Why Gabe Deserved to Go to D.C.

Gabe, then 11, wades through floodwater to our Findlay home in 2007.

Before our 2009 trip to Washington, D.C., Gabe and I had tried to visit there in August 2007, a month of infamy for residents of Findlay, Ohio, who would soon become quite flood-weary.

I was the online editor for the local newspaper, where my then-husband and Gabe's stepfather also worked as the wire editor and front-page designer. A story like this was major work for us, and like all big news stories likely would have energized us journalists if we hadn't also been dealing with six feet of water in our own home.

We had flooded a few times prior to this major citywide event and had a good system in place, so please don't think too badly of me that I left when water was first coming in. I paid for the decision dearly over the next few weeks.

I worked overtime at the paper trying to inform the community and then to the point of exhaustion trying to clean out my house. I already had lost some things in previous flooding but had to sacrifice even more belongings this time around, including a set of American Mint porcelain dolls dressed as brides from different historical periods that my mother had given me long ago. *sniff*

I am glad that I aborted the D.C. trip and returned home. This was the first big test for our newspaper's fledgling website as a primary source of information for Findlay residents. (We did a great job, IMHO.) I am more grateful that I eventually got Gabe to our nation's capital. As you may infer from the following recollection, originally posted Aug. 22, 2007, on my Courier blog Whirled Peas, he certainly deserved it.

Pancakes in Pittsburgh, Flooding in Findlay

Before we could get to our house (the bright blue one
in the right background) through several blocks of
flooded streets, we had to stop and buy boots.

Decisions, decisions.

I happened to notice my cell phone glowing in my carry-on bag and realized I was getting a call. I had silenced the ringer so as not to waken my fellow travelers bound for Washington, D.C. The call, around 2:15 a.m. Wednesday, was from my husband.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Uh, on the train," I replied.

"Can you get off?"

While my son and I had left town Tuesday night for a much-anticipated vacation, there was a paltry 3 inches of water in our basement and a well-oiled machine cranking out the news online at The Courier. I had broken my toe earlier that morning, but come hell or high water I was going to take our history buff boy to our nation's capital.

Well, both hell and high water showed up, pouring 6 feet of water into our basement. The Blanchard River and our backyard had become one, in a Zen-like, picnic table floating kind of way.

I was torn. What the hell was I going to do about it if I came back? But could I in good conscience continue on to D.C. and be a little tourist while Ted was dealing with our wreck of a house? A big part of me felt, "You betcha."

The terse tone on the other end of the phone prompted some more consideration.

The conductor cautioned against exiting the Capitol Limited 30 at the barren Elyria stop, and getting off at Cleveland and catching the westbound train would have been great except that our own eastbound train's lateness would make us miss it. While Gabe snored away in our seats, I cried and cried in the observation car, making frantic middle-of-the-night calls and textings to family and friends.

As we crossed into Pennsylvania, Gabe rustled a little bit and I broke the news to him that we had an emergency at home and that I was considering canceling our vacation. Gabe blinked a few times and mumbled, "Don't worry, Mommy, you can use my souvenir money to buy some tickets home." Then he promptly went back to sleep.

What kinder kid deserves a special trip? I eventually concluded that I was too tired to be taking my son anywhere and that we should just sit tight and go all the way to Washington. Even if we just made one quick trip to The Mall to see monuments and then turned around and came home. I caught two dreamless, hard, 20-minute naps.

Then we stopped in Pittsburgh.

And stopped, and stopped and stopped. For as late as we were, it was strange to be at Penn Station for so long. The train even turned "off" at one point, shutting down the air flow and the ceiling lights. Gabe was still snoozing, but I was growing increasingly alert. The first muted rays of pre-dawn were beginning to illuminate the scenery, and my eyes were drawn to some bridges outside the double-decker train window. There was a big blinking sign on one bridge that read:

"WRONG WAY."

As it flashed my heart beat faster. I was going the wrong direction, farther away from home where I was needed. I jumped up and started throwing our bags and pillows into a big pile. Gabe and I were getting off of that train.

We made it with seconds to spare. The kindest Amtrak employees in the history of humankind helped us find a car rental, and Gabe and I took a long 10-block stroll through downtown Pittsburgh. We got a vehicle, drove by the stadiums and where Heinz ketchup is produced, and scarfed down the absolutely best crepe-style pancakes at Pamela's, a diner in the Strip District with funky retro flair. A quick trip to a gourmet chocolate shop, and our accidental tourist stop in Pittsburgh was done.

I drove all the way back to Findlay, bought some boots and rescued cats. Gabe and I are now going back to a hotel to swim, sleep and dream of another time we might get to go on a D.C. holiday.