother grips Father’s arm. Father leads the way out of the house onto the front porch then two steps down into the yard. By the time I step in the yard, water reaches my upper lip while on my tiptoes. No way can I do this without my older brother’s arm for me to grab.
And so the treacherous walk begins. The top of the hill is only four blocks away, yet now seems like the other side of the city. My eyes plan to remain transfixed on the tall city light pole (our bike racing win marker) at the top of the hill . . . . until I lose my footing.
I go under. Andrew instantly yanks me up. I pant with horror, as water clears from my face. I look up at him: eyes filled with concern glance into mine, as he continues to balance little Lee on his shoulders. Water is so constant that I can barely take a breath. Then comes a blurry sight of Father and Andrew. They lean forward, fighting violent currents with their bodies, as the rest of us cling for dear life. If they fall, we all fall!
Father tries to turn and look back. I know he’s praying that we continue behind him. When strong snaps of lightning create light atop shifty, murky water, we can see that only God’s help will remove us to safety. They push . . . . push . . . . push the dirty water.
No longer can I touch the ground. I have to dog paddle while holding on to my brother. It feels like limbs and rocks scraping my legs, pieces of something caressing my arms . . . dear God get us out of here! Our neighbors’ distant, bloodcurdling screams bounce off the water’s surface. Unable to help them, we act as if unaware. What must my friends be going through?
A heavy weight plunges me further down, out of Andrew’s arm hold. I am immediately submerged. My hands touch a head, ramming against my stomach. Trying to push it away against the current, I feel the shoulder then the arms then the back; next, I entangle with legs while it twirls . . . I continue to push and kick with all my strength. This drowned body is trying to drown me!
When I at last eject the body away, my long hair twists with what feels like a tree branch; the more I pull, the more my hair attaches. The tide works against my fingers, as I try to release the now snarled mass of hair. Unable to unravel it, I desperately yank on the thick branch and yank again. . . . . I cannot hold my breath much longer!
Abruptly tugging my head with its cruelty, the branch pulls as if attached to something heavy, yet it cannot be a tree. With the sensation of blindness, I touch my way around in pitch black water and suddenly realize that the lifeless, yielding body gracefully follows me. I feel my way to the other end of the branch . . . .clutched in the dead body’s fist! Becoming even more frightened, I release more air. As I force open the petrified-like fingers one by one, the branch releases, allowing the freedom to finally sail my body free.
**~ ~ ~ ~**
Am I dying? Swooning at this point, nothing occupies my mind but drowning. A jerk of my arm torpedoes my body upward; I choke and cough till breathless; Andrew saves me once again. I grab hold of him, and he breaks the obstinate branch out of my hair then hugs my waist in a tight hold while Lee keeps his legs entwined with Andrew’s shoulders. I glance up to see Lee’s terrified expression just at the moment he yells for my safety. Although only five years old, he realizes the danger and bends over to help, taking hold of my arm.
The times when only his head is above water, Andrew maintains his stance in the pouring rain while fighting the undercurrent. He continues his grip on me until at last, I swim along. All of a sudden, just as we begin to believe that we might make it, the worst that could happen does. A tremendous snap bounces across the now cold water’s surface: the towering city light pole comes crashing down toward us, plundering into the already turbulent water!
The murderous flood reacts like a tidal wave, swallowing every one of us. I suffer with being jerked around as if in a washing machine. Barely able to save myself, I simultaneously gasp for air and cry out to my family yet cannot help Mother, Father, or my little brothers . . . . all so frantic. Immersed, their legs, arms, and heads thrust in and out of the water. Andrew yanks our little brothers through the stormy chaos to throw them across the city light pole. He swims to me and struggles to pull me in the direction of the stronghold . . . the lengthy, floating raft. Before long, we all grip on.
It seems like forever before the demonic water weakens. Moving slowly and without warning, the electrical pole jams atop a roof, a severed roof close to land. Traumatized, we float in silence and moonlight. After we catch our breath, Father decides that we should depart the pole and swim to the top of the hill.
In the end we all approach ground as Mother and Father swim ahead with Tony and Rusty swimming alongside. While Andrew, Lee, and I stroke side by side through shifty water, we experience exhilaration when watching our parents free their legs from danger. Their bodies stumble onto a yard and throw themselves to the ground. In minutes, I can place my feet on solid ground to begin a strong walk out of the wet demon.
Clutching each other, all seven of us huddle together and tremble on top of the hill. We stand quiet and weary as I feel Rusty shivering at my feet. I pick him up and place him between the contorted iron rods on the cement stump which had fortified the city light pole. In disbelief, we stare out to the sheer horror of it all, no roofs in sight.
The rain continues as Father speaks, “When the water subsides, it will be difficult to return and deal with the aftermath. I can’t believe we were soundly sleeping less than an hour ago; just thank God we made it through this with our lives.”
I take a glance at my brothers and parents and think, “W-i-t-h o-u-r l-i-v-e-s.”
Until this moment, while staring out over the sea, I wonder just who that body is, the drowned body that could be a brother or a father to one of my friends, or . . . one of my friends. No home, no clothes, no shoes, no food yet with help from the Red Cross, we eat the food and wear the clothing and shoes they graciously provide. Thank you, Red Cross.
**~ ~ ~ ~**
Two days later my family walks hand in hand. Not far from our new rent house, the bus stop awaits us. The large, orange sun comforts our eyes as it rests at the horizon. Tonight, we have no choice but to ride the city bus, the one and only time as a group. Three miles later, we each step off the bus and join hands to walk a few blocks to the Municipal Auditorium. We pass a glass paneled wall where I turn to see our reflection: Mom’s misfit dress is too long and my ill-fit shoes flip- flop off and on my feet. Not even “hell and high water” restrain us from attending Andrew’s graduation from Thomas Jefferson High School, May 25,
1965.
The End
Author’s Afterword
San Antonio is located in one of the most flash-flood prone regions in North America: Texas leads the nation in flood-related deaths. Catastrophic floods continued southwest in the year 1965. Hundreds lost everything, as ravaging floods formed trenches thirty feet wide and twelve feet deep. (Above the shadow, in the photo of a highway below, a man stands in the center).
Drowned bodies were found ten to twenty miles away from their homes. In Sanderson, Texas alone, hundreds of homes were destroyed and countless lives were lost; not all have been found. By the end of the 1960s, massive flood disasters required major federal response and recovery operations by the Federal Disaster Assistance Administration, later taken over by FEMA. Texas drainage systems and dams were restructured to help prevent or reduce flood problems.
This story is dedicated to my brothers, Andrew Reil, Anthony (Tony) Reil, and Lee Reil.
Thank you for reading “Flood of 1965.”
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Previews of my published, illustrated narratives follow for your entertainment. Excerpts from Night Invaders (Sequel to Monster at My Window) follow as well ― it’s in the works, release date is this year. In Night Invaders, I do my best to convey an atrocity in our society which requires our undivided attention, specifically man-made products, medications, and foods that cause death. In some cases our government cares more about the bottom dollar than the health and well-being of its compatriots. Even though science fiction, this book depicts reality, an ugly fiend called cancer and countless other diseases that have needlessly taken millions of our loved ones to their graves. Night Invaders will center stage these truths as well as entertain with the continuation of fiends’ action-packed scenes and their ten feet tall genetically modified offspring called “Odes,” also engineered by man.
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