Fighting the flood — it’s a Winnipeg thing

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 27/03/2009 (6269 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

The average sandbag weighs about as much as the turkey you’d buy for Christmas if you were feeding 20 of your closest relatives.

That’s just the average sandbag, of course.

Some slippery sacks, the ones the teenage football player on the line across from you calls "light," weigh slightly more than the 10 pounds of potatoes you’d need to feed that same gang.

The ones young David Block calls heavy? You just believe him and step aside, letting the other kids lining the slope down from the La Salle Hotel to the riverbank handle the load.

Heft. Twist. Toss. Heft. Twist. Toss.

This is hard work and they’ve been at it for hours.

None of these kids have experienced a flood. Block was three years old in 1997. He’s 14 now and a bulky offensive lineman for the Elmwood Giants.

He and his friends don’t know Don Matthews, who bought the hotel two years ago, well aware that if the rivers ever rose dramatically he’d be in trouble.

The kids from Elmwood High feel a loyalty to the La Salle because Matthews donated goods to their school’s 50th anniversary celebration.

It’s payback time.

Brian Acklom has no connection with the hotel either. The Canada Drugs employee heard on the radio that sandbaggers were needed. It was his day off and he decided to help.

"I just wanted to do something constructive," he says, clearly wrung out after hours of hard labour.

Heft. Twist. Toss. Heft. Twist. Toss.

The unofficial foremen on the job are residents of the 50-suite hotel. The La Salle’s not one of the city’s finest inns, better known for its beer vendor and pub than for its sleeping accommodations.

But it is home and community to the people who, for whatever reason, find themselves living there.

"There are two floors of people who live here," says Brandon, a young man who has lived at the hotel for a year. He prefers not to give his last name but he’s articulate on the subject of the sandbagging.

"There are people here on assistance and elderly people, and if this place goes, where do they go? If able-bodied people don’t help out, then what? I think you’ve got a moral obligation to help."

Chris Thiessen moved into the La Salle five days ago. He worked so long and hard on the line that he fractured his arm. He refuses to go to the hospital until the danger has passed.

"This is a home to people. I’m staying here," he says.

Asked if he thinks they can beat the river, he smiles thinly.

"Today, I see the light. I think we’re going to be OK."

Minutes later, he’s back on the riverbank, guiding the volunteers, cursing occasionally and ensuring he’s getting the most out of people who might have come for an adventure or an afternoon off school but now see clearly that this work can change the course of lives.

Heft. Twist. Toss. Heft. Twist. Toss.

There’s some goofing around but it’s hard to be too much of a clown when someone is constantly passing pounds of sand into your sore arms.

The people at the top of the line, the ones closest to the vendor’s entrance, can’t really see what is happening at the water’s edge. It’s organized, with sheets of plastic layering each level, but woefully shy of the orange ribbon tied to the pier, the marker the city put up to indicate how high the dike should be.

There’s at least another five feet to go.

Heft. Twist. Toss. Heft. Twist. Toss.

Don Matthews says he’s not surprised that so many strangers have come out to save his business. Back in ’97, his company shut down for a couple of days so people could go sandbag. It’s a Winnipeg thing, he says.

"I’m glad they’re here," he says. "But we help each other in this city."

The sand coats you in a fine film, working its way inside boots, gloves and jeans. It’s like a day at the beach in some sort of parallel universe where your arms quickly want to fall off.

Sandbags break open and spill. People slip, drop bags, glare at the snow falling lightly on them.

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But they’re not going to give up, not at the La Salle or anywhere in this province where homes are in danger and people know exactly, intuitively how to respond.

Heft. Twist. Toss. Heft. Twist. Toss.

Repeat as necessary.

lindor.reynolds@freepress.mb.ca

Lindor Reynolds is looking for people with memories of Winnipeg’s 1950s flood. If you’ve got a story, email her at lindor.reynolds@freepress.mb.ca.