Every community has its hero's journey through natural disaster, a tale of resilience and pluck in which the residents emerge stronger and wiser from the experience. Back in California it was usually an earthquake, like the Northridge quake of 1994, which collapsed the Antelope Valley Freeway interchange as an unlucky LA motorcycle cop was riding over it. Charlestonians who've been there for any length of time will point to Hurricane Hugo, which in 1989 hammered the low country and caused massive damage to Charleston's historical district. And, of course, we from the central panhandle will always carry with us the long, still unfinished journey of recovery from the utter devastation left in the wake of Hurricane Michael.
This place is deceptive, in that it feels like a benign garden, but under the fresh paint and manicured yards you can still see traces of an epic disaster nearly half a century ago, the great flood of 1972.
In a sense, we share a story, two sojourning Floridians and the folks here who remember that day. For the great flood began with a tropical weather event, Hurricane Agnes, which came ashore and stalled here in June of 1972, dumping a couple feet of rain upriver that soon turned into a wall of water that sent the Chemung River spilling over its banks around lunchtime on June 23rd.
Six feet of muddy water submerged Market Street, submerged the Corning Museum of Glass (destroying a number of priceless ancient artifacts along the way), submerged schools and churches and homes. Within a day or so, the waters began to recede, and the residents struggled through the aftermath.
I learned a little about all that this morning when I noticed on the landing of our stairwell a little paperback edition of the Chemung Historical Journal from August of 1972, which was filled with photos of flooded downtown Elmira just down the river from here. The book has been sitting there since we arrived at the Sinclaire House, and I decided this morning to give it a look instead of doomscrolling through the morning papers.
Inside the book I found a letter written by whoever lived in this house in the days immediately after the flood.
In a neat hand from another time, a mother writes to her daughter Judy, describing life in the days immediately after the flood. For a time they are without power, and well-meaning relatives from Auburn and Geneva arrive with fresh meat and vegetables that almost immediately spoil for lack of refrigeration. The Academy of Fine Arts across the street becomes a Red Cross shelter for those flooded out of their homes. Folks spend days lugging soaked and muddy furniture out of ruined homes.
There is no running water, and she describes going down into a cellar to collect floodwater so the toilets will flush. One relative finds and retrieves a dead body from inside a church. Another who lives in an apartment must crawl over a mangled carport that has washed against his front door. The local KFC is condemned after the flood brings a plague of giant rats through its doors. Some folks vow to leave and never return. The author of our letter, undoubtedly long-deceased now, abides and celebrates the small victories such as the return of electricity after a time.
So much of this rings familiar to me--days spent salvaging what we could out of my house and Peg's condo, living without power or phones, the discouragement expressed by my friend and neighbor Brian when I managed to message him the day after Hurricane Michael crushed Panama City--"Don't come back; everything's gone."
It's just a part of human existence, isn't it, this experience of living through the aftermath of natural disaster? My friends in Panama City speak of the last two years or so as if their experience is uniquely awful, when in fact communities all over the planet are smashed by the vagaries of Mother Nature every month, often with no coherent government response to assist through the aftermath. Viewing the disaster of 10.10.18 in that light makes it more manageable, realizing that folks have overcome these sorts of setbacks for as long as humanity has walked the earth.
And Corning did, in fact, overcome. Market Street now is as beautiful as any small town main street in this country, protected by a forty foot berm that keeps the Chemung River within its banks. Rather than cutting and running, Corning Inc. doubled down on its commitment to this place, investing in cleanup and rebuilding to make the town even better than before.
I've said before that this place just has positive karma, a community spirit born of generations of good work and character. The rebuilding of Corning after the flood stands as a key chapter in that story, a tale of resilience and determination few are old enough to still remember, although you can feel it when you walk the streets. This really is the Good Place.
Speaking of walking the streets, yesterday evening P and I strolled down the hill for wings at the Elks Lodge, and spotted the Karams out loading stuff from their garage into Chris's pickup for the trip up to Keuka Lake. Peg and Kim walked inside the house to talk about P's decorating ideas while Chris led me around the curtilage so I could see what a great job they've done spring cleaning.
God willing and the Chemung River don't rise, in a little over a month this place will be Wyldswood North for us, our permanent connection to this place we've grown to love, even as I continue to toil in the legal vineyards of Florida. Owning a home like this, the second oldest in Corning, built in 1849, is a dream come true for both of us. And it allows P to come here and work with people she likes and admires for as long as she continues to practice medicine, maintaining relationships that mean the world to her.
It's all pretty good, isn't it?
Time to get to work. Later this afternoon we're flying the Columbia to Boothbay Harbor, Maine, one of P's favorite places, for a little tourism and lobster. Rick the airport manager in Wiscasett has left a message with instructions on how to let ourselves into his office and where to find the keys to the rental car. We're spending two nights in a little lodge tucked along the edge of the harbor, and the weather promises to be perfect all weekend. What fun.