Powerless – A Wee Blether

Out of sight, out of mind.

Here in Baton Rouge, the Mississippi silently rushes away, hidden behind levees and letting us get all too comfortable with Mother Nature.

Hurricanes have knocked down our trees, blown holes in our roofs and even swamped some area homes and businesses in recent years. But the damage we saw in Baton Rouge was nothing like the disasters that befell New Orleans and, more recently, Alabama and other southern states.

This spring’s epic crest of the Mississippi River jolted us awake. The earthen levees on which we ride bikes, share picnics and let cattle graze now seem feeble as the gathering water within threatens to burst out. We’re no longer asking narrow-minded questions we once posed while watching national news of far-away floods: How did those people let themselves get stranded like that? Didn’t they realize they were living in a flood zone?

Now, we realize we are those people. And like them, we’ve simply been fortunate until now.

Before levees, the Mississippi River spilled from its banks yearly, spreading water (and nourishing sediment) for miles. Old Man River defined every community he touched.

The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 forced the country to confront the river’s impact on modern life. We heightened and broadened levees and added billions of dollars in flood control structures and spillways. Then, for the most part, we stopped thinking about it.

During the decades since, Baton Rouge has largely grown complacent about our low-lying lives. We built homes, businesses, schools, churches and entire communities in places that, before modern civil engineering, we wouldn’t have dared.

As a community, Baton Rouge largely forgot the river. Each spring we were amused how ships and barges sailed high above our heads, but we never really grasped the sobering absurdity of it.

We get it now.

No one is amused as Mother Nature so effortlessly humbles us. In April, we watched in detached awe as tornadoes stormed across Alabama and six other states, killing some 345 people—more even than the great 1927 flood, which left 246 dead.

Then in May, the river filled us with dread. Many people for the first time actually grasped those gaudy river stage numbers—30, 40 feet above flood stage—and felt suddenly vulnerable.

Homeowners without federal flood insurance were suddenly sick to their stomachs, regretting not shelling out a couple hundred bucks for priceless peace of mind.

We felt powerless.

We interrupted the age-old transaction between the river and the land: inundation in return for nourishment and rebirth. Man wanted more than silt—we wanted commerce and more land for development, so we shut the Mississippi between levees and sent it hurtling into the Gulf of Mexico.

I’m writing this at my kitchen table on an early morning in May. By the time you read it, the river may have risen up and settled the score, and my neighborhood could be more than two dozen feet under water.

Or it might be just another steamy summer morning, high and dry but for a familiar dewy blanket that settled silently while everyone slept, a harmless, glistening sheen.

Either outcome is possible. I hope I don’t forget that for a long, long time.