This “backstory” is a part of a collection of articles that describes some of the obstacles that Seven Days reporters faced while pursuing Vermont news, events and people in 2023.
I was visiting my kids in Vancouver, B.C., when the Winooski River overflowed on July 10, inundating parts of Marshfield village and sending rivers of runoff down hillsides into homes on higher ground — including mine.
A flurry of texting followed. Far-flung friends checked in with me, and I peppered my neighbors with questions while they pumped the water out of their basements and mine.
Floodwaters had washed out a steep road, breaking pipes and cutting off access to the village’s well. I tried to picture how residents were meeting basic needs such as showers, dishes and flushing the toilet. Where were they getting water?
“Puddles,” one neighbor replied. That was for flushing toilets. Water for bucket baths and cooking came from large tanks that a local contractor set up next to the village store.
As I biked around Vancouver in the days after the flood, I tried to stay in the moment. I don’t get many chances to spend time away from work with my two kids. But I anxiously ruminated about the stuff in my basement: books, papers and kids’ artwork stored in plastic tubs and on pallets.
And as a reporter, I regretted missing the big story unfolding in my own community. Montpelier’s damage was the focus of the news, and nobody was paying much attention to what was happening in our hard-hit little town.
I got home five days after the flood to find a mess in my house and yard, some dead appliances and ruined belongings, and a community mobilized to help. I quickly figured out how to live without running water. Chatting at the spigots of the donated tanks yielded a torrent of information about our recovering community.
Everyone was asking the same question: Why wasn’t the state helping? The co-owner of our village store said she’d seen U.S. Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg’s motorcade zip past on the way to a press conference with Gov. Phil Scott showcasing flood damage in Hardwick. They knew we were here. The National Guard was delivering drinking water. But our volunteer emergency management director, Justin Campbell, couldn’t get the state to provide portable showers or other help. We felt invisible.
I asked Scott at a press conference how many towns had no running water nine days after the flood. None, he answered. When I explained that many in Marshfield were still lugging buckets into their homes, the flustered state public safety commissioner, Jennifer Morrison, said she wasn’t aware of this because Marshfield hadn’t properly notified the authorities.
A flap ensued. Marshfielders heatedly defended Campbell, who was putting in 18-hour days responding to the flood. Campbell and Morrison exchanged tense and then conciliatory messages.
By the next day, another flood was under way, this one of mops, disinfectant, toiletries and other supplies. FEMA workers and volunteers knocked on doors in Marshfield to offer help. It felt good to have the town’s experience acknowledged. I even heard from a woman who got my number from the state’s 211 system and called to ask if I wanted to pray with her.
The disaster was many of the things one hears: exhausting, expensive and upsetting. Fine, silty dust infiltrated our homes, working its way into kitchen appliances and between the pages of books. The dog barked nonstop at the road repair outside as I worked in my home office.
I have a new empathy for the people I interview when they’re in the throes of a chaotic life event. When something like this happens, you really want to be seen and heard.
The original print version of this article was headlined “Worst-Timed Vacation”
This article appears in Dec 27, 2023 – Jan 9, 2024.
Got something to say?
Send a letter to the editor and we'll publish your feedback in print!
