One year, the Platte got so high whole neighborhoods had to be evacuated.  People lit out for higher ground or else got discounted rates on hotel rooms near the highway (where families pretended it was a vacation and their kids said (probably without meaning it) that they never wanted to go back home).  In the trailer parks, hundreds of people stayed behind, and even after the river crested they plodded through their kitchens in rain boots and trash bags, trying to feed themselves and also save what could be saved.  A hopeful story went around, and it was about a man named Morton, who built his trailer out of balsa wood, and they said the water just picked it up and carried him away (which, of course, meant he wouldn’t have to worry about lot rent or NFIP payouts (something no one was confident in receiving (and certainly not in a timely manner)) and could just enjoy baked beans and High Life and then gaze out the window like it was the lazy river or maybe some kind of Viking cruise).

It got bad enough that they set up supply checkpoints and then sent the governor in to make a speech.  He stood on a stage at a park in Hall County.  Mulberry’s donated Weasel Burgers and Cajun fries, and staffers (who dressed like volunteers) tossed t-shirts and TP and bottled water to the crowd.  The governor (wearing work boots and a Husker (trucker) hat) said most politicians would say they were sad to be here under such circumstances, and, pardon his language, but the truth was that these “circumstances” made him real damn proud.  First, he thanked local businesses.  He singled out Mulberry’s by name.  Then, he told a story about an elderly woman who lost everything (and he mentioned her wedding photos and a beloved Golden Retriever named Liberty) and still came up and welcomed him, shook his hand and asked if there was anything she could do.  He said he could stand up on this stage and make promises about aid and solidarity, and, yes, the state would do all it could to help.  The real comfort, though, was what was already happening.  What had been going on since the water hit ground.  He said, I’ll do everything I can, but it’s no match for what you can do for each other, what your local infrastructure has already done.  Donations keep coming and neighbors keep helping, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that government is here, but Huskers don’t need it.  And a moment like this lifts all Nebraskans up.

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Brett Biebel teaches writing and literature at Augustana College in Rock Island, IL. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chautauqua, the minnesota review, Emry’s Journal, SmokeLong Quarterly, and elsewhere.

Photo: Jonathan Ford