THE BALDWIN HILLS DAM
December
14, 1963.
The peace of a Saturday
afternoon shattered by helicopters.
Police cars cover the streets, bull horns at full volume.
ATTENTION! DAM CRACKING!
EMERGENCY! EVACUATE!
People
rushing outside. What dam? Where?
"Didn't
you know? In those hills."
"No,
we didn't know. Just moved here two weeks ago."
courtyard
Christmas tree–
silver
ornaments
reflect
the sun
EVACUATE….NOW…NOW!
Turn off
the oven. Grab the two children,
bottles, diapers. What else? We don't know. Take one car.
Don't be separated. Lock the
door. East? West?
North. To my mother's house.
Rock and
roll on the car radio. Jingle Bells and Rudolph. Where's the news? Another block, then another. A slow moving line of cars. Tense faces and short tempers.
"It's
going….going…It's GONE! Gushing water…
gaining momentum… cutting a swath down the hillside along Cloverdale
Road." The announcer, reporting
from a helicopter, is breathless.
"Still coming…292 million gallons…trees uprooted…houses breaking
apart…cars tumbling."
Our apartment
is not in the direct path, but still… In
silence we worry. Traffic
begins to thin out as we travel further north.
puffy
clouds–
at
a neighborhood playground
children
play dodge ball
We watch
the news at my parents' house. An hour
and a half to empty the dam. Nine feet
of water on the Village Green apartments.
Five dead. Eighteen rescued from
roof tops and collapsed houses.
Early the next morning we are allowed in the
area temporarily. Already a sour smell from dirty water and debris. At our
apartment door, a water line at two feet, but only a puddle inside. Our Volkswagen–the engine, clogged with mud.
It could have been worse.
Sunday
church bells
to
and from the door
the
sucking mud
Shamrock #5, Jan. 2008
