A Storm, a Scar, and the Summer I’ll Never Forget
By Jessica Walden
In early July of 1994, Tropical Storm Alberto barrelled through the Southeast and lingered like a stubborn foot on the hem of Central Georgia’s dress, raining for days with seemingly no end in sight.
When the river swelled and flooded my hometown of Macon, everything came to a stop. The city’s water treatment facility was also submerged, and our freshwater supply switched off. A morass as deep and wide as our roaring river was the only thing visible once the rain had finally subsided.
Home didn’t look the same anymore. While our house escaped flooding, our plumbing did not. Plastic gallon jugs lined our living room. Some were filled with drinking water, rationed by the Red Cross. Others were for water we collected—from the rain, a creek, a neighbor’s swimming pool. We used those jugs to flush the toilet “when it’s number two,” my mother ordered.
For two months, this primitive life dragged on. Showers happened weekly and were conducted at the local country club or community college, which had wells. I would turn away as little old ladies put on panties, fresh out of the shower, powdered and gray, with summer bodies I didn’t recognize at the time.
I was sixteen, long-legged, and learning how to wield lip gloss. A citywide curfew was enacted for teenagers. There would be no hanging out on our damaged streets and public places, especially without water.
But teenagers like me were thirsting for summer. Who needs running water when you have Boone’s Farm wine?
So, I defied curfew – my mother’s and Macon’s. I snuck out the window. And a rusty, jacked-up truck picked me up. On a hot, sticky Georgia night, when our entire city still smelled of mud and mildew, we cruised to the local gas station to score strawberry wine.
There I sat in the cab, nervously playing look-out for the ones inside the store. When the police car went by, stopped, and circled back, I knew we were in trouble.
Showers happened weekly and were conducted at the local country club or community college. I would turn away as little old ladies put on panties, fresh out of the shower, powdered and gray, with summer bodies I didn’t recognize at the time.
I jerked the truck door open and leapt the distance between the cab and those muddy, monster tires. I ran into the gas station announcing the police, and we all hid in the gas station’s beer cooler.
“Your knee,” my friend whispered, looking at me with horror.
Gashed, dripping with blood from knee to sandal, I had sliced myself on the rusty truck’s door.
When the coast was clear, I sat on a milk crate while the gas station attendant poured peroxide on my knee. Friends peeled away bandaids, and we placed them over my cut like a basket weave.
“I can see your fat cells,” said one of the boys. “You probably need stitches.”
“Or a tetanus shot,” said another. “You couldn’t have jumped from a dirtier truck.”
I wanted to go home. Let the gangrene set in there, I thought. I was ready to lose my leg before going to the hospital and getting in trouble.
That night, I hobbled back home. I found gauze and tape in the first aid kit and cleaned it with the good bottled water. The next morning, when my mom noticed the bandage, I told her I busted my knee tripping over a jug of water.
“Poor thing,” she said. “This summer has been so hard on you.”
For nights, I prayed my gash would heal and no medical intervention would be needed. I prayed my life would return to normal, that running water would resume before I started my junior year of high school. And I prayed for forgiveness—that I had lied about my knee, broke curfew, jumped from a rusty truck, and drank Boone’s Farm. I deserved to be injured and bargained with God that this was my only atonement.
Our bones hold our aches and pains, and our hearts hold the feelings that came with them. But it is the soft tissue that registers the scar. The body doesn’t forget, even though sometimes we might like it to. Those memories, traumas, and stories are tucked away in a drawer, and this one is crudely titled: The Summer of 1994.
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Jessica Walden is a Macon, Georgia-based writer, storyteller, and tour guide on the side, with a full-time career in community relations. Born to a family synonymous with southern music, Jessica launched Rock Candy Tours, a music history tour company in her hometown of Macon over a decade ago. She is also co-founder of The Web, a women-based work club located in Downtown Macon. She is a mom, horse enthusiast, Taco Bell connoisseur and believer in the power of Dolly Parton. She and her family, along with a menagerie of rescue pets, live on a hilltop home just outside of Downtown Macon. More is found at jessicawalden.com.