Memories of '93 Flood

Inevitable Still Devastating: My Story of the Great Flood of 1993

by Carol Floarke

When the water reached 44 feet or so, I relented and packed my photo albums and a few other irreplaceable items. Over the next few weeks, I slowly packed my books and music. I took small loads to my mother's house in Belleville.

more, just in case?” I’d say, "Well, mom, maybe you're right, but I wouldn't want to pack all this stuff just to drag it back home."

She was also concerned about my insistence on staying in Valmeyer. With the water at 45 feet, I could tell she was getting worried. I'd say, "Mom, it’s not bad now. They'll probably evacuate at 46 or 47 feet. If it gets bad, I'll leave."

I guess it did get bad, but I always had my brand of logic ready for Mom. “We’re working on the levees, Mom. We’re constantly monitoring them. We’re taking care of the problems while they're small. I feel better staying to sandbag and patrol the levee. That way, I know what’s going on. If it gets up to 45-1/2 feet, I'll leave.”

Forty-five and one-half feet came and went, then 46, 46-1/2, 47… Mom had caught on long ago that I wasn't planning on going anywhere.

I'll never forget that moment when I walked into our command post at the firehouse. Usually, as soon as I opened the door, the hustle and bustle of volunteers cooking, cleaning, running errands and chatting with townsfolk greeted me—but not that day. There was a pall over the entire place. It reeked of despair. I looked around the room, hoping to hear someone with the right words: “Gotcha! Pretty good, huh?”

Outside the firehouse were the regulars-- a few locals, some National Guardsmen and a Coast Guard crew ready if necessary.

After that initial despair, we got our second wind. We weren’t beaten yet! We have some of the finest levees in the state. We could sandbag-- again. We could build dikes around problem areas. We'll do this and this and this.

We were off and running. Old Man River had issued his challenge, and we were up to it. We need this town, River. You don't.

The days after that were a blur. The guys were sandbagging fools, and I mean that as a term of endearment. At a point when they had to have been exhausted after weeks of sandbagging, they dug in harder than ever. Farmers who couldn't farm worked nearly every day and sometimes during the night to shore up low spots and control sand boils.

At 48 feet, emergency officials advised residents to sleep outside the danger zone in order to minimize the hazards of a night evacuation. I didn't handle that very well. As night approached, I debated with myself. I didn't have to sleep elsewhere. It's just a recommendation. My kids were safe with their grandparents. I could stay at home.

At about nine or ten p.m., I checked in at the firehouse before bed. I discovered I wasn’t the only wandering soul out there. Several of us just stood in the street for what seemed like hours, even though there was nothing to do, nowhere to go and nothing worthwhile to say.

I went home to my bed and television. Everything else was gone. I forgot to leave food. I stared at the silent television, again for what seemed like hours, before finally falling into a fitful sleep.

With a crest of 49 feet looming over us, the evacuation order came. I got out what was left--rather, my family got it out because they figured I wouldn’t stop sandbagging for long. I still didn’t want to leave, even though I knew there was no choice now.

My sister and her husband came to take the kids for the next few weeks. Even as we shared a tearful goodbye at the firehouse, I refused to believe that this could really happen. I told her I would pick the kids up when the crest passed and the water subsided.

The next morning, Sunday, August 1, I couldn’t stay away. It was terribly hot, and I was beginning to wear down. We few girls didn’t kid ourselves; we knew most of us couldn't keep at it as long as the guys could. After several hours, some of us went back to town on a school bus. We were hoping to get everyone to rotate sandbagging shifts, but those guys were too dedicated and would sandbag until they dropped in their tracks. I waited and waited for the shift change to come so I could get back out there, but it didn’t happen until somebody persuaded the sandbaggers to come back and eat supper.

We were back out sandbagging south of Harrisonville toward the Maeystown Creek Pumping Station that evening of August 1. We knew of overtopping in counties further north, and thought it would buy us more time. We could sense rising tension among various officials, and they began suggesting we give it up. We caught bits and pieces of radio transmissions. Did we hear that water was overtopping a levee? Our levees? That was impossible. Surely they were mistaken. A new call came out for an emergency response toward the northern sections of our levees, requesting farmers and others with heavy-duty trucks to report immediately-- with life jackets. At first I was angry that the men I was bagging with refused to let me go with them; but then, I was frightened. We remaining sandbaggers kept at it until we didn’t have a choice: “Get off the levees!” We reluctantly came back to town.

I was at the quarry retrieving a sandbagger's truck when I heard it. There was so much noise from the heavy rock-hauling equipment that I wasn't sure at first. As I came down the quarry road closer to town, there was no mistaking it.

As the siren wailed, the events of the previous weeks froze in my mind: holding onto monster flashlights with one hand and swatting mosquitoes with the other during nighttime levee patrol; filling sandbags at the quarry; praying, cursing, hoping for the water not to come.