Yogi Berra would say it was "deja vu all over again."

Thursday a week ago, the rains had stopped, the sun was out, but the flood waters were still high. Very high. At the bottom of South Prince Street, New Danville Pike, my normal evening route home, was blocked by traffic barriers and a few feet of muddy Conestoga River water on the roadway.

As I crossed Engleside and headed for the bridge that connects with Willow Street Pike, I was amazed by the number of people who had parked their vehicles to get out and marvel at the high water.

They lined the pedestrian walkway on the bridge and the banks of the river, looking into the flood that was only feet below them. To my right, I could see that the river wasn't far from the deck on the old railroad bridge.

The fury of Mother Nature is startling. And frightening.

I saw that fury in June 1972 when I crossed at the same spot.

Back then, I was working nights for the Intell. When I awoke late the morning of June 21 and pulled my bedroom window shade, I was astonished.

Three days of rain had turned the creek that ran through a farm meadow more than 150 yards away into a raging river. I couldn't believe it was possible that such a small, quiet stream that we played in as kids could be so wide and fast.

And the water was rising. It had been a wet spring, and the ground was waterlogged from recent rains when the storm hit.

The storm had a name most can't forget — Hurricane Agnes. She moved in and stalled over Pennsylvania and New York, taking lives and destroying property.

Reporting the story of Agnes that first day was like trying to plug leaks in your basement during a storm.

Police and fire radios crackled with drama as the waters rose, and rose fast.

People drove into deep water and drowned. Rescuers pulled people from the roofs of their homes. Photographers took iconic photos of boats navigating the middle of Manheim, and of homes in Marietta filled with water to the second stories. Every stream carried with it destruction.

A day later, sometime after midnight, I headed south for home. At Engleside stood the old "Singing Bridge," a memory from many local childhoods. It was a steel bridge, with tall sides and a grooved deck that sang or hummed as vehicles crossed it.

The bridge was still open. As I crossed it, I could hear the angry roar of the floodwaters in the darkness. I was relieved when I got to the other side.

Sometime that night, believed to be around 3 a.m., the surging waters pushed half the "Singing Bridge" off its supports and threw it against the old railroad bridge. No cars or pedestrians were on the bridge when it broke apart.

I've always wondered who was the last person to cross the "Singing Bridge." Or who was the first to drive up to it only to find it was gone?

On that recent Thursday night, I didn't join the others who stood on the bridge and watched the rushing waters of Hurricane Lee. I don't tempt Mother Nature.

Moneychanger
Daughter Abigail asked if I had money for her Sunday school collection. I didn't, so the 15-year-old floated me a loan for my mine. This economy is messed up when pet sitters have all the cash.

Marv Adams can be reached by email at madams@lnpnews.com or by mail: Sunday News, P.O. Box 1328, Lancaster, PA 17608-1328.