1934 Flood Memories

To commemorate the 1934 New Year’s Eve Flood, we visit the memories of “Scoop” Harrelson who lived at 2624 Piedmont Ave.:

“The jazz and whoopee of midnight celebrations blasted from radios up and down the 2600 block of Piedmont Avenue. Lights shone from all the windows except the bedrooms where the children were sleeping, and there were 21 children on that block. It was raining, had been all day, and the little wash across Piedmont was full and growling with the overload of rocks and mud.

“Then there came a sound that over-toned the sound of the rain, the growl of the wash and the blasting of radios … a rumble, a dull roar. The walls shook, the lights flickered. Sounds changed and the night became hideous with noise. Sounds of breaking timbers as homes were smashed, hoarse shouts of men, screams of women and children and that sullen rumble of stones as they were carried on by an avalanche of mud.

“One moment the home of H.L. McDonald glowed with light and as we watched we saw the wall of mud and stones and water and the debris that was carried on the crest. From six to seven feet high the wall came on and the next moment there was nothing left to show where the home had been.

“From the north, electric light wires flashed like nitrogen flares where they burned in half-a-hundred places, and then – darkness. And still the noise of cracking timbers as the water crossed the road and other homes passed out of the picture. And still the cries and screams and groans of families washed away. And still the roar and rumble of the mud flood.

“As the impending doom swept toward us at racehorse speed, my wife said ‘This about ends it all; we’re through!’ But something happened. The wall of mud seemed to dip on our side. Onto our porch came mud and stones weighing from 50 to 500 pounds, but still we stood as the water and sticks and small stones flowed into the front room to a depth of four inches. But not a stone had landed against our legs and feet.

“In two minutes the deluge was past, grinding and tumbling and screaming on its way to the river, carrying with it death and destruction, and still we stood on our porch unscathed but with mud up to our knees.

“Was it over? Was there more coming? What had happened? What should we do? How can we help? Who should we help? The answer came from a pile of debris. A hand and an arm showed and a strangled cry for help. A wade through waist-deep muck and I found myself helping a large woman out of the wreckage and into the house.

“For the next 15 minutes hysterical screams were all the response we could get to our excited questions. She had seen her family and relatives and friends carried out into the dark. She had held onto the hand of her blind father until the pull of the mud had taken him from her. She had seen her sister and her nephew, hand in hand, swept away. She had seen her sister-in-law and 2-month-old baby blotted out of sight. She had lost her husband.

“My wife finally quieted her and gave her some warm dry clothing, and we all waded across and down the street to a home which stood on higher ground and had not been touched. There we found another story.

“A young woman, covered with mud and thoroughly soaked, had just been brought into the house after having been swept three blocks downstream from the American Legion Hall. She was dazed but apparently unhurt.”

Scenes like these played out across the valley that night. The worst loss of life occurred in the American Legion Hall at Rosemont and Fairway avenues. It was serving as a refugee center when the flood hit it and washed everyone out. Today there is a monument there on that corner. I hope you’ll stop by and visit it, and consider the tragedy of that night 89 years ago.