I Was There! - Readers Share Personal Stories of the 1955 Flood


Media Editors & Reporters: Here are your photo and info resources to cover the author and her book.	I Was There During The Devastation on the Delaware!	Readers share their firsthand flood experiences!
HOME	If you'd like to share your personal story, please let us know. You've come to the right place to read the stories of those who lived through the record-setting Delaware River flood of August, 1955. It was an event that changed the face of the Delaware River Valley forever. The following people have volunteered to share stories of themselves, their families, friends and co-workers in the Delaware Valley during the flood of August 18-20, 1955. Clayton Alderfer Escaped flooded Camp Miller At that time, I was a 14-year-old counselor-in-training at Camp Miller, Shawnee-on-Delaware, PA, and living as a camper in what was then called the Pioneer Unit. As you indicate, we awoke on a bright sunny day to find the river well above normal levels. Eventually, it crossed the bank and entered the camp grounds. I found two younger campers, took their hands, and the three of us waded through the flooded farm fields, then owned by Clarence Treible, climbed the small mountain across the road from Treible's farm, and hiked the approximately 2.5 miles to Camp Ministerium, where all the staff and campers stayed for several days until the waters receded. During a period of four days, I lived in a pair of sneakers, a white T-shirt, and a maroon bathing suit until we were able to return to our families (in my case to Bethlehem, PA). My recollection is that the camp had approximately 180 campers and about 50 staff (a somewhat different number than you report from your sources). In the years after the flood, I returned to camp as a counselor and unit head from 1956-1960 and became, with my friend John F. Adams, the author of a brief history of the camp, which in those years appeared in the memory books. As a final event in the story (as far as I know), thanks to a never-completed project by the US Army Corps of Engineers, the camp grounds were abandoned, the camp closed, and the kind of wonderful summer experience that I and many other boys and young men had at Camp Miller lost forever. Anne Williams Alster Book reminds her of old neighbors I recently discovered that you had written a book about the Delaware River Flood of 1955 and immediately ordered it. I have not had time to read much but checked the Index and wasted no time in reading everything that resulted from your interviews with Peggy Beling Fackenthal. My family lived directly across Rt. #611 from the Fackenthals (white frame house with a white picket fence). I was 16 years old and have never forgotten waking up early that August morning and noticing lots of cars in our driveway (very unusual). My parents (Betty and Nate Williams) and my grandmother were across the road at the Fackenthals helping to move things up to the second floor. The day is a bit of a blur in my memory, but I do remember Mrs. Fackenthal sitting up on the hill in her chair (your mentioning that in your book brought back the memory) . . . I still have the small chair she gave me from her house after the flood so that I would always have a tangible "memory" of that unforgettable experience. You also mentioned Mr. Fackenthal's hiring an engineer to determine the actual "flood plain" in the area. The River backwashed over the road at the north end of our property, and Rt. 611 was clear from there south toward Easton past Frost Hollow Road (where Peggy's friend dropped her off that morning). That gave us a "lifeline" to the outside world. Peggy's memory of her father-in law brought back memories of my special friendship with him. I actually knew Mr. Fackenthal better than I knew the other members of the family. He had a garden on the property next to ours, and in the summer I would go over and visit with him for hours (while he tried to garden, of course . . . he assured Mother I was not a pest). He even came to my graduation from Moravian Seminary. You can imagine how thrilled I was to read what Peggy told you and to see the picture of the Fackenthal's house (that one memory is not a blur). Thank you for your wonderful book, which I will read cover to cover. You have given a priceless "gift" to all of us who lived through those unforgettable August days over 50 years ago. Richard P. Behrens Getting Hung Out To Dry Richard was the camp clerk at Treasure Island Scout Camp on the Delaware, where the Boy Scouts evacuated themselves via motor barge before the current got too strong. Their counselors stayed behind to try to secure the came as best they could, and wound up having to be evacuated via helicopter airlift by 1:30 Friday afternoon, August 19th. Upon returning when the flood waters had receded, the the camp safe, which had been full of water, was opened. Richard's most vivid recollection of the flood, aside from evacuating the campers, was rescuing the currency from the safe by hanging it on a line to dry. He recalls the bizarre sight of bills of many denominations hanging all over the area around the camp office. Rita Cleary Eerie Remainders of Disaster In 1978, we moved to Ewing, New Jersey, but I had never heard anything about the flood of '55. One day, my husband and I took a walk along the canal. On the way back, we walked down the embankment closer to the river. Along the embankment, we came upon some old abandoned houses—almost shacks—or at least by that time, they had become shacks. It was eerie, as if the Rapture had happened and people were pulled out of their houses without a moment to "leave things in order." Items were still on the kitchen table. Curtains were raggedy, but still hanging. Old cars parked by the side of the houses were turning to rust. Front doors were askew on their hinges. It was totally silent. It was like what I imagined a ghost town in the West would have looked like. Then, the following year (or two), we took the same walk, and everything was GONE! At that point, I began asking if anyone knew what was going on down there, and eventually heard that those were homes that were hit when the flood happened, and that they had been condemned by the State and eventually razed. Stephen Gilkenson Grew up hearing flood stories I am fascinated by this subject, because my parents and grandparents often spoke about "the flood." I was born in 1956, and my parents got married in June of 1955. My grandparents, the late John and Lillian Provan of North Arlington, New Jersey, owned a bungalow on the Pennsylvania side of the river, about 1-2 miles north of Dingman's Bridge. They had a line painted on the wall of the house, about 5 feet off the floor, which was the high water mark in August, 1955. I can remember that today, as if I were still there. My uncle spoke of having to leave his car and ford a stream on his way up from the bridge. I’m not sure where everyone in my family escaped to when the water rose, but they all escaped safely. William Holliday Lucky to survive when the Brodhead exploded My sister and I, along with our grandmother and a neighbor, were fortunate to survive the flood of 1955. My grandparents' home on the banks of the Brodhead Creek at Stokes Mill, where I was staying for the summer, was directly in the line of fire when the Brodhead exploded with a fury that was absolutely terrifying. More than 50 years later, I can still see that peaceful stream becoming a raging river with wave tops reaching into the trees along the shore. Mercifully, we were spared the sight of much of the devastation, since it occured after dark. I still shudder when I think of what we would have seen, had it been daylight. At the time of the flood, my grandfather, William Curnow, was manager of the Stroudsburg Water Company and his home was on water company property, at the pumping station on the East Stroudsburg side of the Brodhead Creek. That house still stands today, while many others on both sides of the Brodhead were destroyed in the flood. The creek began to overflow its banks around 7:00 PM on August 18th, and I recall vividly watching the water begin to creep across and up our front lawn toward the house. The house is situated on a slight rise on the land, and I remember my grandmother saying that the water wouldn't rise above that point to enter the house. I'm sure she knew better, but said this in an effort to keep me calm. I remember repeatdly saying, "We have to leave, we have to leave!" But there was nowhere to go. My grandfather had left hours before, to respond to an emergency call. Our only option was to go inside and hope the water wouldn't reach the second floor or drive us to the attic or rooftop. At about 8:00 PM, we lost electrical power. My grandmother must have been on the verge of panic, but to her everlasting credit, she never lost control or let it show. She defined courage that night, and I never forgot it. At approximately 8:30 PM, my grandmother decided it was time to go. She gathered up all of her important insurance papers and placed them in a wooden laundry basket. She bundled my sister in her arms and we headed out the back door, toward the garage light shining from a house on the opposite side of the field. That light (the only one in the entire area) saved our lives. It illuminated a portion of the field, revealing a torrent of water that forced us back into the house. We retreated back to the second floor, safe for now, but fully expecting the house to be swept away, with us in it. We spent the rest of the night sitting and waiting. Occasionally, we would hear a thump or bang on the side of the house, as it shook in response. I spent most of the night in bed, completely under the covers and drenched in sweat, in complete terror of what might happen next. By the grace of God, we survived the night. As dawn broke, we got our first look at the devastation all around us. It was hard to describe. As we walked downstairs, the first thing I remember was the smell of mud and dead fish. When we stepped onto the front porch, the first thing I saw was a huge hole where the lawn had been. The hole looked like a huge crater. There were several of these, created no doubt by the whirlpool effect of the water swirling in those areas. Directly across the creek, several houses were completely gone. One man was found hanging in a tree with his clothes completly stripped from his body, but he survived. About a mile upstream stood Camp Davis, where 37 campers—many of them children and entire families—were swept away. Patricia Nevius Peterson Evacuating Camp Wilson I was a twelve-year-old girl attending YMCA Camp Wilson, just upriver from the Boy Scout Camp on Treasure Island. I remember it raining for several days and it would not stop. Everything was soaked. The river kept rising and we were not permitted to swim. Finally, I remember going to the barn as that was the highest point on the camp property. We were told everyone was leaving and, just then, the first military helicopter came in to begin taking the campers out. We were taken to Frenchtown High School, fed, and then placed on buses and brought back to Trenton, New Jersey. From the YMCA, I called my parents to come and pick me up. A sidebar to this story: During the day, my 8-year-old brother kept pestering my mother to drive to the camp to pick me up. He was listening to the news on the radio and heard how bad it was. My mother just ignored him, but then my call came through. That was between August 17-20, 1955. All this comes to mind with the recent flooding of June 28, 2006. Lyal Gordon Personal connections to book subject As a 14 year old at the time, the flood was a kind of a festive occasion: a break from a hot, boring summer in Frenchtown. My view of the flood was what I saw at home -- rising waters, Granddad's lumber yard being flooded, helicopters on the "Porcelain Field" in Frenchtown . On a personal note, the "Russ Gordon, CD Director" mentioned on p.309 was my Grandfather, who also was the manager of I. L. Niece & Son lumber yard. Additionally, on p. 320 you mentioned a casualty, Patrick Maloney. The Maloney family moved to Frenchtown from Birmingham, AL and resided on Horse Shoe Bend Road for several years. Pat was a classmate and friend. They moved to Princeton shortly before the flood. We were all saddened by his loss. Tom Larsen Flood memories of a six-year-old I was just a kid when the river flooded, my first indication that there were things even grownups can't control. All kids learn this sooner or later, but to see it played out, to feel the fear and growing sense of helplessness, leaves an emotional imprint that never really fades. We tend to downplay our own life experiences, content to let the bad things happen where they usually happen. But the flood of 1955 was unique and unprecedented. My own recollection centers on the New Hope/Lambertville area, being six yeras old and ignorant of the towns to the north. I though of it as OUR flood. I still do, though you've shown me the light. Having lived through it and knowing what I know now, in terms of damage and loss of life, I can see we got off fairly easy. Eugene J. Duffy Flood memories form the basis of lifetime friendships My family was one of those families who rented a cottage/bungalow along the Delaware in 1955. Like others, my mother and I stayed from when school closed in June until Labor Day. My father came up on Friday evenings and went back to our apartment in Jersey City on Sunday evenings. We were renting in a small town known as Mill Rift, Pennsylvania, which is five miles up the Delaware River from the bridge separating Matamoras, Pennsylvania and Port Jervis, New York. Even though I was only 10 years old during the summer of '55, I still vividly remember Connie and Diane very well. At that time, there were about fifteen families renting in Mill Rift, and we were all from Jersey City, Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Most of us kids were between eight and twelve years old, while our parents were for the most part in their lower forties. Fortunately, no one in Mill Rift was injured or killed, but the events of these two storms helped to form friendships which have lasted until this day. Last August, we got together in Mill Rift and had our "First Annual Fiftieth Anniversary of the Flood Reunion." Although most of our parents have passed on, us kids and, in some cases, our kids – and even, in some cases, grandkids –showed up at the same firehouse that was the center of activity fifty years before. People flew in from different parts of the country and even though many of us still keep in touch over the years, there were many faces from the past who made the trip and went through several kegs of beer and soda recounting stories of Connie and Diane. Many of us take a ride to Mill Rift on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend for a barbeque at one of the local survivors' houses. Somehow, after all the talk about families, etc., August 18, 1955 always comes up. Congratulations on a well written book, which I will certainly be passing around in a few weeks. Donna Hann-Zmyewski Stopped by a mudslide I was 9 years old at the time of the flood. My mother was taking my sister and me to the "The Land of Make Believe," in Hope, NJ from Washington, NJ. We were on Rt. 46 East, just before the town of Great Meadows. There had just been a large mudslide from the left side of the road that covered both lanes. All the rain had saturated the earth. We had to go home, greatly dissappointed. That is a vivid memory of the Flood of '55. Howard Vanderpool Marooned on an island in the rising river I was a member of Troop 70 in Philadelphia. We were at the Treasure Island Boy Scout Camp the week of the 1955 flood. What I remember is the calm professionalism of the Scout leaders during this crisis. We waited by the mess hall for the barges to pick us up, as the water rose closer and closer to the mess hall. I remember the barges needed 3 or 4 motors on the back to overcome the power of the river. We were all safe, but lost our camping gear, which for some was a great expense. I believe LIFE magazine did a story on our and other rescues from the river. John Snyder The public becomes the personal I was not quite 14 and about to enter the eighth grade when Hurricane Diane drowned the Delaware. We lived along NJ-29, just about three miles south of Frenchtown. Wilson Island was directly across from our farm, while Treasure Island lay a bit to the south. Just a couple weeks before the flood, I had spent a week at Camp Pahaquarra, and then returning from a family vacation to upstate New York, we drove home through the last hours of Hurricane Connie. Like most everyone else in the region, Thursday, August 18 was spent inside as rain pelted our Kingwood Township home. The river was already swollen from the previous week's storm, and the little unnamed creek that ran by our house also had water in it for the first time all summer. By Friday morning, we knew things were getting worse. I climbed the hill behind the house and sat on a rock outcropping watching the river grow wider and wider. I could see far enough north and south to where the water had risen beyond its banks, over the railroad tracks and onto the highway. Fortunately, our farm was high enough and far enough back that we escaped the deluge, although our rock wall cellar filled with almost four feet of water. One of the small bridges on Fairview Road had also washed out, and with the highway underwater, we were marooned for a couple days. We were, like most everyone, also without telephone or electricity. It wasn't until the early part of the following week that we were able to get to Frenchtown and see just how much damage had been done. Unlike so many others, we were lucky. But that's not the end of my story. When the old Columbia-Portland Bridge spanning the Delaware River was swept downstream on Thursday, August 19, one section ended up wedged at the head of Wilson Island. The following is an excerpt from an article I wrote for---and received a Certificate of Achievement from---Writer's Magazine's annual contest: Nearly sixty miles downstream from its piers and directly across from my parent's Hunterdon County, New Jersey farmhouse, parts of one section of the Columbia-Portland Bridge, the last covered bridge to span the Delaware, were snagged by trees at the head of Wilson Island. Wilson is one of the larger islands in the upper Delaware. It's nearly a mile long and wide enough to have once contained a working farm, and later a church-supported summer camp. During the 1955 flood, the river rose so fast that the campers had to be evacuated by helicopter. I remember the rising waters, the eveacuation, the snarl of the river as it grew wider and wider, drowning the islands and the surrounding countryside. On Friday, after the storm's pounding rains finally ended, I climbed the hill behind our house to watch the floodwaters rise. More than water swept past. Barrels, lumber, uprooted trees, even cars and entire houses were carried downstream. Wilson Island, like a giant magnet, caught much of the flotsam. And among the debris was the Columbia-Portland Bridge. Days and weeks later, after the flood subsided, the river's banks and islands remained awash with treasures for adventuresome boys. There were prizes of all sorts to be expropriated---boats, household appliances, cars, mysterious stuff; more wood than I and my schoolmates could use in a lifetime of fort-building. Most of all, there was a huge section of the bridge. The island had caught part of the roadway and the underneath main support beam. Nearly 40 feet long, with much of the roadway planking atill attached, this giant underpinning soon became our Holy Grail, our Mt. Everest. We would liberate the beam from its island resting place and bring it to the New Jersey side river bank. We worked for days to remove all the debris, planking, and other attachments from the beam. Each afternoon, we'd run from the school bus, grab our pry bars and hammers, and jump in our little runabout motorboats for the ten-minute ride to the head of Wilson Island. There we'd work until suppertime, freeing our grand trophy from its ensnarement. The beam, cut from native pine a century earlier, was huge—fully 12 by 16 inches—and, when the broken end was sawed clean, nearly 37 feet long. It was also far too long and heavy to float back across the river to our Jersey-side landing. So, with a borrowed two-man crossut saw, we cut the beam into four shorter pieces, three each of ten feet and one of seven. Even these were almost too much for our little boats and their lawnmover-sized motors. It took two boats and some mighty poling to drag the beams, one at a time, across the current to our side of the river. On one trip, the current caught us and we missed our landing by nearly a half-mile, then had to pole upstream, pulling the beam behind us. Finally, though, we had all four beam sections on the shore. Then we had to drag them up the river bank, over the railroad tracks, up yet another bank, and into the back of Pop's pickup truck. In the end, we split the treasure: One partner's father was a carpenter and he used his entire beam to make a fireplace mantle; another had his section cut up for planking by a local sawmill. I held on to my piece for nearly three years before Pop and I had it cut into various-sized planking. One plank became the mantle of our new fireplace; the rest was made into the dining room table and benches we sat at daily. The bridge became an extension of my family. The bridge was where we ate dinner, where my brother and I did our homework, where my mother read the newspaper, where Pop scanned seed catalogs. When company came, we eagerly waited for someone to notice the golden pine table and benches. Then the bridge became the topic of conversation as my parents told and retold the story of how the historic Columbia-Portland span ended up in their dining room. And Pop, his chest swelled with pride, would escort our visitors into the den to see the fireplace mantle plank. Some years back, my parents sold their beloved farmhouse and moved to town. They left behind the little silver plaque we had engraved for the mantle: 'Columbia-Portland Bridge 1869-1955.' I admit to watery eyes the last time I stood in the den, rubbing my hands over the native pine planking—my bridge! At the country sale, when the auctioneer wanted to put the table and benches on the block, I wouldn't let him. I knew the mantle had to stay with the house, but the table and benches were mine. The bridge had been too much a part of my youth to let it go to strangers. I wasn't quite 14 when Hurricane Diane swept across New Jersey, but I vividly remember the storm, the flood, the aftermath. Mostly though, I remember the bridge, for it truly became mine. Fate and Wilson Island brought us together—a dashed remnant from a century-old engineering project, and a starry-eyed kid who thought he was the king of the Delaware River. The Columbia-Portland Bridge and I, we go back a long ways. It's been 51 years since the Delaware Valley was forever altered by the Great Flood. My mother, who is now nearly 91, lives in Milford, high on a hill but within sight of the river. Long ago, I moved from the Valley to New York's Putnam County. But I still have the table and benches. There are some things you just can't let go of. William Watras Unwelcome re-run On Saturday August 20, 1955 my parents drove eight of their children to Belvidere to see the river. I was six and we got within 100 feet of the bridge and what I saw I never forgot. Years later, my sister rented a room in a house on the river off of Dupue’s Road. Later, my brother Tom got the opportunity to rent a house two doors away from PPL and he is still there. As kids, we all learned how to swim at the Riverton Beach. So we had a relationship with the river. During the summer of 2004, we thought that God really smiled upon us. The raised ranch we purchased [in Harmony, NJ] was drop dead beautiful. South River Terrace is located on a section of the river with rapids. As you already know we were flooded by Ivan. All winter we had the house gutted and renovated and in March of 2005 we were going over often to paint the trim and receive all the new furniture that we purchased. As you already know, we were flooded again on April 2 & 3. The house is now more beautiful than ever and it is for sale. Our hearts are broken and we are sure the river will flood again in the near future. As a matter of fact, we thought it was going to flood again in October when we had seventeen inches of rain over a three-week period. Strange as it seems, the river was actually going down the last two days of the three weeks of rain. All the local creeks and rivers were overflowing, but the Delaware was going down. So we have been through it twice in seven months. The weather this past week as I read the book had me feeling that it was happening again as I read. Randall Gabrielan Nature's surprising power My mother, sister and I were staying at housekeeping cottages near Marshalls Creek, Monroe County in the Poconos at the time of the flood. We were astonished how small streams became torrents with no apparent warning. The ground was saturated from earlier rains, which contributed to the stream build-ups. There was little weather forecasting then and no reporters, weather channels or non-stop news coverage to inform the outside world. My father traveled from the city, not knowing local conditions, and had to talk his way past authorities blocking off various points in the area. We did not see the devastation until days later and were astonished at washed out bridges and the destruction of the children's camp. A reminder of the force of the waters is still visible from the trees still bent out of shape. Randall is now a member of the Monmouth, New Jersey historical society. Leroy Edwards Narrow Escape Leroy, who lived in Langhorne at the time, was a carpenter by trade. Here's his story: On August 19, I was working putting in a bay window at the home of a Dr. Sommers. The home was located on a spit of land between the canal and the river, just north of Yardley. The river was coming up, and I saw a school bus coming along, and the water was pretty near up to the road. I thought I'd better get out of there. I gathered up my tools and followed the school bus across the bridge. You couldn't see the bridge anymore, just the side rails. I still have a joiner that I bought from a fella. It went through the flood. He thought it was ruined, but I just put new bearings in it, and I still use it! Leroy now lives in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania. D. Randy Riggs Bridge Over Troubled Water Randy was a boy living in Yardley during the flood of '55, and was fascinated by the power of the river and the destruction it wrought. This is his story: Here is a photo I took on July 18, 1960, looking north up the river at the Yardley Bridge. The photo is in somewhat rough shape. I was learning photography at the time, and shot it with an old WWII Kodak 35 with grainy Tri-X film. As you can see, the Yardley side of the bridge was the section built by the Army Corps of Engineers right after the flood. It was a Bailey bridge (a concept invented in 1941 for quick bridge replacement during wartime). It had a wooden deck and was in use until they opened the Scudder Falls bridge upstream about 1962. So many accounts of the flood-damaged bridge never mention this temporary replacement that served the community so well for seven years. Randy is now Editor In Chief of Vintage Motorsport magazine in San Francisco, California. Charles Thran Runaway Lumber Charlie was 28 years old in 1955, living in Lahaska, Pennsylvania. He had been married to his sweetheart, Hilda, for five months when the flood hit. He remembered: I was working at Tinsman Lumber [in Lumberville, PA] at the time. The flood washed away a lot of the stock from the lumberyard, and a bunch of us went out into the river after the water went down to help gather up the wood that had washed downstream. Charlie passed away a few years ago, and his widow, Hilda, lives in Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania. Herbert Singer Money Laundering Herb was 48 at the time of the flood. He owned Singer's Poultry Farm at The Harrow on Rt. 611 near Revere, Pennsylvania. After the flood, he used his business truck to help transport much-needed cleaning supplies, construction materials and other items to the riverfront communities that had been so hard-hit. He also transported money from a bank to the laundromat, where it was actually laundered to wash all the river muck off before being dried out and returned to the bank. Herb now lives in Glen Gardner, New Jersey.

BUY OFFLINE
ORDER ONLINE
PRESS ROOM
NEWS
APPEARANCES
REVIEWS
READER COMMENTS
I WAS THERE!
LINKS
CONTACT THE PUBLISHER

You've come to the right place to read the stories of those who lived through the record-setting Delaware River flood of August, 1955. It was an event that changed the face of the Delaware River Valley forever.

The following people have volunteered to share stories of themselves, their families, friends and co-workers in the Delaware Valley during the flood of August 18-20, 1955.

Clayton Alderfer
Escaped flooded Camp Miller

At that time, I was a 14-year-old counselor-in-training at Camp Miller, Shawnee-on-Delaware, PA, and living as a camper in what was then called the Pioneer Unit. As you indicate, we awoke on a bright sunny day to find the river well above normal levels. Eventually, it crossed the bank and entered the camp grounds. I found two younger campers, took their hands, and the three of us waded through the flooded farm fields, then owned by Clarence Treible, climbed the small mountain across the road from Treible's farm, and hiked the approximately 2.5 miles to Camp Ministerium, where all the staff and campers stayed for several days until the waters receded.

During a period of four days, I lived in a pair of sneakers, a white T-shirt, and a maroon bathing suit until we were able to return to our families (in my case to Bethlehem, PA). My recollection is that the camp had approximately 180 campers and about 50 staff (a somewhat different number than you report from your sources).

In the years after the flood, I returned to camp as a counselor and unit head from 1956-1960 and became, with my friend John F. Adams, the author of a brief history of the camp, which in those years appeared in the memory books. As a final event in the story (as far as I know), thanks to a never-completed project by the US Army Corps of Engineers, the camp grounds were abandoned, the camp closed, and the kind of wonderful summer experience that I and many other boys and young men had at Camp Miller lost forever.

Anne Williams Alster
Book reminds her of old neighbors

I recently discovered that you had written a book about the Delaware River Flood of 1955 and immediately ordered it. I have not had time to read much but checked the Index and wasted no time in reading everything that resulted from your interviews with Peggy Beling Fackenthal.

My family lived directly across Rt. #611 from the Fackenthals (white frame house with a white picket fence). I was 16 years old and have never forgotten waking up early that August morning and noticing lots of cars in our driveway (very unusual). My parents (Betty and Nate Williams) and my grandmother were across the road at the Fackenthals helping to move things up to the second floor.

The day is a bit of a blur in my memory, but I do remember Mrs. Fackenthal sitting up on the hill in her chair (your mentioning that in your book brought back the memory) . . . I still have the small chair she gave me from her house after the flood so that I would always have a tangible "memory" of that unforgettable experience.

You also mentioned Mr. Fackenthal's hiring an engineer to determine the actual "flood plain" in the area. The River backwashed over the road at the north end of our property, and Rt. 611 was clear from there south toward Easton past Frost Hollow Road (where Peggy's friend dropped her off that morning). That gave us a "lifeline" to the outside world.

Peggy's memory of her father-in law brought back memories of my special friendship with him. I actually knew Mr. Fackenthal better than I knew the other members of the family. He had a garden on the property next to ours, and in the summer I would go over and visit with him for hours (while he tried to garden, of course . . . he assured Mother I was not a pest). He even came to my graduation from Moravian Seminary.

You can imagine how thrilled I was to read what Peggy told you and to see the picture of the Fackenthal's house (that one memory is not a blur). Thank you for your wonderful book, which I will read cover to cover. You have given a priceless "gift" to all of us who lived through those unforgettable August days over 50 years ago.

Richard P. Behrens
Getting Hung Out To Dry

Richard was the camp clerk at Treasure Island Scout Camp on the Delaware, where the Boy Scouts evacuated themselves via motor barge before the current got too strong. Their counselors stayed behind to try to secure the came as best they could, and wound up having to be evacuated via helicopter airlift by 1:30 Friday afternoon, August 19th. Upon returning when the flood waters had receded, the the camp safe, which had been full of water, was opened. Richard's most vivid recollection of the flood, aside from evacuating the campers, was rescuing the currency from the safe by hanging it on a line to dry. He recalls the bizarre sight of bills of many denominations hanging all over the area around the camp office.

Rita Cleary
Eerie Remainders of Disaster

In 1978, we moved to Ewing, New Jersey, but I had never heard anything about the flood of '55.

One day, my husband and I took a walk along the canal. On the way back, we walked down the embankment closer to the river. Along the embankment, we came upon some old abandoned houses—almost shacks—or at least by that time, they had become shacks.

It was eerie, as if the Rapture had happened and people were pulled out of their houses without a moment to "leave things in order." Items were still on the kitchen table. Curtains were raggedy, but still hanging. Old cars parked by the side of the houses were turning to rust. Front doors were askew on their hinges. It was totally silent. It was like what I imagined a ghost town in the West would have looked like.

Then, the following year (or two), we took the same walk, and everything was GONE! At that point, I began asking if anyone knew what was going on down there, and eventually heard that those were homes that were hit when the flood happened, and that they had been condemned by the State and eventually razed.

Stephen Gilkenson

Grew up hearing flood stories

I am fascinated by this subject, because my parents and grandparents often spoke about "the flood." I was born in 1956, and my parents got married in June of 1955. My grandparents, the late John and Lillian Provan of North Arlington, New Jersey, owned a bungalow on the Pennsylvania side of the river, about 1-2 miles north of Dingman's Bridge. They had a line painted on the wall of the house, about 5 feet off the floor, which was the high water mark in August, 1955. I can remember that today, as if I were still there. My uncle spoke of having to leave his car and ford a stream on his way up from the bridge. I’m not sure where everyone in my family escaped to when the water rose, but they all escaped safely.

William Holliday

Lucky to survive when the Brodhead exploded

My sister and I, along with our grandmother and a neighbor, were fortunate to survive the flood of 1955. My grandparents' home on the banks of the Brodhead Creek at Stokes Mill, where I was staying for the summer, was directly in the line of fire when the Brodhead exploded with a fury that was absolutely terrifying. More than 50 years later, I can still see that peaceful stream becoming a raging river with wave tops reaching into the trees along the shore. Mercifully, we were spared the sight of much of the devastation, since it occured after dark. I still shudder when I think of what we would have seen, had it been daylight.

At the time of the flood, my grandfather, William Curnow, was manager of the Stroudsburg Water Company and his home was on water company property, at the pumping station on the East Stroudsburg side of the Brodhead Creek. That house still stands today, while many others on both sides of the Brodhead were destroyed in the flood.

The creek began to overflow its banks around 7:00 PM on August 18th, and I recall vividly watching the water begin to creep across and up our front lawn toward the house. The house is situated on a slight rise on the land, and I remember my grandmother saying that the water wouldn't rise above that point to enter the house. I'm sure she knew better, but said this in an effort to keep me calm. I remember repeatdly saying, "We have to leave, we have to leave!" But there was nowhere to go.

My grandfather had left hours before, to respond to an emergency call. Our only option was to go inside and hope the water wouldn't reach the second floor or drive us to the attic or rooftop. At about 8:00 PM, we lost electrical power. My grandmother must have been on the verge of panic, but to her everlasting credit, she never lost control or let it show. She defined courage that night, and I never forgot it.

At approximately 8:30 PM, my grandmother decided it was time to go. She gathered up all of her important insurance papers and placed them in a wooden laundry basket. She bundled my sister in her arms and we headed out the back door, toward the garage light shining from a house on the opposite side of the field. That light (the only one in the entire area) saved our lives. It illuminated a portion of the field, revealing a torrent of water that forced us back into the house. We retreated back to the second floor, safe for now, but fully expecting the house to be swept away, with us in it.

We spent the rest of the night sitting and waiting. Occasionally, we would hear a thump or bang on the side of the house, as it shook in response. I spent most of the night in bed, completely under the covers and drenched in sweat, in complete terror of what might happen next. By the grace of God, we survived the night.

As dawn broke, we got our first look at the devastation all around us. It was hard to describe. As we walked downstairs, the first thing I remember was the smell of mud and dead fish. When we stepped onto the front porch, the first thing I saw was a huge hole where the lawn had been. The hole looked like a huge crater. There were several of these, created no doubt by the whirlpool effect of the water swirling in those areas.

Directly across the creek, several houses were completely gone. One man was found hanging in a tree with his clothes completly stripped from his body, but he survived. About a mile upstream stood Camp Davis, where 37 campers—many of them children and entire families—were swept away.

Patricia Nevius Peterson

Evacuating Camp Wilson

I was a twelve-year-old girl attending YMCA Camp Wilson, just upriver from the Boy Scout Camp on Treasure Island. I remember it raining for several days and it would not stop. Everything was soaked. The river kept rising and we were not permitted to swim. Finally, I remember going to the barn as that was the highest point on the camp property. We were told everyone was leaving and, just then, the first military helicopter came in to begin taking the campers out.

We were taken to Frenchtown High School, fed, and then placed on buses and brought back to Trenton, New Jersey. From the YMCA, I called my parents to come and pick me up. A sidebar to this story: During the day, my 8-year-old brother kept pestering my mother to drive to the camp to pick me up. He was listening to the news on the radio and heard how bad it was. My mother just ignored him, but then my call came through. That was between August 17-20, 1955. All this comes to mind with the recent flooding of June 28, 2006.

Lyal Gordon

Personal connections to book subject

As a 14 year old at the time, the flood was a kind of a festive occasion: a break from a hot, boring summer in Frenchtown. My view of the flood was what I saw at home -- rising waters, Granddad's lumber yard being flooded, helicopters on the "Porcelain Field" in Frenchtown . On a personal note, the "Russ Gordon, CD Director" mentioned on p.309 was my Grandfather, who also was the manager of I. L. Niece & Son lumber yard. Additionally, on p. 320 you mentioned a casualty, Patrick Maloney. The Maloney family moved to Frenchtown from Birmingham, AL and resided on Horse Shoe Bend Road for several years. Pat was a classmate and friend. They moved to Princeton shortly before the flood. We were all saddened by his loss.

Tom Larsen

Flood memories of a six-year-old

I was just a kid when the river flooded, my first indication that there were things even grownups can't control. All
kids learn this sooner or later, but to see it played out, to feel the fear and growing sense of helplessness, leaves an emotional imprint that never really fades. We tend to downplay our own life experiences, content to let the bad things happen where they usually happen. But the flood of 1955 was unique and unprecedented. My own recollection centers on the New Hope/Lambertville area, being six yeras old and ignorant of the towns to the north. I though of it as OUR flood. I still do, though you've shown me the light. Having lived through it and knowing what I know now, in terms of damage and loss of life, I can see we got off fairly easy.

Eugene J. Duffy

Flood memories form the basis of lifetime friendships

My family was one of those families who rented a cottage/bungalow along the Delaware in 1955. Like others, my mother and I stayed from when school closed in June until Labor Day. My father came up on Friday evenings and went back to our apartment in Jersey City on Sunday evenings. We were renting in a small town known as Mill Rift, Pennsylvania, which is five miles up the Delaware River from the bridge separating Matamoras, Pennsylvania and Port Jervis, New York.

Even though I was only 10 years old during the summer of '55, I still vividly remember Connie and Diane very well. At that time, there were about fifteen families renting in Mill Rift, and we were all from Jersey City, Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Most of us kids were between eight and twelve years old, while our parents were for the most part in their lower forties.

Fortunately, no one in Mill Rift was injured or killed, but the events of these two storms helped to form friendships which have lasted until this day. Last August, we got together in Mill Rift and had our "First Annual Fiftieth Anniversary of the Flood Reunion." Although most of our parents have passed on, us kids and, in some cases, our kids – and even, in some cases, grandkids –showed up at the same firehouse that was the center of activity fifty years before.

People flew in from different parts of the country and even though many of us still keep in touch over the years, there were many faces from the past who made the trip and went through several kegs of beer and soda recounting stories of Connie and Diane.

Many of us take a ride to Mill Rift on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend for a barbeque at one of the local survivors' houses. Somehow, after all the talk about families, etc., August 18, 1955 always comes up.

Congratulations on a well written book, which I will certainly be passing around in a few weeks.

Donna Hann-Zmyewski

Stopped by a mudslide

I was 9 years old at the time of the flood. My mother was taking my sister and me to the "The Land of Make Believe," in Hope, NJ from Washington, NJ. We were on Rt. 46 East, just before the town of Great Meadows. There had just been a large mudslide from the left side of the road that covered both lanes. All the rain had saturated the earth. We had to go home, greatly dissappointed. That is a vivid memory of the Flood of '55.

Howard Vanderpool

Marooned on an island in the rising river

I was a member of Troop 70 in Philadelphia. We were at the Treasure Island Boy Scout Camp the week of the 1955 flood. What I remember is the calm professionalism of the Scout leaders during this crisis. We waited by the mess hall for the barges to pick us up, as the water rose closer and closer to the mess hall. I remember the barges needed 3 or 4 motors on the back to overcome the power of the river. We were all safe, but lost our camping gear, which for some was a great expense. I believe LIFE magazine did a story on our and other rescues from the river.

John Snyder

The public becomes the personal

I was not quite 14 and about to enter the eighth grade when Hurricane Diane drowned the Delaware. We lived along NJ-29, just about three miles south of Frenchtown. Wilson Island was directly across from our farm, while Treasure Island lay a bit to the south. Just a couple weeks before the flood, I had spent a week at Camp Pahaquarra, and then returning from a family vacation to upstate New York, we drove home through the last hours of Hurricane Connie.

Like most everyone else in the region, Thursday, August 18 was spent inside as rain pelted our Kingwood Township home. The river was already swollen from the previous week's storm, and the little unnamed creek that ran by our house also had water in it for the first time all summer. By Friday morning, we knew things were getting worse. I climbed the hill behind the house and sat on a rock outcropping watching the river grow wider and wider. I could see far enough north and south to where the water had risen beyond its banks, over the railroad tracks and onto the highway.

Fortunately, our farm was high enough and far enough back that we escaped the deluge, although our rock wall cellar filled with almost four feet of water. One of the small bridges on Fairview Road had also washed out, and with the highway underwater, we were marooned for a couple days. We were, like most everyone, also without telephone or electricity. It wasn't until the early part of the following week that we were able to get to Frenchtown and see just how much damage had been done. Unlike so many others, we were lucky.

But that's not the end of my story. When the old Columbia-Portland Bridge spanning the Delaware River was swept downstream on Thursday, August 19, one section ended up wedged at the head of Wilson Island. The following is an excerpt from an article I wrote for---and received a Certificate of Achievement from---Writer's Magazine's annual contest:

Nearly sixty miles downstream from its piers and directly across from my parent's Hunterdon County, New Jersey farmhouse, parts of one section of the Columbia-Portland Bridge, the last covered bridge to span the Delaware, were snagged by trees at the head of Wilson Island.

Wilson is one of the larger islands in the upper Delaware. It's nearly a mile long and wide enough to have once contained a working farm, and later a church-supported summer camp. During the 1955 flood, the river rose so fast that the campers had to be evacuated by helicopter. I remember the rising waters, the eveacuation, the snarl of the river as it grew wider and wider, drowning the islands and the surrounding countryside.

On Friday, after the storm's pounding rains finally ended, I climbed the hill behind our house to watch the floodwaters rise. More than water swept past. Barrels, lumber, uprooted trees, even cars and entire houses were carried downstream. Wilson Island, like a giant magnet, caught much of the flotsam. And among the debris was the Columbia-Portland Bridge.

Days and weeks later, after the flood subsided, the river's banks and islands remained awash with treasures for adventuresome boys. There were prizes of all sorts to be expropriated---boats, household appliances, cars, mysterious stuff; more wood than I and my schoolmates could use in a lifetime of fort-building.

Most of all, there was a huge section of the bridge. The island had caught part of the roadway and the underneath main support beam. Nearly 40 feet long, with much of the roadway planking atill attached, this giant underpinning soon became our Holy Grail, our Mt. Everest. We would liberate the beam from its island resting place and bring it to the New Jersey side river bank.

We worked for days to remove all the debris, planking, and other attachments from the beam. Each afternoon, we'd run from the school bus, grab our pry bars and hammers, and jump in our little runabout motorboats for the ten-minute ride to the head of Wilson Island. There we'd work until suppertime, freeing our grand trophy from its ensnarement.

The beam, cut from native pine a century earlier, was huge—fully 12 by 16 inches—and, when the broken end was sawed clean, nearly 37 feet long. It was also far too long and heavy to float back across the river to our Jersey-side landing. So, with a borrowed two-man crossut saw, we cut the beam into four shorter pieces, three each of ten feet and one of seven. Even these were almost too much for our little boats and their lawnmover-sized motors. It took two boats and some mighty poling to drag the beams, one at a time, across the current to our side of the river. On one trip, the current caught us and we missed our landing by nearly a half-mile, then had to pole upstream, pulling the beam behind us.

Finally, though, we had all four beam sections on the shore. Then we had to drag them up the river bank, over the railroad tracks, up yet another bank, and into the back of Pop's pickup truck.

In the end, we split the treasure: One partner's father was a carpenter and he used his entire beam to make a fireplace mantle; another had his section cut up for planking by a local sawmill. I held on to my piece for nearly three years before Pop and I had it cut into various-sized planking. One plank became the mantle of our new fireplace; the rest was made into the dining room table and benches we sat at daily.

The bridge became an extension of my family. The bridge was where we ate dinner, where my brother and I did our homework, where my mother read the newspaper, where Pop scanned seed catalogs. When company came, we eagerly waited for someone to notice the golden pine table and benches. Then the bridge became the topic of conversation as my parents told and retold the story of how the historic Columbia-Portland span ended up in their dining room. And Pop, his chest swelled with pride, would escort our visitors into the den to see the fireplace mantle plank.

Some years back, my parents sold their beloved farmhouse and moved to town. They left behind the little silver plaque we had engraved for the mantle: 'Columbia-Portland Bridge 1869-1955.' I admit to watery eyes the last time I stood in the den, rubbing my hands over the native pine planking—my bridge!

At the country sale, when the auctioneer wanted to put the table and benches on the block, I wouldn't let him. I knew the mantle had to stay with the house, but the table and benches were mine. The bridge had been too much a part of my youth to let it go to strangers.

I wasn't quite 14 when Hurricane Diane swept across New Jersey, but I vividly remember the storm, the flood, the aftermath. Mostly though, I remember the bridge, for it truly became mine. Fate and Wilson Island brought us together—a dashed remnant from a century-old engineering project, and a starry-eyed kid who thought he was the king of the Delaware River. The Columbia-Portland Bridge and I, we go back a long ways.

It's been 51 years since the Delaware Valley was forever altered by the Great Flood. My mother, who is now nearly 91, lives in Milford, high on a hill but within sight of the river. Long ago, I moved from the Valley to New York's Putnam County. But I still have the table and benches. There are some things you just can't let go of.

William Watras

Unwelcome re-run

On Saturday August 20, 1955 my parents drove eight of their children to Belvidere to see the river. I was six and we got within 100 feet of the bridge and what I saw I never forgot. Years later, my sister rented a room in a house on the river off of Dupue’s Road. Later, my brother Tom got the opportunity to rent a house two doors away from PPL and he is still there. As kids, we all learned how to swim at the Riverton Beach. So we had a relationship with the river.

During the summer of 2004, we thought that God really smiled upon us. The raised ranch we purchased [in Harmony, NJ] was drop dead beautiful. South River Terrace is located on a section of the river with rapids. As you already know we were flooded by Ivan. All winter we had the house gutted and renovated and in March of 2005 we were going over often to paint the trim and receive all the new furniture that we purchased. As you already know, we were flooded again on April 2 & 3.

The house is now more beautiful than ever and it is for sale. Our hearts are broken and we are sure the river will flood again in the near future. As a matter of fact, we thought it was going to flood again in October when we had seventeen inches of rain over a three-week period. Strange as it seems, the river was actually going down the last two days of the three weeks of rain. All the local creeks and rivers were overflowing, but the Delaware was going down.

So we have been through it twice in seven months. The weather this past week as I read the book had me feeling that it was happening again as I read.

Randall Gabrielan

Nature's surprising power