A House Is Not A Home...

Who doesn't love Luther's song (big Luther..not Lil' Luther) "A House Is Not A Home..."

A room is a still a room
Even when there's nothin' there but gloom
But a room is not a house
And a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart

 
These lyrics were running through my head when I pulled up in front of what used to be my home...in the Parkview Terrace (AKA Mosquito Flats) neighborhood in Iowa City.
 

A house is not a home when it has disappeared in the name of flood mitigation. As I sat staring at the now empty lot of what had been Bailey's and my home for nearly six years, I thought back to the emotional summer of 2008 and the historic flood. On June 12, 2008, my lovely neighborhood next to City Park looked more like this:

 
The entire neighborhood was swallowed up by the Iowa River, which had breached the emergency spillway at the Coralville Reservoir in only the second time in history. It was a really strange time, leading up to the actual flood. They started sandbagging operations a week before the actual flood. My neighbor Jim and I pitched in to "help those poor people on Normandy" save their homes. While neither of us lived in the neighborhood during the flood of 1993, we were assured that the homes on Eastmoor remained dry. As the week edged on, and the sandbag wall inched ever higher, we started to have doubts that we would be spared this time around. Two days before the flood, someone from the city walked up and down the street pounding stakes into the ground. When I asked him what they meant, he replied that it was noting the "new" 100 year flood level. The mark on the stake was just below the living room window. Holy shit....now I started to panic.
 
It was at this moment that I finally understood why the residents of New Orleans didn't just up and leave when Hurricane Katrina was bearing down on them. You're completely torn between leaving everything behind and running for higher ground and waiting until the last possible moment to save your possessions, your treasures, your every day way of living. Some of us adapted better than others. But, regardless, it was a sucky situation. While I was barely holding it together, my friends rallied to support me. Seth and Sara came and took every piece of my clothing from my house to Solon. Liz offered me her guest room in North Liberty, and my nephew Jake and I took all my photos, scrapbooks, bedding, and assorted treasures there. My friend Andy brought his enormous snowmobile trailer and loaded all of my antiques and took them to his storage building on the east side of Iowa City.
 
(A side story about Andy's antique rescue. First, he inadvertently drove down Normandy instead of turning onto Manor and then Eastmoor. Well, by this time, Normandy was underwater at the end of the block and impassable. He had to back up this big trailer and turn around through all the people trying to evacuate and pile sandbags. Needless to say, he had to drive across a few lawns to get back to my street. Then, after loading my stuff and heading to his storage unit, he ran out of gas on North Dodge Street! Kudos to Andy for the exceptional effort!)
 
In retrospect, I should have loaded everything into that snowmobile trailer. But, again, we were all still in denial that our street would actually flood. Two nights before the actual flood, my neighbor Jim and I sat in my now nearly empty house and drank shots of Irish Whiskey. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. The next day, Jim finally threw in the towel and sought alternate living arrangements. He didn't get as much out as I did. Many on my street didn't. By 9 a.m. on June 12th, the neighborhood was completely flooded.
 
We didn't get back in the neighborhood until June 25th. You cannot imagine what it is like to enter into a house after a flood. Let me just say, it is disgusting. Here are a few shots to show you what my once cute little home looked like. This was the kitchen. The refrigerator was knocked over. You can only see a small patch of the floor. It used to be white.
 

 

 
This was my office. You can see that the water was about 3 feet up the wall. Carpet -- gross.
 

 
Living room (formerly with a light peach colored carpet). You cannot imagine how heavy a sofa gets when it is water logged. My first thought when I walked in the house that day was, "I can't believe I lived in this dump."

What followed were four and a half months of living out of boxes and helping out rebuilding the house. The demo was the worse. The smell is simply indescribable. I swear that smell was stuck in my sinuses for weeks. At random times when I inhaled through my nose I would get a whiff of it. God bless my coworkers for coming to help with this gross dirty job of ripping out carpets, tearing out drywall, and sweeping up garbage. The neighborhood literally looked like a war zone. I actually regret not taking pictures of it. The curbs were piled 8-10 feet high with garbage. The dump trucks could not keep up hauling it away. It was months before the neighborhood started to return to normal. But, slowly, it did, at least on Eastmoor Drive.

By Christmas, just about everyone who planned to return did. I was among the earlier returnees. I moved back the second weekend of November in 2008. The house was perfect on the inside, like a brand new home. I especially loved my new kitchen. 

I bonded more with my neighbors during those months that I had in the previous four years. Everyone took turns hosting Saturday "soup suppers" to show off their new and improved homes. On the one year anniversary of the flood, we hosted a block party and invited the whole neighborhood. 

When I drove by my home when I heard it had been torn down, I was tinged with sadness about the little community that was lost. The flood was devastating both emotionally and financially for many people. But, we rallied to rebuild the homes and our lives when the city initially said there would be no money for buyouts except those offered by FEMA to residents within the 100 year flood plain. So, after months of painstakingly putting the pieces of the neighborhood together and getting back to a new normal, the city began to offer buyouts. One by one, people took the offer because there were no plans to mitigate future flooding in the neighborhood. I think I counted over 45 homes that have been torn down in this once quaint neighborhood. Some would argue that the neighborhood should have never been developed. That is probably true. But, the fact remains, that it was developed and many people called it home for many years. And, then, it was gone. (Admittedly, that's a little dramatic. The entire neighborhood isn't "gone." There are still quite a number of people who live there with no plans to leave. But, to me, the soul of the neighborhood is gone.) 

What I learned from this experience is:

• Never buy a home in a flood plain.
• You can handle more than you think you can.
• It's OK to simultaneously do shots and cry over the unknown.
• Sometimes the weatherman is actually right.
• If you find a stake in your yard with a flood level marked on it, you should probably believe it.
• You find out very quickly who your friends are by their unconditional willingness to do whatever they need to do to help you.
• Don't make assumptions about what people faced with challenges should or shouldn't do until you have actually walked in their shoes.
• Throw the treadmill away the first time! (That's an inside joke.)
• Buy flood insurance! It's not that expensive.