Written by: Matt Bunk
As I was walking up the dirt path that led to what a National Guard soldier called the “volunteer table” – it was actually a volunteer trailer – I thought to myself that I would stay for an hour no matter what and at that point reassess whether or not to duck out.
Filling sandbags at the fairgrounds wasn’t on my to-do list. I was already two days behind schedule and had tons of work to do. Don’t get me wrong, I actually like hard labor, especially when it comes with free food. But, you know, I was busy, dangit. We all are.
While signing in, I got nervous when I noticed that there were little boxes where you marked your “time in” and “time out.” Great, I thought, now they’re going to have record of me being here for only an hour. Better make it an hour and a half.
Then I met my inspiration. There were actually several of them. And hundreds more just like them – all gathered around mounds of dirt, some shoveling, some bagging and others loading. For a while there was also a tying-the-bags duty to contend with, but later it was scrapped in favor of saving time.
I walked up to my designated dirt pile, greeted my four new colleagues and took my spot in the rotation without the usual formal introductions. I was the new guy – they had all volunteered the night before – so I worked fairly quickly to impress these four veterans.
After the first hour we had built up a fairly large stockpile of sandbags – several hundred, I’m sure – and were starting to make jokes about how people must not trust our sandbags because even though there were five-hour lines of pickups and trailers, none of them were stopping to take any from our pile.
We later realized that we were working on the back side of the dirt pile, and nobody in charge of directing the traffic flow could see that we had amassed such a large stash. Unfortunately, our popularity rose considerably when we moved to the other side; that’s when we started to feel not only the supply-side pain of sandbagging, but also the self-imposed pressure of wanting to keep up with the insatiable demand.
And I’m not exaggerating about the five-hour lines. That’s how long Randy Jacobson waited to fill his trailer. Randy wasn’t there for himself, by the way. He was there to pick up sandbags for a friend who lived even farther south toward the river than he did.
“I was here at 9 a.m.,” Randy said while I was helping load his trailer at just before 2 p.m. “The line was moving pretty good for a while, but then they split it into two lines and the people with trailers got screwed.”
Don’t misunderstand, though; Randy didn’t appear to be upset. He was simply making a statement of fact. And he seemed very grateful for the sandbags.
After about two hours I decided I had better take some photos. I was there, after all, with an ulterior motive: I wanted to tell the story of people like Janelle Sheets, who was volunteer sandbagging for the second day in a row. Her employer had let the entire staff free to volunteer for the day. The night before, she shoveled, bagged and loaded because, as she put it, “it was either this or spin class.”
After sneaking away to talk with some of the anxious south-side homeowners in line, I stopped to grab something to drink – I figured they must have water in the volunteer trailer. When I ambled over to the trailer, I noticed a shed-like structure full of sandwiches from Jimmy Johns and other snacks and drinks donated by countless local businesses. Later in the afternoon, there was pasta and pizza from Pizza Hut. The whole thing was actually pretty amazing. I heard that the night before, Olive Garden catered the volunteers.
I quickly ate a sandwich while shooting the breeze with a really cool National Guard soldier before heading back to my dirt pile. When I arrived, I was mocked in the most profane language used among my colleagues that day; they called me a floater, which, we had decided before, was what you call people who make it appear as though they are working hard when perhaps they aren’t.
“Hey, floater, did you get a good rest in that Red Cross cot over there?” Janelle blurted, letting a huge smile creep across her face.
She was joking. There was no cot.
I spent the next hour trying to make up for my 15-minute hiatus. I had to admit, though, none of my sandbag buddies had taken a break since I arrived.
After a while, I asked Janelle to tell me what motivated her to volunteer when there are so many other things to keep her busy. I realized it was sort of a stupid question when she replied “I just want to help.” My first reaction as a journalist was to ask her to expand on that statement a bit, but then I realized it really is that simple: We are all neighbors, and in North Dakota that still means something.
As I was walking back down the dirt path to leave for the day, a man in a red truck near the back of the line leaned out his window to get my attention. I thought for sure he was going to ask for my best estimate of his wait time. Instead, he just waved and said “thank you.”
I was just glad he hadn’t heard yet that I was a floater.
-Matt Bunk is publisher of the Great Plains Examiner. For three hours on Thursday, he was also a shoveler, bagger and loader.
This entry was posted in Flood, Matt Bunk's Column, OPINION, Slideshow and tagged Bismarck, flood, Mandan, Missouri Valley Fairgrounds, National Guard, sandbags, volunteers. Bookmark the permalink.