The flood is spreading, receding, teasing, flowing, and consuming. It is hungry, heavy, and constant. It is behaving badly, possibly due to emotional scarring obtained in Fargo. Since it’s humble beginnings somewhere in the deep South it has grown to mammoth proportions. At times it slumbers, and lumbers slowly on. Then, with little to no warning, it gets a kink in its plans, the ice jams, and like a sock in a drain it obstructs all traffic wreaking havoc among all around it. Then, in the night, a crack splits the air, and just to be fair, the river moves on to new horizons filled with farmers, families, and prairie towns.I grew up in the vast flatness of Saskatchewan. Our sky was endless, waves were seen as wind in the grain, and water stayed where it was told to. I learned that somewhere in the world floods could happen. I imagined those places were in some untouched region where unknown people lived mysterious lives unattached to myself. Then I went to Manitoba in ’97. I saw an ocean where there should be none. I saw the extent of the Canadian armed forces being utilized for purpose of sandbags. I realized that floods were real events happening to real people in my very own country. And, I realized that water does what it wants, when it wants, and the heck with the rest.
Each morning I drive between the town where I live and the neighbouring town where I work. In the winter I would greet the sunrise whilst driving with my coffee, music, and a smile. These days I drive under an overcast sky and observe the birds floating amongst the ample waves drifting across the farmer’s fields. I see water that flows, water that sits, water that waves, water that drifts, water that saturates and water that swirls. It is water that threatens and unfurls its gentle fury in an agonizing Mecca journey to the vast watery plain of Lake Winnipeg. And like the early settlers of Canadian history the water cuts its way through the lives of those already there and demands that anything it may touch becomes part of it destructive path. The drive to and from work has changed from a soulful sunrise to a pallor of persistent force.
The community binds together in a counter effort. We gather on the bridges and ask the same questions over and over. We continually reply to each other with universal phrases about Mother Nature, the will of the water, and many variations of “so it goes”. But no deal is ever struck with the water. I don’t know if the water simply forgot to send a delegate to the meeting or if us humans have slighted water at some point and are just now being taught a lesson. In the meantime, the prairie folk are doing what they can and that will have to be enough.
As it stands the water has begun to recede. That is not to say that it will not rear it’s head again, however, for now we are all breathing a little easier and counting our eggs even though they have yet to hatch. Perhaps the water is finding peace at its Mecca and the message is being received by the water still in transit. But there is always an aftermath.
This morning I observed for the third time a baby duck floating listlessly in a flooded ditch. Each morning it appears as a lone figure on the scene pining away for a mother that is yet to be seen. It is alone amidst a larger aquatic happening similar to how many of us feel when faced with the adversity of something we cannot change.
But, like the duck, we must all do what we can, and although we may never find the comfort of the mother we can at least float with what we have. To those negatively affected by this flood, my heart goes out to you as it does the lone duck. You have suffered a loss but so long as your head is high you will live to see the next sunrise
