Memories remain, but security was washed away Bill O’Boyle Commentary

LIVING THROUGH the Agnes Flood of 1972 was and still is, in a word, humbling.

Just 21 years old and with a bright future ahead, I was living with my dad in an apartment on West Main Street, Plymouth, when the Susquehanna River entered our home, as it did for an estimated 25,000 others.

Still reeling from the death of my mother, Elizabeth Kraszewski O’Boyle, in May 1968, my dad and I decided a couple of years later to leave our home and all of its memories on Reynolds Street – high on a hill the river would never reach – and move into an apartment.

Life was good for a while. And then we heard the sirens. Men on bullhorns were imploring everyone to get to high ground. The river was rising. The levees were breaking. Our lives were changing – forever.

We went to my Aunt Betty’s house on East Shawnee Avenue. We often visited there, but now it was home. The river eventually receded, leaving behind mud, stink and devastation. Everything we had was lost – including many sentimental, invaluable items such as photographs, diplomas, recipes, letters, my 1960s record albums and baseball cards from the 1950s and ’60s.

It was fun at Aunt Betty’s house, but it wasn’t really home. Home was gone. My dad spent much of his time with his companion, whose name ironically was Agnes, a lovely woman who cared for my dad for many years.

We were given use of a mobile home and parked it behind Aunt Betty’s house. I still remember them hauling it up Henderson Street and resting it on cinder blocks. It was quite the pad: a couple of bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. It was the scene of several parties that we still talk about today.

Here we were, my daddy and me, living in a trailer and faced with the task of putting our already broken lives back together. Never did we miss 210 Reynolds St. as much as we did in the aftermath of Hurricane Agnes.

If we had not moved off the hill, I’d still have all those pictures of my mom and our family and all of those other things that were washed downstream when the river raged through Wyoming Valley.

Since then, family members have given me some pictures that I treasure. And as for the other stuff, well, my letterman’s jacket from 1966 sure wouldn’t fit me today, anyway.

But what I will never get back is that feeling of security, the feeling of safety found in a mother’s arms. The feeling that no matter what, everything will be okay.

That’s what I lost in June 1972. That’s what many victims of Agnes lost. That’s what the flooded-out people of 2011 have lost, too.

No matter how high they build the levees, there can be no assurance that it won’t happen again. We are forever at risk of losing our homes, our belongings, our keepsakes.

We can cope with most of those losses. We can replace some things. We can remember.

The experience of being a flood victim encompasses much more than the loss of material and sentimental items. More than the tireless effort to clean up, rebuild and remain to wait for the next river watch.