This commentary is by Bruce Lyndes, a retired broadcast news and media relations professional who lives in Fairlee.
Walking down the creaky cellar stairs of the century-old house on Route 110 last Sunday morning, I knew it would be bad.
It was worse than that.
Dark and dank doesn’t begin to describe the subterranean space of my brother-in-law’s house; nearly 2 feet of sludge deposited from the swirling floodwaters from the First Branch that swept through Chelsea a week prior sat there, an immovable, foul invader that upended his and his neighbors’ lives in just a matter of minutes.
Thick, heavy mud, embedded with petroleum, sewage, chemicals, and God knows what else lay there, a dark, stinking mess that I and a handful of other family members had volunteered to shovel out.
After all, as Vermonters, that’s what you do when someone in your family is in a jam; you drop what you’re doing and pitch in.
But working my shovel into the heavy silt, it immediately dawned on me that “clean up” was much easier to talk about than do, and this would probably take months to accomplish. But you have to try, right?
After 20 minutes of laboriously filling buckets and struggling up the stairs to dump them, it was painfully obvious I wasn’t ready for this. Staring into the corners of the basement, a single, bare light bulb illuminated the depressing reality: Myself and a few retired in-laws, well-meaning but short on stamina and strength, were overmatched.
Leaning on my shovel, sweat dripping off my chin, I wondered whether this house would ever be whole again and whether my offer to help was meaningless.
Then, as if on cue, a voice called from outside.
“Hello, anyone around?”
I climbed up the stairs and was greeted by a group of 20 or so men, women and children standing in the dooryard, armed with shovels and buckets. Smiling, they offered to help.
Wow — prayer answered!
With little discussion, they went to work with a vengeance. Within minutes, the muck was being shoveled up by the volunteers and full buckets were being passed up the stairs by a bucket brigade (including a mother with her baby in a child carrier) and out of a window into a dump truck. This crew was the essence of determination and productivity.
Shoveling heavy, fetid mud in a hot, humid cellar and carrying the waste outside isn’t easy; it’s backbreaking, unpleasant labor that few would willingly do. But these people, and this town, are different.
Within 90 minutes, miraculously, the cellar was cleared of muck; with no fanfare, the crew filed off to their next job, eager to lend their efforts to another family facing loss of their home.
Watching the volunteers leave, I’m not sure they realized what an immense relief their efforts made and how appreciated their labor was. The despair and overwhelming feeling of loss had turned into a combination of gratefulness and hope, two elements of the human spirit that have been in short supply through flood-ravaged neighborhoods across central Vermont.
How did it happen? Apparently, Chelsea’s town leadership had organized this work party to help those in the community impacted by the flooding. From my standpoint, it was a simple idea borne of necessity that was executed flawlessly by townspeople willing to help.
I try not to be too cynical about the world today, but it’s hard. There seems to be so much divisiveness and anger in society, and bad news that leaves you shaking your head is all too common. But last Sunday, Chelsea proved it isn’t like the rest of the world, for the most part. Community spirit, unselfish giving and human kindness are alive and well in Shire Town.
