THIRTY

When I reported back to work at the Littleton Journal, Hinch was at the hospital with his wife.

Norma appeared to have been crying.

“It’s touch and go,” she said.

Nate didn’t look all that happy himself. He’d received a Dear John letter from Rina-or, more accurately, a Dear John text message, modern times being what they are-and was sulking at his desk in the back.

The overall mood was somber and restrained.

Hinch had left me the usual number of local stories that needed to be written up. I zipped through them like a driver focused solely on his end destination, following the street signs by rote. The Littleton Street Fair was kicking off next week. The Lone Star Rodeo, featuring a women’s bronco-busting tournament, was coming to town. A meeting of the California Historical Society was going to be held at the Littleton Library.

I finished in record time. I patted Nate the Skate on the back and told him to hang in there. I brought Norma a cup of coffee and told her to keep the faith.

Then I disappeared into the microfilm.

I was falling down a rabbit hole and I wanted to see where I’d land.

I was going forward by going back.

To the place I’d visited before when I’d first been hired, when I perused the local history like a traveler scanning the guidebook of a forthcoming destination. When I nosed around town and asked people for their memories. No matter where I seemed to go-up and down the PCH, twenty miles outside town, or through the looking glass-I kept coming back to it.

It had been waiting for me all along.

1954.

The Aurora Dam Flood.

The death of Littleton Flats.

THIRTY-ONE

They were listening to Eddie Fisher and Rosemary Clooney on the radio.

Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes…

They went to the Odeon on Sixth and Main to see Brando play an ex-boxer with a conscience.

They read dispatches from Seoul in the Littleton Journal. The Korean War had just ended-the full dress rehearsal for that Asian land war still to come. They perused the back pages for the baseball box scores as the New York Giants surged to the National League pennant.

Those who owned General Electric TVs chose between two major heavyweight bouts that year-Marciano versus Ezzard Charles, or Army versus McCarthy.

It hadn’t been a good year for Tail-Gunner Joe.

America liked Ike, but it wasn’t so sure about Joe anymore, the rabid Red-baiter who’d sworn on a stack of Bibles that there was a Red under every bed. Or at least, inside every department of the U.S. government. The incredible irony of his bellicose claims was still years from exposure-that lying-through-his-teeth Joe, this cheap opportunist whose name became synonymous with undeserved character assassination, was more or less on the money. There were Communists scattered throughout the U.S. government-Senator McCarthy just didn’t know it.

What he did know, or was at least beginning to catch a dangerous whiff of, was his own political mortality. He’d gotten angry at the U.S. Army because they wouldn’t give an exemption to his favorite hatchet man. Suddenly, the army was riddled with Communists, too. They held a public hearing on the matter-where Joe questioned the loyalty of an aide to the army’s chief counsel, Joseph Welch, where Welch uttered the now-famous line asking the senator if he had no sense of decency, and where the relatively newfangled medium of TV caught every mesmerizing, career-dooming moment of it. By the time the hearings ended, McCarthy was a power broker in name only. His bullying and general ugliness of character had been exposed for all TV-owning Americans to see. He was political toast.

Of course, there was the man and there was the movement.

Red-fearing was still very much alive and well.

One sniff of the mushroom cloud drifting over Russia was sufficient to send Americans running and screaming into their bomb shelters. Russia had the H-bomb! There was a picture in the Littleton Journal of a state-of-the-art shelter stocked with an entire wall of Campbell’s soups and two hundred boxes of Kellogg’s Sugar Frosted Flakes.

The innocent fifties, they called it.

It was innocence poisoned by fear. People always knew they were going to die; now they knew how.

Still, in Littleton Flats, they cleaned homes and diapered children and flipped burgers. Three-quarters of the men in town-give or take-worked for the hydroelectric power plant attached to the Aurora Dam. They wore steel construction hats and slipped cotton into their ears to keep out the constant roar of rushing water. They held barbecues on Sundays where they listened to the Giants take the World Series 4 to 0. They danced like William Holden and Kim Novak at the local church. Teenagers spent Saturday nights hot-rodding outside town. An article mentioned several smashups, one fatal, and the subsequent efforts of the sheriff’s department to channel youthful energies into more wholesome pursuits.

Like sports.

There was a little league made up of three teams. The local high school football team was known as the Littleton Flat Rattlers and went 3- 7 in 1953.

The seniors put on a production of Oklahoma! where the lead was played by Marie Langham; the school paper called her transcendent and noted that the boy who played Curly was also split end and defensive back on the football team. The high school boasted five Westinghouse finalists.

The town held a May Day celebration in the town square that year. They danced around a maypole and sang “It Might as Well Be Spring.”

During Christmas, they carted in a big fir and decked it in electric lights, topping it off with a gleaming star of Jesus. A toy collection was taken for down-on-their-luck families. The fourth-grade class at Franklin Pierce Elementary School wrote a letter to Eisenhower pledging their help against Godless Communism.

There was a Bing Crosby fan club in town.

The Rotary Club, staunchly Republican and a must if you were running for town office, advertised a June social.

Bingo tournaments were held every week at the Our Lady of Sorrows church.

The Littleton Flats Café served a breakfast special of three eggs-any style-home fried potatoes, orange juice, coffee, and toast for just fifty cents. Free refills on the coffee.

There were summer concerts at the gazebo-a barbershop quartet called the Flats Four was the main draw.

There would be two banner headlines in the history of the Littleton Journal. The day after Lee Harvey Oswald left his perch at the Texas Book Depository building was the second.

The first was the Monday after the Aurora Dam Flood.

Flood Disaster Wipes Out Littleton Flats!

The what, where, how, and when in a succinct six-word statement. The why of the matter wouldn’t be determined till later-other than the fact that three straight days of rain had raised water levels to ominously high levels.

Total Loss of Life Feared!

That was the next day’s headline-before 3-year-old Bailey Kindlon was discovered downriver and still alive.

There were the pictures.

A town swallowed whole, with bits and pieces peeking out of the water like dead cypress branches in a swamp.

One of the photographs appeared to have been taken from a helicopter. You could see a faint chop in the floodwater stirred up by the rotor blades, and the barest shadow like a whale hovering just below the surface.

There was a closeup of Littleton’s fire chief, looking somber and bleary-eyed, the expression of a surgeon informing the family that despite his very best efforts, the patient has died.