Once there was a small village nestled in the nape of a mountain that raised its forested head like an unkempt lumberjack. Locals called the mountain P.B. after the legendary Paul Bunyan.
The streams that came dancing down through the pines were fed by melted snow. In late autumn, the tempo was more of a slow waltz but in April the current polkaed like the guests at a Polish wedding.
Bergen and his wife Lillian moved up from the valley and built a cottage between twin streams. They loved the sweet sound of splashing and often sat on the rocks with their feet in the cool water. Older folks in the village had opinions about those streams.
"You think the water is pretty now but mind you prepare for what's comin' after a heavy winter. P.B. can let loose with a powerful river, could wash your whole house away," Old Mrs. Fleishner warned, shaking her gray head. "Sometimes I wonder but you young folks figger spring will last forever."
"You had best build a retaining wall now, before the spring. There are rocks aplenty along the stream, for stokin' it up," warned Sam, the grocer, when the couple came in one Saturday morning. "Don't let the trickle fool you. Start settin' stones long before you need them."
Bergen cared deeply about providing for his wife. He pondered the free flowing advice of his neighbors, but he doubted whether the modest water level would ever swell enough to threaten his house. Instead of a wall, he planed oak boards for a porch with a glider. The possibility of enjoying the flowering dogwoods seemed more appealing than hauling rocks for a wall that might be superfluous.
Two years came and went with only a hint of real snow. The temperatures sank below zero for a week or two but the skies stayed blue.
In the third fall, though, November blasted the village with whipping winds. December dumped four feet of heavy vanilla snow, then iced it with powder. January added another layer to P.B., but Lillian and Bergen stayed cozy in their trim house, and kept the fires burning.
March thaws chased the white from the mountain, and drifts slid into drips. Sunshine melted more snow and the river swelled to a thick torrent racing past the sleeping trees.
Bergen watched as the levels began to rise. He hurriedly shoved wet stones like a wedge, stomping in the icy water up to his boot tops. He yelled to Lillian to come help, as he hefted small boulders against the rising flow. Lillian came and was shocked to see how swiftly it was pounding against her husband's legs and the cobbled wall.
Together they tried to barricade their home, but the force of the water overpowered them. It rose to the threshold of their cottage, laughed at them and swelled inside the door. Crying, Lillian grabbed a chair, some books, pottery, a quilt. Bergen thrashed against the stream with soaking trousers, but it was futile.
He slumped, watching helplessly as the water flooded his home. He heard the echo of what his neighbors had told him.
"Start settin' stones long before you need them."
