Haibun

                                             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