I wake up to a beautiful summer morning. As I shower, I think about the day to come. Let me be up to the task at hand. Please keep my asthma in check so that I may help those who have much greater difficulties in their lives. Let me make a difference today.
On our short bus trip to Cedar Rapids, our crew of 16 volunteers chats and makes introductions. The morning feels somewhat like a school field trip.
We will be working at a house that has had most of its belongings already removed. Most of our work will be structural. We pass home after home with debris piled high at the curb.
We are given a walk-through and are told our assignment is to take any belongings to the curb, tear the plaster and lathe, the carpet and sub-floor, remove the kitchen and bath cabinets and take all debris to the curb. We are given garbage cans, tubs, hammers, crow bars, and brooms.
I begin in what must have been the living room. Looking into the front closet is like peering into the twilight zone. The contents are covered in sludge, in their original positions. I grab the coats and jackets and hustle them out to the curb as fast as I can. I go back for a second load, a third, a fourth. I feel like I am making progress as I sweat under my mask and my shirt grows damp.
I dig into the items on the shelves. I am overwhelmed with emotion as my task becomes much more personal. I uncover two photo albums and a box of Christmas decorations.
I think about the family that lived in this house. Even though the photo albums are covered in mud and mold, I can’t bear to throw them onto the growing pile at the curb. I carefully place them in a corner of the front porch. I take a break. I wipe the sweat, I wipe the tears, I curse myself for only putting four Kleenexes in my pocket this morning.
Surely, shoveling up bits of plaster and pieces of lathe will be easier. Because of the masks we work in silence. The work is chaotic, and without order, something I find difficult.
It is hard to feel that we are making progress as a gentleman in a Salvation Army t-shirt stops by with sandwiches and juice. He tries to coax the group to take a break, but ends up leaving his offerings in the front yard. We are all intent on finishing our assignment before four o’clock, when our bus will take us back to what is our own reality. Though our backs are aching and sweat soaks through every garment, there are no slackers here today.
Warm and tired, we cross the river on our way back to Rockwell Collins. The bus is quiet. Leaving the house, we felt we had accomplished a lot. It is a fleeting victory however. I use the ride to calculate the volunteer hours needed to rescue this city. In one day, our crew of sixteen was able to get one floor of a two-story home to the point that it can be cleaned and then possibly reconstructed. There are 4,500-5,000 homes affected by the flood in need of the same help.
We check in for the evening shift (since we are only here for the day, we have decided we need to get the most out of our trip). This group is slightly larger.
When the bus drops us at our site I spot a man and woman in their 70s working in the garage and a man of about the same age in a car parked on the street under a shade tree.
I learn that the house belongs to Walter, the man in the car. Walter is disabled and requires a wheelchair for mobility. I walk over to talk with Walter and he tells me that he lived alone in this one-story house and at the height of the flood, the water was over twelve feet high in this area. During the flood of 1993 water only reached the curb. I ask Walter’s cousin (the man in the driveway) if we are trying to salvage anything. He tells me that Walter keeps mentioning a letter opener that belonged to his mother and if we could just find that…
It has been several weeks since the flood yet Walter’s house has not yet been opened. I attempt to open the front door. I push and push against something blocking the door’s path and am finally able to move the door about eight inches. As it begins to open, I am hit with a wave of the smell of devastation. Even through my mask, the stench is so overwhelming I can hardly keep upright.
This is why we are here. I tell myself get over it. A good half-hour later the muck, sludge and belongings are dug out away from the front door to get it fully open. It is hard to believe what I see.
It is as though the entire contents of the home of this kind old man, a collector of things, an avid reader, a devout Catholic, were whirred up with sewage, mud and water in some giant blender, then poured back into the structure. The water was so high the ceiling, attic insulation, and contents of the attic have collapsed and rained down over the mess. The house and its damp contents have cooked in the warm weather for four weeks.
Eight of us have been clawing, shoveling, pulling and dragging Walter’s life out of the house for hours. Walter never leaves. He watches from the backseat of the car across the street, sitting up just a little straighter each time we make a trip to the curb, straining, hoping to see something familiar, something comforting.
It is the close of our shift; we have cleared all of the contents of Walter’s house to the curb. We have shoveled out all of the muck and debris down to the carpet. I feel both elated and very, very sad.
In contrast to the previous return bus ride, this one buzzes with quiet conversation. I have shared a life-altering experience with this group of eight former strangers. They marvel that we have come all the way from Des Moines to help. I marvel that more have not.
As I shower off the pieces of my day, I think about Hurricane Katrina, I think about the volunteers who worked tirelessly during 9/11, I think about the importance of volunteer efforts. I think about how thankful I am that I live in a place like Iowa, where I know this kind of help will be there if I need it.
If you believe that the flood damage in Cedar Rapids is “being handled” or “under control,” you are sadly misinformed.
If you think that you are too busy, or don’t have the skills to make a difference, you are wrong. This world is full of vibrant, passionate, energetic people…the kind of people that can make a difference. You can make a difference. Just ask Walter.
Susie J. 
