Noah, hurry the *&%@ up!

Market street bridge waits for more water. The dark river rises unnoticed until the moment (tomorrow? Friday?) when it finally crests above the stone. Police barricades, blinking orange lights, detour upon detour, I finally crossed the river to get home. Thankful for my hill – 38 feet – that’s the projected water level. The dyke is 40. The low dwellers will know by tomorrow morning if they have to evacuate. 9 communities have already been told to go. Find higher ground. Schools are closed. And all I hear is the rain. rain. rainrainrainrain. I remember hearing a story from a woman at work when she was a little girl. How her family lost mostly everything in the floods – she has one baby photo. Hurricane Agnes dumped 18 inches of rain in 1972. Cemeteries washed away spilling caskets and decomposed body parts into people’s backyards. 220,000 people were homeless in Pennsylvania. In our area alone, 25,000 homes or businesses were damaged and destroyed. I wasn’t alive, but you hear stories from the people here and realize how ingrained it is in their lives. The memories, the fear, the years that mark the anniversaries – they exist here just as the river does – continually.

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