I Was Just Trying To Help

Charlie was a good little girl. Always smiling, happy, and willing to help anyone. Just this morning, she had put a little bird back in his nest—or what she thought was his nest. She didn’t want to think about what happened next, so she just smiled and skipped down the dusty street. Mrs. Jennings was coming out of the little market.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Jennings?” Charlie asked.

“Thank you, Charlie. Such a sweet child. You may carry my basket of eggs if you like.”

Charlie took the basket and walked alongside Mrs. Jennings. But as they walked, she saw her friend and his Dad, riding by in their horse and buggy. She waved, and at the age of six, that was a little more than her coordination could handle. She tripped over nothing, and the basket of eggs went flying. Not one survived. Charlie began to cry.

“It’s all right, Charlie, I can get more. You were trying to help. Why don’t you run along and play?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Jennings smiled and watched Charlie skipping away. “And be careful,” she called after her.

Charlie skipped down the street and decided to go to the river. Maybe she could pick some of the wildflowers that grew there and give them to Mrs. Jennings.

As soon as she arrived, she sat on the riverbank. Her little fingers worked hard to unbutton her shoes and lay them aside, followed by her stockings. She laughed as she wiggled her toes in the grass. Charlie picked some flowers and added some green leaves too—three to a stem, which made it look fuller. They were shiny and had tiny jagged edges. She yawned and lay down under the big oak tree, her eyes closing almost instantly.

Not long after, the sound of running water woke her. She sat up, her little fists rubbing the sleep from her eyes. As she looked around for the source of the sound, she saw the water pouring through a hole in the pond dam. She didn’t know much about dams, but she knew this dam created the swimming hole above, and a hole couldn’t be right.

Charlie waded into the creek below the dam and felt the water rushing past her legs. The water was a little over her ankles, which was higher than normal. As she looked more closely at the hole, she saw that it was perfectly round and about the size of her thumb. Which she promptly poked into the hole. The water stopped. But she couldn’t stand here all day. She pressed her pink rosebud lips together and placed a finger on her cheek as her father often did when deep in thought. She went to the bank and pulled up a handful of heavy clay. She knew that Mr. Henderson made bricks out of the clay, so she rolled the clay until it was the size of one of her mother’s meatballs. Then back to the hole she went and pushed the clay in until all the water stopped. She smiled, quite pleased with herself. She knew she had saved all the little fishes that lived in the stream below the dam from being washed away. She splashed her hands in the water and cleaned off the dirt, then sat in the grass until her feet were dry enough to get dressed again. She realized that she had gotten some of the clay on her pinafore and knew Mother would be upset about that. For now, the clay plug still held back the water. No more leaks in her dam. The swimming hole was safe.

Mrs. Jennings had returned to the market to buy more eggs and was now almost home. As she stepped onto the footbridge at the crossing, she stopped short. She looked at the water and wondered aloud, “Why is the water so low?” She knew it was the rainy season, and while they didn’t get much rain here in the valley, the mountains often suffered terrible storms, causing the local streams and rivers to fill up. And lately, it had rained up north. She sighed. Mrs. Jennings was tired. At her age, getting off her feet was more important than worrying about the water in the creek. Minutes later, she gratefully opened the door to her home and set her bags on the kitchen table. After a drink of cold water from the pump, she placed her items in the cupboard. She put a hand on her back and stretched out the stiffness before taking the milk from the icebox and heading to the front porch to churn some butter.

Elsewhere in town, life carried on as usual, with the water being the main topic of conversation.

“Good day, Mr. Sanderson. How are you today?” asked the teller as he walked up to her to make his midday deposit.

“Very well, Judy. How are you?” He handed over his items.

“Good, thank you. This will just take a moment.”

“I noticed the water in the river seems to be a bit higher today.”

“Well, they did have a lot of rain up north. I guess the mountains are sharing with us.”

“Still, the water doesn’t usually rise so fast.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure it won’t get too high. The dam regulates the water, right?”

“I reckon you’re right. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” He took his now-empty money bag and, placing his straw boater on his head, walked out of the bank. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He headed back to his general store, narrowly missing being run over by one of those new-fangled horseless carriages. He’d be glad when that fad had run its course. He wasn’t surprised that the young Mr. Sullivan had purchased the first one in the state.

Farther down the street, Mr. Sullivan pulled his car up to the blacksmith shop. “Hello, Henry. How are you today?”

“Fair to middlin’. What brings you out here with that contraption? Parking it by my shop will give me a bad name.”

Mr. Sullivan laughed. “Your bad name isn’t from me, Henry,” he said, and Henry joined in the laughter. “I need the brass polished with some of that fancy cream you have.”

Henry nodded. “Happy to do that for you. And it will only cost you thirty-five cents for the service.”

“Henry, that’s robbery! It was twenty-five last month.”

“Well, you know. Prices are always going up. Man’s gotta make a living.”

“I suppose,” he said and handed over the money. “But they will shine, won’t they, Henry?”

“You’ll be gettin’ complaints about how it blinds all the other drivers.”

As Henry worked, Mr. Sullivan commented, “I noticed the creek was pretty low when I drove over the bridge. Haven’t seen it like that since the last drought.”

“I haven’t heard of no droughts. Some say it’s been rainin’ up in the mountains.”

“I’m going to stretch my legs while you work.”

Henry nodded as Mr. Sullivan walked away. The cool trees on the other side of the street beckoned him, and he soon found himself enjoying the shade. He decided to go further, though, and headed toward the swimming hole. Once there, he saw that the water level was higher than he expected. As he pondered that, he heard a loud groan. Not human. Not animal. More—as if the earth had shuddered. The pond seemed to feel it too. Small ripples fanned out from where the dam stood. He pursed his lips in thought, but the dam had been here for years. No reason to be concerned now.

Charlie heard the rumble of the water wagon as it came down the street. Several boys were walking behind it, getting wet as the water sprayed on the dirt street. “Hey, Charlie,” one of the boys yelled. “Come play.”

Charlie ran over to them and began twirling and laughing as she got thoroughly wet. It gave such relief from the hot summer sun. She didn’t think it was fair that she had to wear a dress and stockings while the boys could wear short pants. When she grew up, she was going to wear short pants all the time.

She followed the water wagon until it came close to her home, and then she peeled off as she heard her mother calling her.

“Charlotte! Come inside for dinner.” As soon as her mother saw her, she put her hands on her hips. “Charlotte Hewitt! Look at the mess you are. Your pinafore is absolutely filthy. Tomorrow you are going to help me with the laundry, young lady.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Go change for dinner.”

Their neighbor came home and stopped to talk to Mama, who was hanging Charlie’s pinafore up on the line so she could try to brush off some of the dirt.

“How are you, Ethel?”

“Very good. And you?” Charlie’s mother answered.

“Not bad today. But my sciatica kept me up most of all night.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Bertha. We’ll be having dinner in a minute. Would you like to join us? Save you from cooking a meal.”

“That’s right kindly of you. I’ll take you up on that, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Please come inside, and let’s cool off with some lemonade.”

As they were all seated at the kitchen table, Charlie’s father said, “I noticed the creek was pretty low as I drove over it. Unusual for this time of year.”

“That’s interesting,” said Bertha. “I was by the swimmin’ pond today, and it’s almost up to its banks. Hope it don’t overflow.”

“I can’t imagine it would. Just a bit of extra rain up north, and the creek is probably low due to evaporation from the heat. I saw on the city hall’s thermometer that it was over a hundred degrees today.”

“Well, it certainly felt like it,” Bertha agreed.

Soon after dinner, Bertha left, and Charlie was sent to bed just as the sun set. She woke up screaming for her mother. The sound of thunder still echoed between the hills.

“Mama! Mama! What was that?”

“It’s okay, honey. Daddy went to check. But we’re okay.”

Bertha burst through the front door, fear replacing her good manners. She pulled her calico wrapper tightly about her. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes. John went to check. Come inside. Stay with us until we know what it was.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother at all. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Over an hour later, John returned with the news that the river, fed by the storms up north, had brought some debris downstream. “Nothing to worry about. At least not tonight. Some big trees fell into the river, and they hit the footbridge. It made a lot more noise than it did damage. Some of us men will get together in the morning and take care of it. Let’s all go back to sleep.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Bertha said.

“I’m sure, but you’re welcome to sleep in our guest room if you like,” John said.

“That’s right kind of you, but I reckon I’ll be best off in my own bed.”

They all went back to sleep until the church bell began to toll. Over and over. But it wasn’t Sunday. It was still dark out. Everyone ran outside to hear the warnings. Men on horseback shouted as they tried to control terrified steeds. “Head to higher ground. The dam’s gonna give!”

“Go!” ordered John. “Bertha is over there. Follow her. I’ll be right behind you.” He ran back into the house and grabbed the box that held all his important papers and spare cash. He joined his neighbors in the run to safety. The footbridge groaned as debris pushed harder against it. The earth vibrated with the pounding of so much water. Small rivulets were running through the streets—warning of more water to come.

On the hilltop, Mr. Sullivan opened his home to the refugees—at least as many as he could fit. Women tried to get the children to sleep. Just as they thought they would be successful, a loud crashing sound of rocks tumbling one upon another echoed through the valley. As the dam collapsed, the sound of gurgling water filled the air. Wood creaked, and metal screamed. The footbridge lost the battle with the increasing debris and gave way. The people who had sought safety in the church wailed, begging God to save them as water rushed in—too terrified to realize that it rushed out almost as quickly. Petite Mrs. Jones was swept into the current down the main aisle. Thinking quickly, Mr. Nelson grabbed her leg and pulled her out of the current. No one slept that night as more sounds haunted them. Trees scraped along the dirt road, some hitting into buildings, causing a loud thudding sound. Occasionally, there was the sound of breaking glass. A snap echoed as a support for the general store’s porch gave way. Then a guttural cracking signaled the loss of the roof. For many, the sound of a happy creek would carry them back to this terrifying night for the rest of their lives.

In the morning, as daylight increased, townspeople began to emerge. They gasped. Some cried. Some stood in shock. They could see the town with its mud-filled streets. All the homes had been badly damaged by the millions of gallons of water that had cascaded down the streets. Some areas were still flooded. Others had huge puddles. Trees that had been torn from the ground now lay in the street and against buildings, their roots upended toward the sky. A buggy lay on its side where the general store’s porch had been. Mud was everywhere. They could see dark windows where the glass had been broken.

“How could this happen?” asked Mr. Sanderson. “The hole in the dam should have let the water escape.”

“Oh-oh,” said Charlie. She bit her lower lip, and tears filled her eyes.

“What do you mean, oh-oh, Charlotte?” asked her mother.

She looked up as neighbors looked on. “I was just trying to help.”