Look at Me l951/Part One/ Chapter One

Look at Me
[1951

The Great Flood of 51

The night is dark,
the Mississippi lies asleep,
the moon is veiled in a velvet mist
with a blood-spattered chest.

It has hoary strange eyes,
restless with hazy fear,
slumberous and twitchy
with white thunder under her.

All who listen can hear
the whisper of the ghostly storm
booming farencircling near,
gliding overnightoverhead.

Opening: The Mighty Mississippi, as it has been often called, could be a time bomb at times, and has been for many; that is to say, along the river by what was known as the High Bridge in St. Paul, Minnesota, along the shoreline were flats, where at one time they were inhabited by the poorest of poor people in St. Paul; the river-front people, the people of the Levee, or also known as the Upper Levee Flats. In essence, at one time these were considered nothing but shanties, amongst a multitude of other names (lowbrow), but this brief will do. The Polish, Bohemians, and Swedes lived there, lived in this Shanty Town with its so called gloomy and haunting, drunken quarrelsome environment. Its atmosphere, its inhabitants were of a different nature, a different variety one may say, a whole new breed in comparison to the rest of the city, or so it was whispered: there were no church bells ringing in this area, or bibles or prayer books being carried by folks; nor was it slow and peaceful. If anything it was a dark nebuloussection of the city avoided if at all one could do so.

But that was long ago, even before Minnesota was a state, halfway through the 1800s to the beginning of the 20th century it held that reputation. Then it took a turn, slowly, but surely, and it gained a new recognition, [gratitude if not status, and was called Little Italy. Nevertheless, throughout its history [the Mississippi, from New Orleans to Minnesota it was known for its record flooding, disasters, that would leave thousand s homeless; in particular, throughout the 1800s, and into the twenty century. In 1951, there was just such a flood, a great flood, which did substantial damage to the dirt-road community, so great was it, the city decided to tare it downthe whole levee and its community, in consequence, thus, the last house disappeared, in 1960.

You are about read of just such a storm that took place [Look at Me, and when the levees sandbags and dikes cracked open, it became a displaced iniquity of disaster. Although this story is about one man for the most part that fades into the whole story, Look at Me, many of the events in this story are based on true events; as others are equally true in fact, and in spirit. But we must remember I have diluted it to be historical fiction.

A Daughters Voice

You can hear the sounds
Of a loved ones voice
A parents voice,
Gradually

Breaking In the Distant wind
While sending out
Waves of messages
Rising h igh, high up into
The fury of the storm
Stretching itself
Beyond its
Dikes and levees
Beyond its boundaries

[As if there was an
Invisible voice

Hand relaying

The safety
Of the childs voice.

There is no rest
Beneath ones feet
[In any world,
Visible or invisible
As the earth tries
Tries to settle

This dispute

No rest at all,
Until the child says:
All is well.

1

The Levee

Gnter Gunderson, past 50-and nearer to 60 now; a widower and friend to half the Irish, German and Italians in the city, land owner with several rental properties, along with some thirty-tenants, and father to only one daughter, Jean-lee Haigh, former: Gunderson: mothers maiden name: Betty Silluak, sister to Teresa, daughter to Anatolee

this (his daughters name) was not taken lightly, for he took his middle name and his deceased wifes middle name [his young wife dying of cancer, puttin g much thought into the process, earlier, and named his daughter at birth, Jean-lee capitalizing both the Jean and the Lee, to make it more distinct. In addition, he added the hyphen to show its individual nature, which he felt created the personification, or embodiment, of both his soul and his wifes into his daughters character.

When she cried, Papahelp! seeing him as she looked up, standing in one of her two rooms of her house [a shack more so than a house, along the levee, not far from the broken dikes that had kept the storms water from flooding the area an hour past, which was of course set up for that purpose, for just this design, to keep the flooding waters from drowning the houses on the levee, flooding the streets, sinking the houses into mud; but this storm was not an ordinary storm, it was one that could sink the Titanic, a horrific storm to say the least. And so history would record.

Standing was her father, otherwise known as Old Man Gnter, as he was often called, not so much because he was old, in which he was only fifty-eight (to some old to most, not real old I expect), but rather because he was like an old timer, his moods, his characteristics or aura. Furthermore, now he was like, that is, similar to a man on top of a vessel, a towering ship (as he stood on top of this roof), water all around the houses, and especially the twothe one he was on and the one his daughter was in, both of the houses sinking slowly, leisurely into the soft, the muddy, spongy gravel, into the muddy soft crust of the earth. With a stubborn, ascetic face, flabby-jawed, and dark-cave-eyes, gaunt arms and shoulders, he leaned forward, he could feel his stomach tightening. The house, the one he was standing on, and Jean-lees shanty was being cornered in by the storm, it was nothing less than a watery grave in the makings: perhaps he already knew this. He looked stern, unyielding as one might expect a captain of a ship to look when his ship is sinking, deliberating on something, looking severe, and thinking, thinking hard on how to save a sinking ship. Is it not so, a man takes on more than what he can, he learns how to bear what he shouldnt, thus, he learns he can deal with anything, and this was how he was feeling.

On the other hand, you could tell on her face, Jean-lees face was happy to have made the discovery that her father was there, it was not always a pleasant surprisebut it sure was this time, today, at this very moment. He heard voices here and there in passing, but not knowing where, the wind was carrying them. He always made things work out though, work out right that is, storm or not, surely this was just a matter of thought on his part, on how to save the day, or so she conjured. The roof of her house was torn off, dilapidated in the water not far from her shanty, the old man could see it, broken to pieces, boards here and there, everywhere; parts of it were sailing rapidly down the Mississippi. About this time noon tomorrow he guessedpossibly the forenoon, the whole damn roof would be in St. Louis along its docks, if not the whole house, he told himself.

He laid down flat along the stratum, joint [seam of the roof; it was extraordinarily strong he felt, that is to say, he felt it safer than the rest of the roof, and would be the last to cave in, and if it did, did cave in that is, it would serve as a boat, notwithstanding.

It was close to mid-spring, and everything was thawing out from a long heavy winter of over receiving [getting somewhere around, one-hundred inches of snownow melting and overwhelming the sewer system to where it also had overflowed. Along with the storm, the river had raised some thirty-feet, and was miles wide farther down the river, several miles wide if not wider.

As he looked about he noticed all her furniture, all Jean-lees possessions that is, to include the furnishings which was not much at all, but was all she had none-the-less, was all soaked, laying about, everything wet; in particular, her bed-mattress: he had given it to her on their wedding day, he was very proud to have done that, not many men think of that he remembered telling himself, think of insuring his daughter and son-in-law had a nice bed to sleep on; he believed that since one spends a third of their life in bed, it would be the perfect gift, yes, he was a proud man, and that also was destroyed in the wet decaying room she was standing in, the wedding gift, a heartfelt moment crossed his brow, like everything else, it to was sinking through the soaked-wooden floors of the house slowly, like rotting wood, unhurriedly as if to torture the house, or possibly give the occupant a last chance to get out bitter-sweet.

As the water circled the house, rising with the darkness, bit by bit, Gnter knew in due course, the whole house would be under water: it was just a matter of time.

Again she cried:

< p>PapaI see you! she said that to assure him of course, she had seen him, for he was calculating, staring, holding a rope in his hand, in one hand, firm, tight, as not to allow it to slip away, staring, just thinking and staring: it was a different kind of thinking from the way in which you and I know people to think. He looked this way and that way, every which way as if he was examining, analyzing his next moveediting his thoughts, his life if need be. The storm had between thirty-to-forty-mile an hour winds a times, he calculated, increasing, dying-down, then out of the blue, increasing again. He noticed trees were blown right out from under their roots, as he become aware of that, he gave more time to calculating, and recalculate: another man might have panicked and jumped in after her, but he didnt. (Be patient a little, for events move slowly in this narrative, lingers back and forth; but my chronicle will be swifter as soon as we get past some more rain.)

In Gnters world he was after a shadow with no face, it seemed all the time, busy, busy, and busier. Little interest in uselessness, idleness, he was the matter-of-fact person. Although there was sadness attached to his childhood, it never got in his way, he never blamed, pointed fingers, it was the way it was. Life was simple to him, mostly black and white, and not much gray. You lived, and you died; in-between was timeyou lived in the moment, that is how it was, how it was supposed to be, so he had told himself many times; it was an automatic thought now. There was an end to you, just like there was an end to everything. Cars get rusted out, building fall apart; people get old and worn out, horses get run down, not useless, just worn out. The good thing though, he thought was they got to display courage to help mankind during their time on earth(referring to people like me and you, the whole world) which was part of being a man, and a woman. Today was no different than any o ther day in that perspective, a decision had to be made, quick thinking, like in his Army days when under attack, he had to make a decision, he had to do it quick, I mean quick, or be killed, then and now. No time to freeze, to become scared and end up doing nothing.

Stay calm, Ill get you out, no oo problem! The old man yelled, commanded with a tone of voice as if he was still the Staff Sergeant he was thirty-years ago in the Army, or was it twenty-two [? time, just time he told himself, it passes quickly. He commanded only his own words this time thoughnot like in the Army, but they needed to be stern, he knew this, for Jean-lees composure was shifting, he commented:

No problem: no problem he said quickly in repetition, but there was a problem and he knew it. The storm was getting worse, not settling down. The sky was getting inky dark in spots, the moonan eldritch darkness was filtering around it, was becoming more pronounced. The water was becoming deeper. And how long could he last up on this roof without getting blown off; unanswerable questions.

If I could get this rope down to her, he said with his rustic dominating and stubborn voice, as if talking to the rain, or the roof, or some invisible force, but talking out loud none-the-less, looking at her off-and-on as he tied the rope around his waist, wiping the pouring rain away from his eyes, wiping and wiping and wiping, reminiscent of wipers on a car window. He pushed his body out farther from the edge of the house, to where his shoulders were starting to lean over the arch of the roof, swaying the rope back and forth to get some velocity, thenthen with his hand extended he pushed forward with a sharp jerk to the rope, it hit his daughters dress, as she stood there mortified, almost paralyzed: un-winking, shaking, not knowing what to do, not grabbing it, but watching it with her light-blue wide, and bottomless eyes.

He knew shed had stayed right in that room , never moving, just remaining there, had not the roof blown off, stayed right in that room had he not shown up, and shed had gone down with the mud, drown like a rat, he knew shed do that if he hadnt come to save her, yes, shed had gone down to the bottom of the Mississippi, like everything else around this hell-forsaken levee. He knew she was mentally slow, he never liked to say that to her, just that she was slow, that is what hed say if she needed to talk about her disability, that was harmful enough: and she never knew why she was, slow thinking that is, just that after years of watching everyone else, she became aware of it. She had even asked her father once,

Why dad, why did God make me this way? He had a hard time answering that question, stumbling over thoughts, pausing in a blank stare, all he could come up with was:

Its the way things are, Im not sure why, you got to ask Him, you got to ask Jesus, but sometimes you build on them weaknesses, and d ont let it stop you from living, that is what you do. And she never did, not once, not ever did she let it stop her from getting married, working, having two children. It wasnt easy, but then life wasnt always supposed to be easy, she had learned that from her father.

Dennis Siluk you can see his books at most any book store, or order them at any book store, or any internet book site such as http://www.abe.com or http://www.bn.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter story
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