Marshall Ramsey

Many years ago, Joe White and I walked out of the employee entrance to The Clarion-Ledger. I’m not sure where we were headed, but I’d imagine it was to the Thai House for lunch. It was a spring day and the air was syrupy and hot. A stiff wind blew from South, pushing the racing clouds past rapidly.

Joe looked up and said, “If you can smell New Orleans, it means you’ll have a tornado.”

You could smell New Orleans that day and we did have tornadoes that evening. Joe was spot on.

This morning, you could smell New Orleans.

The Storm Prediction Center and the National Weather Service Jackson had predicted this particular severe outbreak for days. Models showed all the factors coming together — warm humid air blowing in off the Gulf, low-level sheer, twisting winds aloft, an incoming low pressure and front. It was like the atmosphere was gasoline and Mother Nature was flicking matches.

The first round of storms came across the river after noon. They had already spun up long-track tornadoes that had caused damage in Monroe, Louisiana. One of the first tornadoes of the day hit Yazoo City. (What is it with Yazoo City and tornadoes? Is it the witch that causes them to get hit so many storms?) Storms erupted rapidly, rattling the Metro Jackson area with wind, lightning and small hail. But no dangerous long-track tornadoes. Had we’d dodge a bullet? Was it going to be another Easter miracle?

No.

Later in the afternoon, I was watching WAPT’s Chief Meteorologist David Hartman point out a particularly sinister looking hook echo east of McComb. The forming tornado tapped into the volatile atmosphere and quickly grew into a monster. A second tornado formed behind it and followed just to the north of the first. Both threw debris over 20,000 feet into the atmosphere as they raked across Southeast Mississippi. In their wake, trees and lives are now broken. As I write this seven are dead. The first tornado, possibly an EF-5 monster, hit Soso, Mississippi in Jones County when it was a mile wide wedge. At one point, Hartman tweeted, “On air but one of the worst tornado signatures I’ve seen in 35 years. CONCERNED.”

The photos of the damage look like a bomb went off.

It’s hard to survive tornadoes like that unless you are underground. And I’ve always thought it was a particularly cruel that few homes in the bullseye of Dixie Alley have basements.

This afternoon, before the wind stopped blowing, first responders, neighbors and volunteers were helping the victims. We do that in Mississippi. It’s what I call Chainsaws & Casseroles — people will cut you out of the rubble and feed you.
All this fear and death happened on a day when you celebrate victory over fear and death. That irony is not lost on me. And it also happened in the middle of a pandemic — it’s not like we didn’t have enough to fear.

I walked outside tonight and could no longer smell New Orleans. Cool air had filtered in, replacing the gooey syrup from earlier today. I looked to the South and thought of everyone whose life was up-ended today and said a silent prayer.

As we go to bed tonight, we need to realize this truth: “There but the Grace of God go we.”

P.S. I’d like to add a hat tip to the meteorologists at the National Weather Service Jackson and all of the local television meteorologists. You did good work today and saved lives.

Studio lights burn bright. In one chair, a middle-aged man sits and in the other chair is what appears to be a ghost of an older woman. She has a slight glow. Cameras roll. The interviewer begins the intro:

“Good morning, I’m joined here by my grandmother. I’d like to say what a huge treat this is — she passed away years ago and is making a VERY SPECIAL appearance today.”

Interviewer: Good morning Grandma. I can’t tell you how much I have wanted this day to happen. I wish it were under better circumstances.

Grandma: You think these are hard times?

Interviewer: Well, yes. The economy. COVID-19. I could go on.

Grandma: First of all, I’m proud of the man you’ve grown up to become. Now suck it up and start acting like it.

Interviewer: (Looking stunned. And then stammers:)But these are scary times.

Grandma: Yes they are. I remember the 1918 flu epidemic. I was a little girl but I still remember the fear. I remember the deaths and the coffins stacked like cord wood. World War I was just ending, we had gone through sacrifice and then it hits. It was horrible. And don’t even get me started on Polio! Then a few years later, the Great Depression punched us in the stomach. We struggled but we made it. Yes, our lives changed but we were still alive. These are scary times, but you know how scared I was when I was tucking in your father on December 7, 1941. I wondered what kind of world was I raising him in? Everyday we’d keep track of the progress of the war. 1942 was so grim. Then we won the Battle of Midway and started getting a foothold in North Africa. Your grandfather was too old to fight but worked long hours at the factory. His brothers came back broken men. I lost friends. We had rationing of food and gasoline and tires. I wrote a lot of letters back then and ate a lot of SPAM. I hated SPAM until the day I died. But every morning, we got up, put on our shoes, got to work and lived in the moment. You should try it, too.

Interviewer: Why did you come back today for this interview?

Grandma: I had to get permission but I’m glad He said yes. I just wanted to remind you and your viewers that while these are very scary times, they aren’t permanent. Yes, you may get COVID-19 — by the way, that’a better name than the Spanish flu. The poor Spaniards got blamed for a flu that didn’t even start in their country — but most likely you’ll survive. And if you don’t, your faith tells you that will be OK, too. Worried about your family? Do what you need to do to take care of them. Make sure the legal and financial details are taken care of. Worried about your health? Quit stressing out and take better care of yourself. Wash your hands and quit touching your face. Want to feel like your doing something? Help someone in your community. Check on someone else’s grandma. Buy their groceries. Be strong — I know you have it in you. And flatten the curve.
One more thing: Do you still make my special bunt cake recipe?

Interviewer: Yes, Grandma. It’s delicious and makes me think of you. What do you mean by flatten the curve?

Grandma: One thing we learned in my town during 1918 was that if you stayed apart from each other, it slowed the march of the disease. DO THAT. You know all those times the hospital and medical staff was there for you?

Interviewer: Yes, Grandma.

Grandma: It’s time to be there for them. So they can be there for you. Slow the infection rate. Allow them to have a fighting chance.
The ghost leans over and gives the man a hug.

Grandma: “I love you Bubby. You will be OK. ”

She kisses him on the cheek and says, “I can do that. I’m a ghost you know. No social distancing is required where I am.”

The Interviewer sits blushing with a tear trickling down his cheek.

And with that, the cameras stop rolling, the lights dim and Grandma fades away.

The day I started hating the sound of rain was October 15, 1994. That’s the day that remnants of a Pacific hurricane parked itself over the Houston, Texas metro area. The sky opened up and dumped 25 inches on Conroe, Texas in less than a day. At one point, it rained five inches in one hour. We woke up that morning and could see water behind our house. There was a huge flood plain between us and the interstate. It looked like a lake. I walked out to take a look. Heavy rain pelted me as I walked to the covered bridge over the Stewart’s Creek. It was underwater.

Dammit. My stomach sank. The only road out was flooded.

My neighbors and I stood there watching fire ant balls flow past. We definitely didn’t want any part of that. Then we noticed that the creek was starting to flow backwards — not good. We lived near where Stewart’s Creek flowed into the San Jacinto River — which had gone from 3 feet to 33 feet in less than six hours. (101 cu. ft. of flow to 115,000 cu. ft. — a record that was just barely beat by Hurricane Harvey a couple of years ago). Water kept rising and crept up the bluff behind our home; officials said if we wanted to bring our pets we had to get out now. No pets on boat rescues. There was even talk of the dam failing.

We got out.

Amy and I put our furniture up on blocks and evacuated our new house. We had our dog and cat in their carriers and just the clothes on our back. Five inches of rain fell in the time it took for us to get to the bus on the other side of the neighborhood. The rain was falling so hard that it hurt — I’ve never seen rain that hard and I pray I never see it again.
I remember one evacuee saying she had half a glass of water and just threw in across her couch. “It’s not like it mattered.” Another had a Lab with an invisible fence collar. “Guess we don’t need this anymore.” Dark humor filled the bus as we made our way to a church.
After a phone call, my boss Chris Eddings took us in. And thankfully, when the river crested, our house didn’t get any water in it — it was close though. Many of my neighbors, however, weren’t so lucky. Over a third of our neighborhood (Mosswoods Heights) was flooded. River Plantation (right next to us) was devastated. Another person who wasn’t lucky was the man who tried to swim across the flood waters to rescue his trapped wife.

They found his body behind my house.

I killed snakes in the yard for weeks. The smells and the mosquitoes were overwhelming. Neighbors gutted their homes to the studs and started over. Staunch conservatives welcomed low-interest government loans. Neighbors helped neighbors. Recovery happened slowly.

Today, I still hate the sound of rain. And if you saw my house today, you’d laugh. I now live on a big hill — ABOVE the dam.
This afternoon, I saw the Pearl’s rising floodwater. And I have to admit, when I looked at its brown swirling water, I had a flashback. Watching water rise is a slow motion Hell.

I’ll just say this — My heart is with anyone affected by the Pearl’s wrath. Floods suck.

https://www.yourconroenews.com/125years/article/A-look-back-at-Conroe-s-1994-flood-12285323.php