This will sound like a Dickens tale or imagination run wild, but I swear it’s true. Some of these facts are indelibly etched in my brain; others were told to me by my mother.
It was December 1933. I was 4 years old. We lived in a small community of perhaps 25 families a few miles north of Longview/Kelso along the Cowlitz River.
It had rained for several weeks, and as the river rose higher each day, the people grew more anxious. They watched the water overflow its banks and creep slowly into the populated area. My parents took turns as lookout as the flooding neared our yard, with the decision to leave if it crept toward the house.
There was one family in the community who had a big house on the hill overlooking the area, and they sent word for everyone to go to their home where it was safe. I remember my 6-foot 2-inch grandpa hoisting me up on his shoulders and wading through floodwaters up to his hips while holding grandma’s hand. My dad had my baby brother in his arms and held my mother by her hand. They all trudged the long lane and up the hill to our neighbors’ home. The fright of that day is still vivid to me.
The owners opened their home to all 25 families, and we began settling in and making room for each other. Mothers made beds for the children on the stairs to the second floor. The owners were farmers with beef cattle, dairy cows, chickens, hogs and a cellar of vegetables and home-canned goods. The men butchered a hog, beef and chickens as needed, milked the cows and gathered eggs, while the women were busy in the kitchen cooking.
Christmas was nearing and the mothers were concerned about the children’s disappointment without a tree or toys or Santa Claus. My mother was young and had a gift for theatrics, and she could sew. It was her assignment to provide entertainment for the children. She took them upstairs and plunged into a trunk of old clothes and scraps of cloth, and then stitched up costumes for each child. Then she wrote a simple little Christmas program and rehearsed some carols with the older ones.
Meanwhile, one of the men’s philanthropic organizations from Longview trudged several miles over the hills — since the road to the community was washed out and we were literally isolated otherwise. They brought nuts, oranges, candies, a few toys and trinkets to fill stockings for the children, and to let us know they were aware of our circumstances and that help would come when the floodwaters receded.
Christmas Eve arrived. The men chopped down a fir tree; the women decorated it. A Santa suit was pulled from a trunk and Santa did arrive to greet the children. Carols were sung and a program of sorts was presented by those who could remember their parts. A meal was shared together.
We were all camped cozily there for 10 days. Sadly, my parents watched from the big house on the hill as their humble little home and all their possessions floated away forever. A community that lived for years as neighbors helped each other with a very special gift of the real spirit of the season.
As Dickens wrote: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
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