The Flood

"Today whenever I am near a farm or in the country I experience a calm that comes over me like a gentle breeze. I hear the rhythm of life and it instantly tells me to slow down and relax. It is hard to put my finger on it but I think it has something to do with the changing seasons; the hum of activity that sets its own pace and laughs at you if you foolishly try to impose your own will". Lindsay Byrnes

I believe we have a certain degree of control over the course of events that unfold in our lives. That exact extend of that degree, the potential to create that which we desire, is debatable. Indeed we may never know in our lifetime just how much we can influence and how much is beyond us.

The following reflection, written by my Dad, Linsday Byrnes, makes me wonder is 'mother nature' the real deal boss. ...........

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My happiest childhood memories were of our home in Kyogle where the backyard abutted grassy paddocks punctuated by cattle poo of various textures. The poo was ideal ammunition to hurl at one another whilst playing cowboys and Indians. Coming home from school my first inclination was to rush into the paddocks with my pets to enjoy games with companions beside the river. My pet cat was reared with my dog and thought he was a dog so he bounded along beside me to everyone’s amazement. I felt pretty important as if it was all my doing and lapped up all the attention.

We made swords from old wooden crates or anything we could lay our hands on to fashion into weapons against grazing cattle imagined as wild animals. We were glad to be interrupted each day by my mother’s call to listen with bated breath to the popular radio daily serial ‘The Search for the Golden Boomerang’

Today whenever I am near a farm or in the country I experience a calm that comes over me like a gentle breeze. I hear the rhythm of life and it instantly tells me to slow down and relax. It is hard to put my finger on it but I think it has something to do with the changing seasons; the hum of activity that sets its own pace and laughs at you if you foolishly try to impose your own will. Maybe it is fashioned from the need for patience to taste the sweetness of fresh mulberries picked just as the fruit ripens or the security of a baker bringing his freshly baked bread or a milkman filling your milk jug from milk from a farm up the road. I recall the thrill of picking out only the edible wild mushrooms for our family breakfast. There was a certainty to it all and growing up was easy in the comfort of those daily goings on all crammed full of activities.

The family home was purchased as flood free so we always thought we would be safe. We had experienced torrential rain before when the river flooded onto Fawcett plains behind us but it always seemed a long way off and besides the house was perched on stilts above the ground. But as the floodwaters lapped into our backyard my only thoughts turned to pretending to be a fisherman.

“Mum – can I get my fishing line to dangle over the back step to fish if the water comes up the back steps I asked?”

I always asked her and never my father for anything since I felt she was more likely to agree and my father seemed remote and not one to whom you directed childhood requests. I remember my mother trying to get me to do little chores for him like mowing the front lawn or emptying the wood pile to explain to me how pleasantly surprised he would be on arriving home from work. But I think she wanted him to be pleased with me. I didn’t mind it since I was an only child and there was no one else to bargain with to do the chores and besides the next door neighbor used to keep an eye out for me and invite me in for a bowl of ice-cream afterwards. On holidays at the beach my father would encourage me to hang on to his neck- which I did for grim death, while he swam out with me into the deep water even before I learnt to swim. I thought he was invincible and was convinced we could never come to any harm whilst he was around.

Soon it looked like my wish to do some fishing would come true but just as my excitement increased with the rising flood waters my parents decided to evacuate to a neighbor on higher ground. My father explained he was staying back to secure our furniture to safe storage upstairs and maybe even in the ceiling.

My mother, clutching a hurriedly packed suitcase walked with me and the pets through torrential rain down the front steps, up on to the road and across a steep grassy slope to the steps leading up to our neighbors house. Once changed out of my wet clothes I joined my neighbor’s son Warren whose favorite game was to act as a pretend priest. He wasted no time suitably enrobing himself with a flowery curtain and armed with a milk jug and silver tray administered his own version of Holy Communion. It did cheer us all up, as I finished off the red cordial communion wine and wandered to the front verandah to see what was happening.

It was later that night when the rain temporarily receded sufficiently I caught a glimpse of my father through the moonlit window swimming around inside our house vainly attempting to secure articles beyond reach of the encroaching floodwaters. I sensed a feeling of unease in my mother’s furrowed brow and we all breathed an audible sigh of relief when he finally struck out in his slow measured strokes through a half submerged window for the safety of dry land. I remember thinking he was invincible and no harm could come to him as a child thinks when faced by the danger of a natural disaster. As he battled the menacing swirling waters and strong current with the flotsam of logs it seemed like an eternity before we saw him finally haul himself up onto the bank. He looked utterly miserable as his skinny frame quivered to free itself from its state of extreme physical and mental exhaustion.

Later, after a brief respite to recover and change into a neighbours clothing he joined us on the verandah to watch in silence as our beloved house submerged under the waters of the Richmond River. Nobody complained or offered commiserations for it was stoically to be endured.

But elsewhere tragedies were unfolding as homes and their occupants were swept away with the raging current. People perished when their rescue boat capsized while others were washed away off rooftops. Throughout the night men in the flimsiest of tiny boats heroically risked their lives rescuing desperate people left stranded or clinging to trees. Over 30 people perished in that one tiny town and many more houses and farms were completely destroyed or washed away. There had never been anything like it before and everyone was caught unaware as the rhythm of life cast a sad note too deep to hear.

In the aftermath I will never forget the pervasive pungent odor. It curdled my stomach to permeate every pore of my skin as a reminder of unexpected death and destruction. These memories remain dormant resurfacing each time I hear of a severe flooding and loss of life. But through a child’s eyes the devastation and future uncertainty could not penetrate the shield of innocence created by the certainty of a parent’s presence even as search parties set out with grim faces each day looking for bodies. The community spirit also cast its loving net as every organization imaginable rushed in to help with open and loving arms. The Girl Guides Association was subsequently honored with an international award for their outstanding service.
As our supplies dwindled word came that help was on its way so hearts were gladdened to hear the faithful drone of a DC 3 aircraft and to watch the white dots of parachutes drop supplies into our welcoming hands. Sheets of corrugated iron dislodged from houses were folded at both ends and sealed with tar, to make makeshift canoes to deliver the vitally needed milk and supplies to stranded townsfolk.

Consequently it was too painful for my parents to stay. My father as a returned airmen invalided from war service just before hostilities ended having miracously survived the theatre of war was determined to put the horrors of war behind him. Kyogle was my parent’s first house and an opportunity to settle down in what was considered an idyllic setting for a new beginning which promised and delivered so much joy. But now the bitter pill must be swallowed so they sold our cherished family home for a tiny fraction of its previous value. My mother held no regrets and often told me how much she always loved that first home. The flood cannot wash away a previous beautiful memory.

The severe financial consequences which virtually bankrupted my parents led to hardships that lingered on for many more years afterwards.

Feb 2011