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Iowa Dispatch: After the Flood

A Buffalo expatriate describes the high waters in Des Moines

Principal Park, home of the AAA Iowa Cubs in Des Moines, on Friday, June 13.

Charles Olson once declared “space to be the central fact to man born in America,” adding that “it comes large here. Large and without mercy.” His protégée Edward Dorn, an Illinois native, defined the Midwest as that space between Buffalo’s Statler and the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence, Kansas. This “definition” was actually the title of a book of his poetry published in 1969, following the first of two brief tenures as visiting professor at the University of Kansas-Lawrence as his fellow Black Mountain alum Robert Creeley was settling into a far longer sojourn at UB.

The peripatetic Dorn employed two hotels, human constructions of permanent transience, as his boundary markers. In contrast, Iowa, arguably that most archetypal of Midwestern states, is perhaps best delineated in the mind’s eye as that space between the Missouri and Mississippi rivers. Bounded by two natural testaments of eternal change grander than any hotel, it is the Tigris-Euphrates Valley of North America. In between, the state is creased diagonally by several lengthy tributaries. The 100-year and 500-year floods of these rivers and their feeder streams and creeks over countless centuries have covered this region with black soil so fertile it’s commonly said that one could spit on it and something would grow.

It goes without saying that these floods are double-edged swords, as seen recently in Iowa. But unlike, say, wildfires that destroy houses in California or tornadoes that level mobile homes in Arkansas, there are compelling reasons why Buffalonians—and everybody else—should take an interest in last month’s Iowa floods. Natural calamities, like economic calamities, engender ripple effects, many of which are local concerns. These include infrastructure damage, administrative disruption, personal dislocation, and health threats, such as flood-related disease like tetanus. Some are less obvious or anticipated. The blood supply in Iowa, for example, has been drastically affected by the forced cancellation of many blood drives and closing of collection sites.

But there is other fallout, like acid rain, that is heedless of city limits, state lines or international boundaries. If there is any obvious comparison, it might be the killing frosts in Florida that affect the price paid by Buffalo consumers of citrus fruit. However, while such destructive weather events in the Sunshine State are serious enough in their scope, they are calamities writ relatively small when compared to the Iowa floods and the global agricultural and economic implications thereof. The most widely discussed of these, of course, has been the anticipated effect on an already over-taxed food supply. Corn and soybean farmers in the Hawkeye State proudly say that “Iowa feeds the world,” a claim that may lose some of its assurance, at least for the short term.

A corollary to this discussion revolves around Iowa’s “Gold Rush”—ethanol, the demand for which has been spurred by the meteoric rise in oil prices. Ethanol has been a badly needed windfall for Iowa’s economy after the collapse of the pork market a few years ago, and Iowans tend to stay neutral in the debate over whether ethanol creates as many problems as it solves, as might be expected. But corn production was already projected to be down from last year as many farmers decided to switch to soybeans this spring as a result of both global economics and local weather. As much of what corn was planted is lost, the debate looks to become more pitched; there may not be enough for food or fuel. This is going to affect prices at both the gas pump and the grocery store, in Buffalo and just about everywhere else. Given the ubiquity of corn syrup as an additive in many processed foods and soft drinks, this shortage will inevitably be reflected in increased prices in restaurants and at vending machines, as well.

This two-pronged demand for corn is expected to create another problem with national and global implications. Iowa floodwaters loaded with silt, pesticides and fertilizer runoff are heading down the Mississippi River, and scientists fear this will dramatically worsen the “dead zone” in the Gulf of Mexico, with drastic consequences for the fishing industry there. Beyond the immediate effect of this year’s flood, the heightened demand for corn (whether for human food, livestock fodder, or ethanol) and the consequent increased usage of fertilizers and pesticides is projected to exacerbate this dead zone long after the Flood of ’08 has become a distant memory for most Americans. Ultimately, the Iowa floods are going to affect prices at Buffalo grocery stores not only in the produce section, but the seafood section, too.

In an increasingly interdependent world, where a bank crash, corporate bankruptcy, military clash, or crop failure anywhere can result in immediate and severe adverse repercussions everywhere else, it makes sense for Buffalonians, and Americans generally, to pay a bit more attention to Iowa-specific issues (e.g. congressional farm and energy subsidies or the questionable flood control tactics of the Army Corps of Engineers).

For their part, Iowans—like most Americans—don’t know much about geography and have a limited interest in poetry, including Dorn’s. I fervently wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve explained that Buffalo is not New York City since moving here 10 years ago. I have lost count of the number of times when, after telling someone where I grew up, the response (focusing on my accent or lack thereof) has been “Hmm…you don’t sound like you’re from the East Coast.” My stock answer: “That’s because I’m not from the East Coast,” followed by an elaboration of Buffalo’s location on Lake Erie and its proximity to Cleveland. This seems to come as a genuine revelation. On one occasion, feeling particularly exasperated, I added that “Buffalo isn’t any more ‘East Coast’ than Chicago.” In reply, a local (evidently unacquainted with Dorn’s mythopoeic cartography) deadpanned, “Well, as far as we’re concerned, anything east of the Mississippi is East Coast.”

This somewhat willful unfamiliarity works both ways. Like most Western New Yorkers, before actually seeing the place I vaguely thought of Iowa (when I thought of it at all) as a monotonously flat state of endless cornfields. The first thing that struck me upon arriving was the patent inaccuracy of this prevailing notion. Anything but flat, it’s an attractive landscape of rolling hills and river valleys very similar to southern Erie and northern Cattaraugus counties. Far from being an uninterrupted expanse of farms, it is dotted with nearly 950 cities, all but 60 of which have populations of fewer than 6,000.

It is unfortunate that the defining image of Iowa is Grant Wood’s American Gothic, one of the most trivialized paintings of all time. Beyond the interpretive controversy over whether it was a critical satire of rural America or homage to its steadfast pioneer spirit is the matter of what the painting does not show—the land. The viewer sees two people, a house, a barn roof and some treetops. Rather than watching Field of Dreams or The Bridges of Madison County, anyone seeking an accurate visual portrayal of Iowa’s hillocks, swales and bridges would do far better to view two other Wood paintings, Young Corn and Stone City, Iowa.

Wood’s literary analog was James Hearst, Iowa’s de facto poet laureate. In his poem “Iowa—Landscape,” Hearst wrote, “No one who lives here/knows how to tell the stranger/what it’s like, the land I mean…” Notwithstanding this modesty (a defining trait of Iowans and a benchmark by which they judge others), his poetic mastering of Midwest American speech and life is all anyone need read to understand Iowa’s land, its pleasures and sorrows. He spoke of rural life with an authority unmatched by any other American poet one might care to mention, including Robert Frost. In contrast to Creeley, for example, whose familiarity with farming was limited to a short foray at raising chickens in New Hampshire, Hearst was both a college professor and life-long farmer—despite being confined to a wheelchair after a diving accident partially paralyzed him at the age of 19.

Hearst died in 1982, and so missed the Great Flood of ’93, which is to Des Moines what the Blizzard of ’77 is to Buffalo, replete with folklore and urban legend to which he undoubtedly would have made worthy contributions. The parallel between these two calamities might even be extended to include a recent, comparatively circumscribed reprise: Buffalo’s October 2006 snowstorm (or, to use the prevailing crypto-biblicism, “Arborgeddon”) and now, Des Moines’ Flood of ’08. However, any attempted comparison between the weather and waters of Buffalo and Des Moines inevitably shades into the realm of apples and oranges.

Having swum, boated, fished, snorkeled, water-skied, and inner-tubed on the Niagara River and Lake Erie most of my life, I was a bit crestfallen when I realized that, as a Des Moines resident, my local aquatic recreation would be limited to the Des Moines River and Saylorville Lake, a manmade reservoir 11 miles upstream from the city. Constructed in 1958 to control local flooding as well as to aid in controlling crests on the Mississippi, the lake normally has a nine-square-mile expanse—pretty cramped for a guy accustomed to lakes Erie and Ontario.

When I first laid chagrined eyes on the Des Moines River in ’98, it was literally a trickle; one could wade across it over much of its length! Through the mid and late 1990s, Iowa had experienced several successive drought years with myriad consequences. One popular aquatic recreational activity in Des Moines was taking 100-mile canoeing excursions downstream to Ottumwa (which fans of the TV series M.A.S.H. may remember as the putative hometown of Radar O’Reilly). Spending a pleasant weekend rowing gently down the stream sounded like fun, but I didn’t get the chance. The outfitters running the excursions had been forced to shut down their business—there wasn’t enough water in the river to float a canoe!

My first apartment in Des Moines was located near the city’s municipal water treatment facility on the Raccoon River just upstream from its confluence with the Des Moines River south of downtown. Driving or walking along both rivers, I noted an impressive array of levees, floodgates, and pumping stations built after ’93. This past month, Cedar Rapids lost five of the six wells servicing its municipal water supply and came within four feet of losing the sixth, narrowly avoiding the fate of Des Moines 15 years previous, when there was literally “Water, water every where/Nor any drop to drink.” The treatment plant was swamped and the pumps knocked out of commission, leaving residents without potable water for two weeks. This one factoid only begins to describe the social, political and economic narrative of the ’93 Flood, which easily rivals that of the ’77 Blizzard.

A few miles further upstream on the Raccoon is West Des Moines, an upscale suburb combining old and new money somewhat equivalent to Williamsville. Its old historical district, a low-lying area adjacent to the river known as Valley Junction (a reference to its railroad-heavy past), is the local analog to Allentown—a few bohemian blocks of funky boutiques, bars, and restaurants with an annual art festival and numerous cultural events and concerts. I saw more levees, floodgates, and pumping stations there, but precious little water. However, in 1993 as I saw in back newspaper issues, it was a virtual lake, and a lot of history disappeared.

Two years ago, central Iowa received significant rainfall. The Des Moines River actually filled up and no longer seemed like something at which to sniff condescendingly. A couple of tributary streams even overflowed, reminding me of the occasional ice jams on Buffalo, Cazenovia, and Cattaraugus creeks. A few roads were briefly closed, a few basements were flooded, and residents were mildly concerned for a couple days.

But this year, when Saylorville Lake filled to capacity, tripling its area and forcing authorities to open an emergency spillway around the dam—something that had only happened once before, in 1993—people got very nervous. The spillway ensures that Des Moines will never become another Johnstown. Opening it meant that any additional water coming into the lake would be immediately passed into the already swollen river. Levees and pumps in the city would be tested, and somehow, as seen time and again up and down the Mississippi Valley, some always seem to fail at the worst possible time.

Of course, what we got in Des Moines was nothing compared to Cedar Rapids. The damage was limited to one levee break, which forced the evacuation of about 200 homes, a high school, and a few businesses in a working-class neighborhood north of downtown. The city’s electrical plant, much of which is underground, was a matter of concern as engineers worried that pumps might not keep up with encroaching groundwater, but that bullet was dodged. The mayor, preferring to err on the side of safety, issued an evacuation order for the downtown area, but it, the city water plant, and Valley Junction were ultimately unscathed.

Meantime, life imitated art in a scene out of a W.P. Kinsella novel. Best known as the author of Shoeless Joe (later made into the film Field of Dreams), Kinsella has melded baseball and Iowa into his own brand of “magical realism.” One of his lesser-known works, The Iowa Baseball Confederacy, uncannily presaged a singular sporting event in Des Moines.

On Friday, June 13, I saw a photograph taken from a helicopter of Principal Park, home of the Iowa Cubs (triple-A affiliates of the Lovable Losers), located at the aforementioned confluence of the Des Moines and Raccoon rivers. The stadium was a virtual island, centerfield was a swamp, and I prematurely opined that the I-Cubs (as they are known around here) wouldn’t be playing any home games any time soon. How wrong I was,

The very next day, the I-Cubs set a highly unusual attendance record when they played the Nashville Sounds in an empty stadium. The waters had receded enough to allow a game to take place, but the downtown evacuation order remained in effect at game time. The I-Cubs’ general manager decided to play it anyway since very few makeup dates were available. Only major league scouts were allowed through the gate along with a limited number of employees in case a levee failed and the stadium had to be evacuated.

Iowa came from behind to beat Nashville, 5-4. Somewhere, Grant Wood and James Hearst were smiling.