Summer of ’69
As I look back on my life, I find that the most momentous events are not milestones so much as ‘yearstones.’ When someone mentions a particular year in my past, these yearstone events are what I think of first. They mark my passage through time and are instrumental in helping me keep my memories chronologically ordered. I was born in 1953, started school in ’59, graduated from high school, started college, and met my future wife all in ’71, and so on through the various watershed events of the ensuing decades. I suspect all people do this to some degree.
Some of my yearstones stand taller and brighter than others. Some mark happy events—the birth of my daughters in ’78 and ’84. Some of them are bittersweet—my retirement from a 32-year college career and move to Hattiesburg in 2008. And some not sweet or happy at all—the death of my father in 1967, for example. Interlaid among all these personal occasions are the many national and world events which are also forever etched in my memory, markers for which I can vividly recall the year and where I was and what I was doing at the time I first learned of them—JFK’s assassination in 1963 and the 9/11 attacks in ’2001 are two such prominent instances. They, too, are often yearstones for me.
And then there are the years demarked by the big hurricanes that have impacted southeast Mississippi. With Ida roaring through south Louisiana and southwest Mississippi last week, wreaking much devastation and heartache a bit to our west, I’m sure that for the many who’ve lost their homes and loved ones that storm will become their yearstone for 2021. But for me, the mere mention of a hurricane always causes me to think of Hurricane Camille in 1969. Not only does it stand as my most vivid memory for that year, even towering over the Apollo 11 moon landing and other monumental events, like Woodstock, Camille is and likely will forever be my benchmark for major cyclonic storms. Mention hurricanes and I always think of Camille first. Yes, I know, most people of this area, even those who are old enough to remember Camille, will assert that 2005’s Katrina is their benchmark. I understand that. Both were monster storms that hit in August, making landfall in the same section of coastal Mississippi. Both were so destructive that their names have been retired and will never be used for a hurricane again. And even though Katrina covered more territory, was stronger by some measures, and had a higher death count, Camille was a Category 5 when she came ashore in south Mississippi—one of only a handful of Cat 5 storms to ever hit the US. With sustained winds close to 200 mph and gusts higher, Camille’s winds broke the meters in use at the time. However, let’s put the number aside. It’s impossible to compare two devastating events by quantitative measures alone—you have to personalize and individualize the experiences.
I wasn’t living down here in Katrina’s path like I was for Camille. Gena and I were still living in Senatobia in northwest Mississippi in 2005. However, our older daughter, Leigh Ann, and her husband, Scot, had moved to Hattiesburg in 2003, so we were fully aware of Katrina’s widespread devastation all the way up from the coast to Jackson and above. We witnessed the aftermath on a trip down a week later. Even so, my yearstone for 2005 was marked by another reason. That was the year of my brain surgery in a Memphis hospital in June to remove a benign tumor the size of a goose egg. The 10½-hour surgery was followed by a week in the ICU and stepdown unit, followed by another week in rehab, followed by four weeks of physical therapy back in Senatobia. I had just recovered in time to start the fall semester at the college in August. Yeah, Katrina remains a vivid memory for me, but my surgery has eclipsed it my mind. Therefore, you’ll understand why I say that Camille stands taller in my recall. Now, let me recount some of the events occurring during my summer of ’69.
Following Daddy’s death a couple of years before, there had been many changes in our family. Mama had gone back to school to finish her college degree in English, and she was taking a full load of classes at USM during the summer term. My older sister, Judy, had married the previous October, and she and her husband, Glen, had just moved upstate to Cleveland in May so that he could attend Delta State. My older brother, Keith, and I were still in high school and we both had summer jobs. John, Karen, and Linda, my younger siblings, were each involved in various summer activities. For one, they had recently attended VBS at Paramount Church. In addition, we were enjoying the renovations to our home that had been completed during the winter and spring. For the first time ever, that old farmhouse seemed modern, particularly with its new central heating and cooling system. Life was busy, but we all seemed to be enjoying a new sense of normalcy.
Then in July, right after I’d gotten back from a week’s trip to a church youth camp in Conway, Arkansas, Mama surprised us by announcing that she was going to Europe. The professor of one of her classes had invited her to join the two-week educational tour of Europe that he was leading in August.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Well, dang, Mom! What are the rest of us going to do? She had it all worked out. John and Karen and Linda would stay with Judy and Glen; Keith and I would stay at home and hold down the fort.
I liked the sound of that. . . in theory. But Double Dang! What about our meals? Who’s gonna wash our clothes? Her answers to these concerns were that Keith and I were old enough to fend for ourselves. That was true enough—Keith had just turned 18 and I would soon be 16—we both had summer jobs and driver’s licenses. We both knew our way around the kitchen and how to operate the dishwasher and washer and dryer. You’ll be fine, she said. Just don’t burn the house down, she said. I’ve asked Burnell and Loreice and Grandma and Granddaddy to check in on you periodically, she said. And don’t forget to go to church, she said, along with the couple of thousand other things she said in the days leading up to her departure.
Just before her tour was to begin, we all made an overnight trip up to Cleveland to drop the kids off at Judy’s. It was, for each of us, our first look at the Mississippi Delta. I marveled at the vast flat stretches of treeless farmland laid desolate by millennia of the Mississippi River’s alluvial flooding. It was hot and it smelled of defoliants, but those are details for another story. We returned to Big Level the next day and Mama flew to London a couple of days later.
What followed were several days during which Keith and I enjoyed a sense of independence and freedom that we’d never experienced before. In truth, we were getting along quite well. He did his thing and I did mine. He had his job in town at Hall’s Grocery and I had mine at Noll Davis’s farm in Big Level. He had his car and Daddy’s old pickup. I had my Honda 65 and the use of Mama’s car. I would come in from a hot day of pulling coffee weeds in the soybean fields (or whatever else Mr. Davis had his son, David, and me doing) and sometimes go to the Frosty Mug in Wiggins for my supper. I’m not sure what Keith did with his spare time. We would see each other only in passing, if at all. So, yeah, we were doing okay—that is until Camille strengthened and drew a bead on the Mississippi coast. Not Mama, not anybody, planned on a Cat 5 hurricane barreling down on Big Level.
Camille was all the talk the weekend of August 16-17. The word on Saturday from the National Hurricane Center was that it had intensified to the Category 5 level, a first for a US hurricane in my lifetime. At church on Sunday, the 17th, some were saying that it was going to turn toward the Florida panhandle, some were saying that it was going to weaken. However, all were in agreement that this was a big one and that we all needed to get ready for it. Throughout that frightful afternoon the news got worse. By mid-afternoon it was certain that Camille, with all of its full force, was making its way straight for us.
As it happened, not only was Mama out of the country, Uncle ’Nell and Aunt Reicey and their youngest son, Ken, were away on a vacation trip. Their oldest son, Wallace, suggested that Keith and I come stay with him and his wife, Myrtle, and his brothers, Mike and Jerry, at Uncle ’Nell’s house. At first, Keith resisted, thinking we’d be okay at home—that old house had seen dozens of hurricanes in its 75+ years, surely it’d make it through this one—but when Wallace called back an hour or so later, saying that Myrtle was adamant that we come, Keith readily agreed. I was glad he did, because I certainly didn’t want the two of us to spend the night alone during a monster storm. Plus, Myrtle was cooking supper. A hot meal sure would be nice for a change, I thought.
So, the six of us, all teenagers except Wallace, who was 23, and Myrtle, who had just turned 20, hunkered down. We sat around that evening watching it rain and listening to the wind pick up, telling each other it wasn’t going to be too bad where we were 30 miles from the coast, all the while keeping an eye on the TV for the latest storm news telling us what was very likely going to be a different story. When the power went out around 10:30 and we all decided to go to bed, I discovered that most of my fears had been eased. It was reassuring to me to be with my cousins in their concrete block house. In fact, I slept as soundly as ever, not aware until morning the extent of the devastation that surrounded us that night. When Wallace woke me just after daybreak, I couldn’t believe that a tree limb had come down on the roof right above where I was sleeping—I never heard a thing.
Despite the more than a dozen trees down in their pine-studded yard, we were all safe. Even Wallace’s and Myrtle’s house trailer in the field behind the house was intact, though with all the trees down between the two structures it was nearly impossible to get to.
After a quick survey and a bite to eat, Keith and I, with Mike and Jerry to assist, then attempted to make our way to our house a mile away. We were able to drive down Big Four Road to the lane leading up to our farm, however, we had to make the second half mile on foot, climbing and chopping our way over the toppled trees. By the time we got to the last stretch, where our pastures start, where we should’ve been able to see our house clearly, we started to run. From that vantage point, all we could see was that the big stately oak in our front yard had fallen, completely obscuring the house. My heart stopped when I contemplated that our home might have been destroyed. Only when we reached the end of the lane and the other side of the oak could we see that the house was still standing. I may have cried.
In addition to that huge oak, two more oaks and a large pecan tree in our yard came down, laying on all four sides of the house. Any one of them could have hit the house, but none did. Thank the Lord. In fact, given the west-northwest direction of the wind when the upper right quadrant of the storm’s eyewall crossed our place, each of those trees fell where they could do the least damage. Miraculously, two other large pecan trees that were on the east side of the house did not fall; it could’ve been disastrous had they done so. As it was, a few ruffled shingles on the house and the pecan tree across the back corner of the shed was the only structural damage we suffered. Hallelujah for that. Much relieved that our home was intact, Mike and Jerry headed back home to make their report while Keith and I, with our chainsaw and ax, set in clearing the road enough that we could get our vehicles in and out.
Coincidentally, the day the storm hit Mama’s tour group was flying back from London to New York. Once they were in their hotel that evening and had seen the news reports, she was frantic to get a call through to our house or to Uncle ’Nell’s or Granddaddy’s. However, by that time the phones were out over much of the county. The next morning, just before they were to fly to Jackson, Dorothy Hall, a woman from Wiggins and tour member, was able to get through to her husband, the mayor. He was also the owner of the grocery where Keith worked. And, as fortune would have it, Keith had managed a bit earlier that morning to let Mr. Hall know that we were safe and that our house was undamaged. Mama was much relieved when that news was relayed to her. A couple of days later, after first going to Cleveland to retrieve the younger siblings, she arrived back home, albeit a home without power or water or a telephone, and with dozens of trees down all over our 40 acres, but home nonetheless. I was thrilled she was back. Keith and I both were. But speaking only for me, by that time I’d had all the independence I could handle.
This aerial photo of the house and grounds on the Lott farm was taken by my friend Dan in April of last year. I’ve annotated it to show the location of the four large trees that came down near the house 52 years ago on the night when Hurricane Camille roared through Big Level. The arrows indicate the direction of each tree’s fall. The two ovals in the photo’s foreground indicate the position of two large pecan trees that were on the east side of the house but withstood the storm. My brother John, who now owns the old homeplace, says Hurricane Georges took care of those two pecans in 1998. Luckily, they fell to the south, again sparing the house of any major damage. John has planted a few other trees over the years, but none are large enough or close enough to threaten that old home. (Photo by Daniel C Browning Jr, 2020-04-11)
My younger sisters, Linda, age 7 (standing) and Karen, age 9 (seated) on the large oak that fell in the front yard of our house during Camille. (Lott family photo from late August 1969)
My younger sisters, Linda, age 7 (on bicycle) and Karen, age 9 (standing) in front of the large pecan tree the fell on the shed in the back yard during Camille. (Lott family photo from late August 1969)
Afterword
There was so much to be done in the days that followed the storm, but we all pitched in and grappled with the aftermath. Many of the details have grown fuzzy; however, I want to leave you with a few things I do remember clearly:
We were without power and water for 13 days; the telephone was restored a few days sooner.
We cooked several meals on the barbeque pit in the back yard, salvaging as much food from the refrigerator and deep freeze as we could. Kindling and firewood was not a problem.
We got water for drinking (after boiling, of course) and for cooking from the natural spring down in the hollow 100 yards west of the house and just over our property line. We also bathed down there a few times.
Two of our large cedar trees were blown over in the storm. A few weeks after, I helped Granddaddy carry several big cedar logs to the sawmill for lumber. He used the cedar boards to make numerous items for us and others in the extended Lott family. He made a mantle for the fireplace in our living room as well as a few benches that are still in use there at the old house. He made a small bench that he gave to Gena and me as a wedding gift which we still have.
School started the first week of September, the opening delayed a week because of all the damage, and our attention gradually turned to other things.
A Word to Ponder
dev·as·tate (verb): lay waste, ravage, make desolate; from Latin devastat- ‘laid waste,’ from the verb devastare, from de- ‘thoroughly’ + vastare ‘lay waste’; origin in the 1630s, perhaps as a back-formation from devastation, but not common until 19c.
Source: etymonline.com
Song of the Day
"Hot Fun in the Summertime" by Sly and the Family Stone (Greatest Hits, 1969)
Bonus Track
“Woodstock” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (Déjà Vu, 1970)
Woodstock, the famed music festival held at Max Yasgur's dairy farm in Bethel, New York, was another big, national event occurring the same weekend that Hurricane Camille struck the Mississippi Gulf Coast (August 15–18, 1969). Because we were without TV and newspapers for several days in the storm’s aftermath, I was completely unaware of this other watershed event until this CSNY song was released in March of 1970.