Even though I'd grown up near the Mississippi River, my town was in the hills of Southern Illinois and darned near waterproof. Often the land on both sides of the river was prone to flood, but we weren't bothered. Except maybe by the mosquitoes spawned by the murky, muddy waters. I was only 12 and had no interest in floods or sailors. I think I was still sporting pigtails, scabby knees and playing football with the East Vienna Street gang.
Floods are scary things.
Although the one we survived in 1967 was not life-threatening, it was quite frightening and a pain. Water gushed between neighborhood houses and down the street. The National Guard patrolled the area and the Red Cross provided help with the clean-up by furnishing mops, buckets, disinfectants and soaps. I remember our friendly heroes who came to help us scoop up the hundreds, maybe thousands, of feathers floating in our basement. Our house was a split level and the bottom half was used as bedrooms, a TV room and a utility room.