Topeka Capital Journal
July 22, 1996

It must have been Hurricane Bertha that reminded Lou Falley of the great Topeka Flood. It happened 45 years ago, and Falley, business tycoon, philanthropist and historian, remembers it in grim detail.

He was telling me about it on the phone, and asking me if I knew certain streets and buildings in North Topeka that he was talking about. When I said no, he said he’d drive me over there and show me where the flood took its awful toll.

We met in the parking lot of the Falley’s Market on Gage Boulevard, and I got in his car. It’s a two-year-old Chevrolet, and a small one at that, far from the top of the line. It proves he doesn’t feel that he needs to try to impress the populace with a fancy set of wheels.

/more Lou is 91 now, but he drives like he wants to get where he’s going, and he expresses some impatience with slower drivers. We headed north and crossed the river that got out of hand in 1951, and then we turned east on Lower Silver Lake Road.

Before long, we crossed the railroad tracks where his parents and youngest brother were killed in 1917. The new family truck, a Smith Former with chain drive and hard rubber tires, stalled on the tracks and was hit by a fast-moving passenger train. It happened within sight of the Falley home on the South side of Lower Silver Lake Road.

Lou recalls that on the afternoon of July 12, 1951, he was visiting his brother, Sam, who was living on the old Falley home place. It had been raining hard for days, and they recalled a warning their dad had given.

He had said if water ever ran from the West across the north side of the house, it was time to get out of all of North Topeka, because the house sat on ground about 25 feet higher than downtown North Topeka. As they talked, they watched water running that very course, So Lou went into action.

He was a member of the North Topeka Draining District, and he got the chairman of that group, Kelley Lewis, to phone Topeka Mayor Ken Wilke and ask him to order the evacuation of North Topeka. Wilke said he’d check out the situation, and at 2 p.m. he had all the city’s radio stations advise North Topekans to move out.

At about 10:30 p.m. the flood hit and almost immediately North Topeka was underwater. Travel was by boat only, and it was treacherous.

The main “dock” for launching boats was the North End of the Topeka Boulevard bridge. Lou checked in there on Friday morning, and was put to work. Bill Cardon of the Highway Patrol and Warren “Waddy” Shaw of the National Guard asked him to direct the work of four rescue boats they had commandeered.

They rescued more than 200 people the first day. These were diehards who had refused to evacuate, and most were in upstairs rooms, yelling for help. Four men were pulled from the top of a boxcar near the Garvey grain elevators.

Many people wanted to get from the bridge to dry land on Rochester Road, and on the third day a big barge, powered by two 150-horsepower outboard motors, and manned by two Navy men, was ready for this shuttle service.

Lou, however, said he doubted they could make the dangerous turn at the corner of Paramore and Tyler because of the swift current. The Navy said it could handle any situation, so Lou and another man in one of the small boats led the barge, with 17 aboard, on the trip.

Sure enough, at “Amen” corner, the barge slammed into a light pole and overturned. The 17 grabbed trees and low hanging phone lines. All yelled for help and, and some panicked and screamed.

Lou and his partner could rescue two at a time and take them to the roof of a nearby house. Lou told the men in the water to hang on, and they’d all be saved. And, he challenged them.

“There are mice, and there are men,” he said, “So I guess we’ll rescue the mice first.”

At that point, he said, they all quit pleading for help. Nobody wanted to be among the “mice.” Eventually, all 17 were hauled to safety on the roof of the house and later picked up by other boats.

As the flood water receded, residents wanted to return, and Lou was put in charge of determining which neighborhoods were ready for them. He recalls keeping some families away from their homes until dead cows and hogs could be removed from the porches, and even the roofs.

At the infamous corner where disaster almost struck, Lou and I stopped a woman wanting to ask her if she had lived there in 1951. We introduced ourselves and she was totally unimpressed. Maybe Lou should trade that Chevy for a 32-valve Belchfire Bazoomer.

He probably could get a loan, because I think he still owns a bank.