FLOOD (109,930 words): Rain, usually the farmer’s friend, becomes the enemy of the Conklin family farm, a farm that began as a homestead on the western Iowa prairie, grew into one of the largest and wealthiest farms in Humboldt County only to be washed away in a catastrophic flood that also destroyed one marriage but gave rise to another.
Nathanial Conklin wanted be a farmer from the time his was a little boy and the Homestead Act of 1862 gave him that opportunity. With a gift from his father and instructions in hand on how to build a sod house he leaves his Ohio home for the Iowa prairie. An astute businessman, he soon greatly increases his holdings, marries, helps grow a village into a prosperous town, and becomes the patron and defender of a beleaguered Amish community. Although his wastrel son will not inherit the farm, he gives Nathaniel a granddaughter who does, but who has to struggle to hold onto the land, only to lose it all and her marriage to the raging waters of Tadpole Creek. Although not immediately, the receding water grants her the opportunity for a new and happier life.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
It was an innocuous little cloud, scarcely darker than the other scattered grey clouds mixed with puffy white ones being pushed lazily across the sky by a gentle southwest breeze. For a moment it paused, blocking the merciless glare of the mid July sun, wept several large drops of rain – but not enough to do more than dampen the over heated asphalt on which they fell – then moved on, keeping pace with its kin.
It was followed not long afterwards by a bigger brother, darker than its predecessor in a sky now more cloudy than clear. It too paused, then opened its belly disgorging large drops again, this time in greater numbers, enough to thoroughly wet the pavement and cause rising steam to mark its passing.
The breeze freshened causing the clouds to move faster. The few remaining white clouds were pushed to the eastern horizon and began to disappear, as did the patches of blue sky that had smiled down between them. Darker clouds soon covered the sky from horizon to horizon and it began to rain, gently at first, then harder.
The farmers in this part of Iowa looked up from their chores and smiled. They had worked through too many dry days of record heat, and worriedly watched crops begin to wilt as a result. This rain looked like it might become a good soaker – the kind of rain that fell at just the right rate to gently sink into the parched earth giving the corn and beans a much needed drink, stimulating the recently cut timothy and alfalfa to put up new growth in preparation for the late summer haying.
Tadpole Creek, scarcely wider than fifty feet at its widest was, with the exception of a few, small, stagnant pools, bone dry. Even though its source was a beaver pond and hundreds of acres of very well drained fields several miles north and west of town, it usually only ran fresh when the winter snows melted and during the heavier spring and fall rains. No one around could remember the last time it had run to flood.
During the night the rain lost its benevolence but none of its steadiness. What started out falling at the rate of a half-inch an hour was now pouring down at two inches an hour – and raining harder by the minute.
Dawn seemed to take a long time coming; the sky was so heavily laden with waterlogged clouds that scarcely any light could get through. Farmers looked out of their windows, no longer smiling, at the small ponds that began to appear in the dips and swales of their fields; the harbingers of drowned crops.
Tadpole Creek became a freshet, burbling merrily along, happy that it had been released from the drought.
The rain continued throughout the day, now at the rate of three inches an hour.
By noon the creek was making angry sounds. Its ripples and rapids had disappeared, replaced by a rushing brown torrent bearing detritus that in quieter seasons had accumulated in its bed and along its banks.
As the farm families and residents of the nearby town sat down to their evening meals, Tadpole Creek exited its banks and began to spread its roiling waters into nearby low lying areas.
And still the rain continued.
FLOOD: A SAGA bf oswald
I finished your book, and it was just a real page-turner. I couldn't
wait to turn to the next page to see how differing situations were going to
turn out. Your writing style reminds me sort of Jessamyn West, or Belva
Plain, who never let a good thought go astray. Your writing just flows along,
and even though there was a plethora of characters, they weren't hard at all
to know, and follow. I was surprised and pleased that you included the Amish
community and their way of life in the book, which most folk don't have
accurate information about. At any rate, it was almost like I was sitting there
listening to a talking book, instead of reading it. I liked the fact that
the location was in the country, and the genesis, before the 20th century,
was perfect. I don't know how you get your thought processes like ducks in a
row, but I do know that it takes not only a lot of research , but a ton of
thought to write a good story. The book was a wonderful read, and right up my alley.
Nancy Pitcher, Avon Park, FL.
'Better Without You'is a compelling narrative that explores the complexities of an affair, hidden secrets, and abuse. It also highlights a daughter's heartfelt journey as she cares for her mother who is battling dementia.
A homonymless man writes shows what it's like to look up the laid he skirts when you’re lying prone(d) to the sidewalk, beer / joint / needle dangling from your hand /lips / arm.
