Good Lord!

I have seen the 25-year plan for Pacific. In 25 years there will be no Pacific; it will be at the bottom of a man-made recreational lake ringed with McMansions, and somebody will make big money. Historic flooding in 2015, then worse in 2017, twice drowned half the town's housing and businesses; in 2017, the water topped the railroad tracks for the first time. The town was now floodplain and there was no two ways about it. Some residents FEMA'd and some didn't. When we're weary some developer will propose a glamorous lake in place of the sleepy little town and grease some pockets and make it so. But my mind was elsewhere when today I saw the little white country church lifted on pallets way up in the air, and thought, "Good Lord!"

I know buildings get raised and moved, a task I can't even begin to comprehend, and here I could watch it happen by hopping out of my car and telling a worker how amazed I was, and could I take a photo.

"Is the church being raised because of the flooding?" I asked, above the roar of the Bobcat. (Here, "bobcat" is both noun and verb.)

"Just like we raised the other houses around here," he said, and for the first time I looked around and saw that more than half the houses on the street, formerly ground-level bungalows, were now poised on new, high, solid concrete foundations -- ten feet high? twelve feet? More? The doors in front and back were now accessed with handsome new wooden staircases that one could tie a rowboat to. Those folks were staying put, flood or no. And my heart was glad.

Grill or Privy?

This rectangle of stones in my yard, old foundation of something, has always been here and always had dirt in it, so I put native plants in it. After a few years I noticed flagstones, almost sunk into the yard, that formed a path from the kitchen door to this rectangle. The original cabin, built around 1930, had no bathroom or a kitchen; we know this because they are obviously add-ons. So I thought this might be the foundation of an old privy. Its measurements, 3.5 x 5 feet, are standard for a double-seated privy. (Double seating was not a luxury, or a his-and-her thing. There was a small hole for children to sit on, and a larger one for adults.)

While raking a few days ago my tines struck stone in front of the "privy" and, curious, I dug there and uncovered a flagstone apron nicely fitted to the foundation with concrete. No privies at Scout camp had stone foundations or flagstone aprons -- privies are not permanent structures, because they fill up and have to be moved -- so I thought this might instead be the foundation of a stone barbecue pit, the kind everyone's dad wanted in the '50s. The other house on this property, built in the 1950s, had a flagstone patio with a stone grill that was crumbling when I first saw it and has since been demolished. Maybe both houses had barbecue pits built simultaneously to keep each tenant happy.

Thanking the Jesuits for my training in logic, I figured it's a barbecue pit. The flagstone path leads from the kitchen door and there was no kitchen door when the cabin was built. The rectangle is situated on three inches of soil atop twelve solid inches of hard yellow clay sloping toward a cliff edge, so it is unlikely a 10- or 12-foot privy pit could have been dug here. Although it is without traces of firebricks or lining and must have been a flimsy one, it's a barbecue. And I thought, darn, wish it had been a privy!