Steven B. Zwickel
14 July 1993
Madison, Wisconsin—We learned, this past month, that the Buick floats and the Toyota leaks.
The rains and floods that have hit the midwest have made international headlines and, quite frankly, we are not happy with all the publicity. Reporters and TV anchors have descended uninvited on this part of the country to report on the unnaturally vast quantities of water that Mother Nature has bestowed upon us. Like most of our fellow midwesterners, we are, by nature, publicity shy and don’t like all the attention we have received when we didn’t do anything to deserve it. Case in point: a schoolteacher in Wisconsin won $111 million in the lottery last week and went to the convenience store where he bought the winning ticket to claim his prize. When he saw journalists skulking in the parking lot, he is alleged to have driven on by.
The rains have made some things easier, such as getting new sod to grow in the backyard. At the same time, other jobs have become exasperatingly difficult. The first week in June we prepared to replace the old wooden deck behind our house and discovered that the constant rains made the job much harder. Lifting and shifting 16-foot lengths of wet, green-treated wood in stifling humidity was exhausting. We consumed endless pitchers of lemonade and made countless trips to the hardware store and lumber yard. Working between torrential soakings and tornado warnings that sent us scurrying to the shelter of the basement, we still somehow managed to finish it in just two weeks. If it dries out before winter returns, we’ll try to set up the grill on the new deck and throw on some brats and burgers.
We have had a few nice days, but the endless rains produced clouds of thirsty mosquitos—aggressive, nasty little beasts that have added to the discomfort of this miserable summer. Another by-product of the frequent showers has been an increase in the rate at which the grass grows. Just about every time the sun breaks through the clouds you can hear the roar of a dozen lawnmowers going at once. We are learning to conserve sunshine. It is a precious commodity this summer and we take advantage of every non-raining minute. Last weekend, an art fair drew thousands of people, not, I suspect, because there are so many art lovers in this part of the world, but because it was the first weekend activity in months that wasn’t rained out. (Even this event was interrupted briefly by showers and tornado warnings on Saturday night).
We spent the July 4th holiday weekend visiting our son in Minneapolis and we fortuitously borrowed our other son’s Buick station wagon for the trip. Our plans were only slightly affected by the weather—it rained on the trip north and it rained on the day we helped our son move to a new apartment and it rained when we took our granddaughter to the Minnesota Zoo. Of course, the day we spent watching the Twins play the Brewers in the shelter of the Metrodome was sunny and mild.
The rains did stop on Independence Day and the evening was remarkably clear and comfortable. We watched fireworks by the light of a full moon sparkling in the bloated Mississippi.
We got a late start on the return trip, but we had clear sailing until we were about one hundred miles from home, when the rain began. The heavy rain and water kicked up by other cars and trucks cut visibility to a few feet. After an hour of struggling to see the road, we got off the Interstate and took a highway that runs parallel to it.
The rain got heavier the closer we got to home. Twenty miles from Madison we reached the first stretches of flooded roadway. My wife, a Wisconsin native, urged me on. “Wait for the car in front of you to clear the water, then put your foot down on the accelerator and keep it there. Whatever you do, don’t stop or we’ll never get out of here.” Her advice proved sound. Huge plumes of spray shot up from the tires. Our six-year-old granddaughter clapped her hands and shouted, “Wheee! That was fun. Can we do that again, Grandpa?”
Again and again, we forded the runoff. The drainage culverts along the road were filled with fast-moving, muddy water and huge bolts of lightning bracketed the highway. The pounding rain could only be described as being of “Biblical proportions.”
I made the mistake of relaxing when we reached the edge of the city, in the erroneous belief that it must have escaped the worst of the flooding.
While we debated which streets to take home, Mother Nature made some decisions for us—we detoured around one flooded intersection and started the last mile of our journey. That was when we reached the deepest, roughest stretch of water yet. I waited for the car in front of me to get out of the way and then I pressed down on the gas pedal. Halfway across the stream, I realized that front of the wagon (now referred to as the “bow”) was drifting towards the sidewalk. I made a joke, “Get me a rudder so I can steer this thing!” My wife yelled, “Don’t let up on the gas.”
I was giddy from the stress of the past few hours. “Engine Room,” I said into an imaginary intercom. “Give me full steam ahead.”
“Why does Grandpa want a rudder? What’s a rudder?” the six-year-old asked.
Miraculously, the Buick kept going, foamy wake spewing from the wheel wells. We reached the other side and the tires again responded to the helm.
The State Patrol closed the highway we had been on a few minutes after we got home. My wife told me that she’d caught a few seconds of footage on the late news of a blue Buick station wagon crossing the flooded roadway.
I didn’t see myself on TV because I went to bed early. Besides, I’m not really interested in publicity I
Steven B. Zwickel
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