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By CHARLES L. JACKSON
WE had parked our Airstream Trailer on a little rise off the side of the road, across from Ed Pawley’s place in Rock Mills. The spot we chose was about eight feet above the water’s level. It was about 5 p.m. Friday night, October 8, and a light rain was falling. We had intended to camp on top of the hill just the other side of the Thornton River near Capt. Holschuh’s guest house, but, the car couldn’t make the climb.
We walked up the hill to enjoy a fine dinner with the Holschuhs. Returning to our trailer by 9 p. m. we turned in shortly thereafter. Before we fell asleep the rain was falling in a steady downpour.
Suddenly at 3 a.m. we were awakened by the furious pelting of rain on the trailer. Then we heard the roar of the rampaging Thornton River outside our door. It was about three feet below us. We flashed our light through the window and saw the churning muddy water. In a few minutes the rain seemed to slack off, so we went back to bed.
About 5:30 a.m. my wife Beverly was awakened by the beam of a powerful flashlight penetrating the curtains of our trailer. She shook me awake. We thought the State Police had come to investigate us. In a moment we heard a loud voice asking, “Are you aware what’s going on out here?”
IT WAS Ed Pawley lookingafter our welfare.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was about to dress and come outside to take a look.”
Pulling on a pair of slacks over my pajamas and slipping into my raincoat, I put on my old hat, stepped into my shoes, grabbed my flashlight and left the trailer.
Pawley was standing under his umbrella with his light cradled in his arm. He had been out for quite awhile inspecting the rise of the river and the condition of the bridge. He was already drenched to the skin.
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