labor day

 the delaware and ulster railroad starts out sitting up above the high curvy cut of the bush kill. it heads through town along dry brook, crosses the intersection by casey joe's, slips past the caboose with the delicious scrambled eggs, then cuddles itself up next to the east branch delaware river. the two, the river and the railroad tracks, wind through a valley the river itself has been working on for a very long time. they go all the way up, eight miles, to roxbury, passing the round barn farm market, a long, skinny lake and a pheasant farm along the way.

and so on saturday we head down the street to the train station, me, the sweetie, a friend and his four year old boy. there are women with hoop skirts waiting at the station. there are men with strange mustaches leaning against fencerails. quite a few of them have badges. all of them have hats and guns. we get our tickets at the window and we all get on the train. we, the four of us, are hatless, gunless and badgeless. the train starts with a deep breath and a leap forward. we edge past old engines and under the trees.

once the train is clear of town, once is is running along the east branch delaware, it picks up speed, stretches itself out in the fields of corn and cows and hay. some places bales are already wrapped in white plastic. we ride past joe pye weed, morning glories, ferns and swamps. the mountains sit behind everything, row after row of them dipping down to where the train will go. low stone walls crop up and run a bit along with us and then slide into the weeds and the water, then rise up again from nowhere.

in roxbury we step off the train and wander around the museum, see this place the way it was a hundred years ago, a hundred fifty. everyone in the photos looks like the mustached men and hoop skirted ladies on our train. the land in the photos hasn't changed as much. we get a snack and head back to the train. that's when the shooting starts, cracks and smoke and powdery air. when the air clears the men with badges haul off a woman in a red dress. they bustle past us into the first car of the train. she hollers to a bunch of men without badges who head up onto the train after her. we roll back toward arkville on a train full of gunfighters under a sky that's scooting down lower, closer to the tops of our heads.

the rain starts, soft and misty but cold enough we're glad to have jackets. we wave at folks in cars and on bikes as we sail through crossroads. we wave at a sandy colored cow standing alone in a field near home. a second gunfight breaks out as the train pulls into the station. the rain is heavier now, but we are back at arkville, named for that big boat, named for safety. we have stocked up on food and water at the freshtown in margaretville, so after dinner, after sitting up visiting and trying to find on weak-signaled phones any information about folks back in a city we think is under attack, we walk ourselves upstairs and go to sleep.

the fire department siren goes off at 7am but nothing has changed from where we sit. our trees are all still as branched as they were yesterday. the metal lawn furniture still sits on the porch. the sweetie heads into town to get a few things we forgot the day before and he is back a little too soon. dry brook has climbed right out of its bed and is rolling over the road, over yards and up into homes. it is creeping toward the laundromat. it has shoved itself hard up against the railroad track but the railroad track is, at least for now, shoving back, making itself into a levee for a very small part of town.

we are an island. not all on our own. the post office and fire station are with us but we are cut off from brooklyn, certainly, cut off from margaretville, a town over to the west, and fleischmanns over to the east. we do not know right away that margaretville is being swallowed by the delaware or that fleischmanns is being carried away by the bush kill. we only know that dry brook has gone out of control.  but we are on high ground. we have what we need, really. we can get by here a few days in this house, the four of us, with no problem. the power flickers from time to time but never goes out more than a few seconds. the water in the pipes runs clear. we cannot imagine how strong the water is.

the sweetie and i walk down to casey joe's, to where the work crews are watching the water get higher and come nearer the pizza place. we wander down the railroad tracks, the ones we rode on the day before. the rain is still coming down, pushing the edge of that redbrown river just a little higher. it crashes along on our left where we can see through broken trees the crumpled remains of trailers and sheds and little wood houses now halfway or more underwater. we see a neighbor who says her family is fine, then tells us about a cow pulled from the mud and water, nearly washed away. and we walk on a little more down the tracks to see that cow, the same one we waved at the day before, standing bewildered on the tracks, her owner pacing nearby. we walk back and something cracks. a building shifts into the water.

we leave monday for brooklyn. we leave three times and are turned back, sent away from a questionable bridge. we are trapped in the catskills! says the child each time we head back. we promise him we are having an adventure. finally we cross over the esopus and move toward the thruway and brooklyn. the ugly brown water and the brokenness slide back through the rearview mirror for miles. but we will drive through the dark tomorrow to get ourselves back. we do not know what will be there, will not be able to see what's left after the water has crept back where it belongs. it doesn't matter. we will wake up in the morning and we will get to work. certainly things will not ever be the same for these towns resting in these valleys but they will be what we make.