Rain had fallen for two or thee days with no letup, but now it seemed to be slackening somewhat and it finally stopped.  Daddy came home from work with a somewhat worried look.  He had to cross the river bridge on his way. 

“The river is mighty high under the bridge,” he said, “and it’s still risin’, and will be for quite a spell.  It’s hard to tell if it’s gonna flood the town.  I think we’ll be OK if it’s done rainin’.” “I think we’ve had enough rain for a season,” said Momma. 

Being a big boy of about ten, I felt perfectly safe slipping off to sneak a peek at the river, a little more than a block away.  The river was normally some thirty feet lower than its current state.  I saw tree limbs, planks and an occasional log riding along on the roiling brown soup.  I didn’t watch very long; I felt safer at home.  We all watched for water backing up the street; this was our first experience with near flooding since we moved here.  The lowest land in town was downriver about a mile away.  The river continued to rise, more slowly now since the rain had stopped.  By the next evening we felt sure that the water would stay away from our door although there were reports that some overflow had occurred in low lying places.  In a few days the water receded to near normal. 

Our little town in southeastern Kentucky lay on an ancient flood plain formed by the river that flooded periodically as it had just threatened to do again.  The Cumberland River wound its way through the Cumberland Mountains, turned northward at Pine Mountain and flowed through our town, Pineville.  Our town was in a narrow valley between two mountains with the river coursing to the east side with the railroad above.  Serving as the business center for surrounding mining towns, Pineville was a picturesque town as viewed from near the top of Pine Mountain. 

The river flowed contentedly for the next couple of years, causing no trouble, and then the rains began again.  This time there was more rain.  Water began to back up the low ends of the streets creeping ever closer to our house.  Abby Tinley, a member of our Church, noted our plight and insisted we stay with her family until the flood was over.  We packed up some things, walked to their place on higher ground and accepted her generous offer.  Their daughter Ida Jean entertained my sister Margaret and me with games and stuff. I remember playing a card game called Rook.  In a couple of days when the water began to recede, Daddy went back to check our house and reported that it was all right to return home.  Thanking our benefactors we all started home, but we arrived with muddy feet.  The flood had lacked a foot of entering the house, but had nevertheless surrounded it.  I was kept busy for quite a while cleaning the sidewalks of the thick layer of soggy mud left by the flood.  This was the last time the river flooded in the dozen or more years that my family lived there. 

Forty-odd years later in 1977, the river went on a rampage flooding nearly the whole town.  I heard about it on the news at my home in Ohio, but having no contact with anyone in Pineville, I never learned of the devastation it caused. 

Twelve years later some of my high school classmates organized a class reunion that I decided to attend.  In preparation I contacted the school library, hoping to get information concerning my class.  There was nothing available; everything was destroyed in the flood.  I took my friend Dorothy to the reunion that was held at Pine Mountain State Park.  A third of my classmates had died, yet half of the class was there.  After fifty years I recognized only two attendees, my high school heartthrob and our music teacher.  There was lots of chatter, reacquaintances, and recollections, but little talk of the monster flood. 

The final event of the reunion took place in town where I saw major changes. Downtown looked much the same.  The big change appeared along the river.  A great levy had been built, displacing many houses that had stood near the river.  A new highway had been built on the levy, so that through traffic skirted around town.  Some of the class attended service at the First Baptist Church.  The building looked just as I remembered it from the outside.  The front steps led up half a story to the main floor of the church.  Inside someone pointed out a horizontal line on the wall some ten feet above the floor.  I gasped in astonishment.  This was the high water mark left by the flood.  Only then did I realize that the floods that had I lived through were mere chickens compared to their dinosaur.