On Thursday evening, Dave’s dad walked into the basement, stopped at the bottom, and yelled upstairs to all of us to put on our boots and wellies. The basement had a quarter-inch of water across the majority – especially the lower-lying areas where most of our stuff sat, waiting for the future move. The sump pump, as we later found out, wedged up against one of the pipes and was not releasing water into the next pipe.
Most of our boxes sat above the water level on furniture and others were stored in plastic bins. However, one milk crate of some of my favorite things sat on the ground. And in that milk crate was my scrapbook, things I had made and won awards for, pictures, and other memorabilia. My scrapbook was water logged with pictures sticking to each other and news clippings faded and blurred. For a moment, I felt like I wanted to cry, but I did not. I can salvage the majority of what was damaged, just through a little dry air and time. But, as I lifted the crate and saw the dye from paper flow into beautiful swirls in the water, I felt a small tinge of the pain that I think flood victims feel when confronted with the aftermath. The situations certainly do not compare, but at least in the future, I can empathize.