The Dam

The Dam

I am eight and standing in a foot of water.

I see biblical rain, like sheets and sheets. Endless water. This is rare in Southern California and I’m at school today at the Farm School. The Farm school had two buildings for “study”; the “big kids” school is a small two-bedroom house with forty students. If you’ve ever been in a house with forty kids in it, the desire to get outside is strong. It is even too wet to enter the darkroom, so I can’t make pictures today, but I’ll be in a dark room sooner than I want.

My teachers have given up trying typical lessons today and we’ve been given a special assignment. There’s a culvert nearby and there’s a gravel road running over it. Water from the culvert passes under the road in a large corrugated tube.

Our assignment? Block the entry of the tube by any means necessary. Do whatever it takes without using explosives or heavy machinery. Go now and let’s see if you can flood the dirt road before your parents get here to pick you up.

I am working aside others as we assemble various solutions, but the water is moving reasonably well and will destroy most solutions easily. I can’t see if the road gets flooded, but unsurprisingly, I am fully and completely wet and filthy when my mom picks me up.

“WTF, Bill?” Probably not WTF actually, but the intent was clear.

Afraid that I’m in trouble, I lie. No damn discussion about dams. “Just playing, mom.” That’s a perfectly acceptable answer and after some towel origami I’m allowed in the car.

When we get home, my reasonable-for-walking shoes have failed to keep water away from my skin. My feet have been transformed into a textured, slimy and tender mess. Mom notes: “You must need new boots” and we get them. I’m silent as I’m hopeful that we’ll just keep going.

Next day, my mother is dropping me off and the teacher greets her: “We had a great day building dams together. Bill was the best and got in there good.” This was a compliment but I was worried. My mom laughed and smiled. “New boots indeed,” she remarks.