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Connecticut Farmington River Flood of 1955 | The Nightmare That Was True

Connecticut Farmington River Flood of 1955 | The Nightmare That Was True
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by in Aug 1965

When the water began to rise from the living room floor, we went up to the attic. Piled on the table, chests, and boxes were many things that recalled other days. But we had little chance to think of those days. The time had come. There was a tremor, a chilling shudder of the old house, and we were sinking into the murky, black depths.The next thing we knew, we were still sitting on the bed by the attic wall. Although slumped to one side, the room was still one. Flat against the attic window was the roof of the house next door. ‘We sat still and waited.

After awhile, we groped our way down the stairs, now tilted back at an almost impossible angle. Chinks of plaster had fallen in the living room, leaving gaping, jagged mouths in the walls. About 12 inches of water was in the room. The water was brown and cold as we stepped into it.

Leaning through the doorway to the porch, I saw that the other side of the house had sunk several feet. Our side still seemed almost upright. The big house on the right had moved into ours, causing ours to leave its foundation and move into the one on our left.

At last the rain stopped. Whenever the wind caught its breath, we became aware of the whir of helicopters overhead. Were they photographing the disaster area or were they rescuing the people. A small measure hope returned.

10:30. 11:30. No sign of help from the air or anywhere.  The water ceased to rise, but did not fall.  The danger was far from over. We had to do something.

The porch held. For many minutes we vigorously waved the living room curtains back and forth out over the railing as far as we could reach.  Through the eye level foliage of the street, we saw the man.  He was more than a few hundred yards away. If only we could get his attention!  Just when it seemed utterly hopeless, someone began flashing a mirror. We had been seen!

After nine hours of anguish, our relief was short lived.  One by one a number of tremors shook the house. Plaster fell, followed by a crackling as of thunder. Through the living room door to the attic came light.  When the trembling stopped, we went to the attic door and looked up into the sky. The roof had split open.

The next two hours seemed as long as the preceding nine.  Intermittently, the tremors continued. Would help ever come?

At last it did.  At 1:30 P.M., a Navy helicopter hovered over our house, coming in as close as the trees would allow. A voice shouted, “We’re going to throw you a line. Grab it and step into the seat belt. Get a tight hold, and we’ll pull you up. Don’t worry, it’s safe.”


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