Cindy Lange-Kubick: Not easy to ignore neighbor’s trouble

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IOWA CITY — Along the river, dead frogs litter the bike path, sun baked and brittle, like origami amphibians in a public art exhibit.

The first night I slept in this eastern Iowa town, high on a hill on Brown Street, I woke in the darkness to rain.

The thunder came in waves, like cattle stampeding on the roof, and rain gushed from the sky like buckets of water being flung against my windows.

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Ed Benedict and his grandson, Douglas Fulton, 3, survey the damage left by an early-morning storm that tore through Dawson, Iowa, on July 21. (AP Photo/John Gaps III/The Des Moines Register)

Ed Benedict and his grandson, Douglas Fulton, 3, survey the damage left by an early-morning storm that tore through Dawson, Iowa, on July 21. (AP Photo/John Gaps III/The Des Moines Register)

When the tornado sirens blared, no one roused the bed and breakfast guests.

They’ve had some rain in Iowa this summer.

And this week they’ve had some more.

I came here for a weeklong writing workshop at the University of Iowa.

And Monday morning before class, I rode my bike along the river, or as close as I could, dodging mud and sand and buckled concrete.

The city park was barricaded, the baseball fields swamped, as if summer itself had been cancelled.

I detoured into neighborhoods where rotted wood waited on curbs alongside soggy insulation, abandoned bleach bottles, whole houses of furniture emptied into front yards.

“Please Stop Here, Santa,” a red and white wooden sign begged, and next door, an Obama for President sign stood tilted.

“Hope,” it read.

The rain must feel biblical here, where the Iowa River, frosted with white foam, spilled far from its banks last month.

Ray and Shirley, my hosts on Brown Street, have stayed dry.

But Ray shakes his head, talking about the 500-year flood and the hundreds of homes and businesses drowning in the aftermath.

Millions of dollars in damage, he says. Who knows how much it will end up costing? And Cedar Rapids up the road has it worse.

It’s funny how far away Iowa can seem, even if you live next door.

And how easy it is to ignore — until you’re a guest in the neighborhood.

The worst is over, it seems, although it will be months before the FEMA workers and the restoration crews in protective suits pack up and leave.

Long beards of dried grass still hang from the slats of benches lining the river. A children’s wading pool, shiny blue, twists around a tree, half swallowed by the water.

Sandbags still buttress the foundation of the New Pioneer Co-op. I lean against them, eating my lunch.

And they remain stacked — like sacks of potatoes in a giant produce aisle — along the brick facades of stately homes, hundreds of yards from the water’s edge.

Still, the people here soldier on.

Thursday, on the shady road leading to Coralville, a white-haired man studies his maple tree, or what’s left of it.

Monday morning’s storm took down a giant limb, toppling it across his neighbor’s yard and into the street, blocking traffic.

By the end of the week, it’s stacked fire wood. And the tree that stood for 43 years is ready to come down.

Iowa City’s a good town, the retired philosophy professor said.

Bad things happen.

After almost a week, I feel as if I’m beginning to know this place. Where to go for pizza (Pagliai’s), where to find the best coffee (Cappana), where to discover a good novel (Prairie Lights).

Thursday I bought a used book on a bargain table, and stowed it in my backpack, proceeds heading for flood relief.

And every where I turned there were fliers for quilt raffles, pie sales, benefit concerts.

At the bed and breakfast, Ray and Shirley baby me.

Shirley feeds me breakfast, as if I were a starving child. And Ray offers to pick me if I find myself out late on foot.

So far I haven’t needed a lift.

But when I stand at the bottom of Brown Street and look up, the river behind me, I feel dizzy.

My shoes threaten to slip on the slippery brick as I climb, and I wish they had chains for traction.

It’s Friday morning; Saturday I leave for home.

It’s raining again. I hear Shirley downstairs in the kitchen, and outside, Iowa City preparing for another day.

Whatever it brings, carrying umbrellas.

Reach Cindy Lange-Kubick at 473-7218 or clangekubick@journalstar.com.