Dry Ground Jayne Moore Waldrop (bio) Istumble on a fragment of curb, nearly turning an ankle, as I cross a disintegrating asphalt slab, a remnant of the street where I once lived. Without conscious thought I glance in both directions, more from childhood habit than necessity. There are no cars left. There’s nothing left, only a few shards of brick and stone, a faint curvature of sky and earth that feels vaguely familiar. I wander through this unmarked place, dead to me [End Page 100] for forty years, remembering each house and family and tree that had been here before the water came. It was an old town built along the Cumberland, that ancient channel snaking its way through the middle of the country from the mountains to the barrens and back to hills. The government said we needed flood control. Hydroelectric power. That we’d benefit from tourists in ski boats skimming along the giant lake that would rise when the river was dammed. They also said we had no choice. Maybe some of the adults realized what we were losing when they moved us out—I was a kid, not privy to their conversations—but others jumped at the chance to leave this place and its floods, where the river crawled out of its bed and slipped into town at least once a year, usually in late winter or spring. People tired of pumping out wet basements, shoveling mud-caked streets and sidewalks, and moving furniture to the attic. The chance to live on higher ground lured them away, encouraged by the gift of free land for those who committed to build in the new town that sprouted in a cornfield two miles away. “Our lot’s on Dogwood Lane,” my father said, holding a freshly inked deed in his hand. “Construction starts Monday, so we have to choose which model we want.” His eyes were bright, his words spoken in a rush. “That’s a pretty name for a street,” my mother said. “Have you seen the house plan book? We’ve got so much to decide.” The new town would be called Columbia, the developers announced, and they gave each homeowner a book to help them design their homes. The book’s cover pictured a family dressed like they had been to church or a funeral, except they [End Page 101] looked too happy to have come from a graveyard. The parents smiled: she wore a hat and pearl necklace, he was in suit and tie. The girl and boy looked like they would never fight or call each other names the way my sister Becky and I did. From a new car they walked toward a fine example of a modern home, the kind everyone wanted in 1963. I knew our family didn’t look like those people or dress like them, even on Easter Sunday. Our clothes weren’t as fancy and our car was old, but we were getting a new house. In the house plan book were ten drawings by an architect from Fort Worth, Texas, who specialized in new subdivisions. Most were one-level styles, but there were other new types called split levels and bi-levels, with the choice of all brick, all siding, or somewhere in between. Next to the picture of the outside was another drawing, a series of lines that formed boxes of different sizes labeled LR, DR, KIT, BR, BA. “This is how the house will look on the inside,” Mother said. “These are the rooms.” “That doesn’t look like a house,” I said. “It’s flat.” “Pretend you’re looking down, into the house, and it doesn’t have a roof. Each line is a wall, and the walls make rooms.” She pushed her fingernail along the drawing to give me a tour of the house. “You walk through the front door into the living room, and here’s the picture window. This is the kitchen. Our table would go here. And down this hall is Becky’s bedroom, and our room, and this would be your room.” She pointed to a small box. “I get my own room?” [End Page 102] “You...