By VERNA BROCK

As I prepare to write, I am thinking about current events, and how they connect to the past.
Right now, my neighborhood, as well as nearly everyone living along the Woodville Highway, from the truck-route to St. Marks, is on a “Boil Water” notice. Over the weekend the water main was damaged, and by Saturday evening our water pressure had diminished to a trickle.
Sunday morning brought phone messages to boil water, even for brushing our teeth. The plan was (and is at this date) to repair the ruptured main and test the water for bacterial contaminants. No word on how long that may take to accomplish.
By Sunday afternoon, Leon County had set up a bottled-water station at the recreation park in Woodville, providing two cases of water for each vehicle that came.
Of course they ran out by 3:30 p.m., but more water was delivered by 4:15. The city had no one there to answer questions about when residents could expect restoration of service, or even if it would be safe to shower/bathe with the water. I guess city employees were really busy, grappling with making sure the water would eventually be potable.
Gotta say, I do love Leon County, almost as much as Wakulla County! I picked up my allotted cases of water, since there was no estimate of when the tap will figuratively be turned back on.
I know Leon County was planning to hand out bottled water at least through Monday.
Ed and I became customers of Tallahassee water in early 1982. At the time the water main was extended all the way to St. Marks, we had an 80-foot well, straight into the Florida Aquifer, and definitely saw no reason to pay for chlorinated water. Unfortunately, we had no way to foresee the tragedy that was coming. Around 10 a.m., on a drizzly Saturday morning, a Sing Oil gasoline tanker came barreling through our little community. In an attempt to avoid slamming into a delivery truck from Scotty’s (remember them?), the tanker driver swerved and lost control. His truck began to tip and rolled completely over, and ended up partially on the south corner of our property, spilling its full load of 8,000 gallons of gas.
In the deathly silence that followed, a small flame quickly exploded as the downed electrical line ignited the spilled gasoline. Within seconds the old wooden building that housed Lamar Garner’s antique store was engulfed in an inferno; within minutes, it was a charred wreck reduced to ash.
The centuries-old oak tree that stood between the store and the home behind it, held and absorbed the incredible blaze that raged for hours. It saved the building that would eventually become the first Pregnancy Help Center.
The spilled gas contined to rush down the two-lane dirt path between our house and the store, and imediately ignited into a wall of flame and heat. Evenually every tree that lined the path would succumb to the damage inflicted by the fire, as well as several large trees across our property. Our fruit orchard was incenerated.
When the accident occurred, I was in my yard, preparing to take my toddler (Alan) to the library’s story time. I saw the tanker crashing through the front of Lamar’s store, ripping the covered roof at its front completely off as it began to roll and slide onto our property. There was no sound from the truck’s cabin as I began to run towards the wreck. I turned to Ed, and screamed, “Call 911!”
As I ran, I saw the flames emerge and grow, and immediately retreated. At that point I had no way of knowing how widespread the fire would be, and my thought was to retieve Alan from his car seat.
Our phone line had been torn down along with the electrical lines, so we had no way to call for help. The roar from the fire had grown deafening, with no way of escape.
Fortunately, the wreck was witnessed by folks at the Junior Food Store, who were on a completely different phone branch (it was literally a long distance call for us, just two-tenths of a mile south!). They called for help, and within 30 minutes water tankers and firefighters were on the scene.
Remember, in 1982 Wakulla relied completely on small community vlounteer fire departments scattered all across the county. These brave men manned hoses and water tankers the rest of the long day, pouring cooling streams on the buildings behind and before the raging, towering firestorm.
The conflagration continued well into the afternoon, with each of the 18 tires super-heating, swelling and exploding, one by one. The 50 gallon fuel tanks on the underside of the truck also exploded. The long tank, made of aluminum, melted; most of it evaporated into the maelstrom.
The unfortunate driver was a casualty, most likely dead before the fire began.
Our deep water well was contaminated by gasoline that escaped into the soil and perculated down into the aquifer. The air and soil reeked of gasoline, and within a month the water running from our taps were similarily affected.
After weeks of panicked calls to health departments, DNR and DEP, and doctors, the state sent two very impressive young men to test everything. The results took two more weeks for confirmation of gasoline pollution in our water, delivered by a half dozen calls from every department and doctor I had contacted.
The long and short of it meant we had no choice but to “hook up” to city water. One call to Tallahassee, and the water department had us on the line in less than two days. The city told us, if we dug the line from the house to the line, they would waive the $1,000-plus fee to have clean water.
Considering the weeks and months it had taken to navigate the bureauracacy and prove the problem, having such quick action was deeply appreciated. Because I had a toddler, and was five months pregnant, the city moved my family to the top of their to-do list, and I will always be grateful for that.
My family knew the water was contaminated very early on, and had ceased using it for anything. Even though the powers that be, back then, asured me I couldn’t possibly have contaminated water…until it was proven they were incorrect.
We were told it could take decades for the contamination to work its way out of the aquifer, so we resigned ourselves to buying water, and were happy to be able to do so.
Even now, with an (comparatively minor) inconvenience such as this one, I am grateful to have dedicated public servants working on my community’s behalf.
Without a doubt, we soon be drinking fresh water from our pipes again. Fingers crossed, it won’t be too long!