Dispatches from Home: Camille August 17, 1969. Fifty Years Ago.
The crazy, chaotic summer of 1969 is remembered for many things: Woodstock, Chappaquiddick, the moon landing, the Zodiac Killer, and Charles Manson. But for those of us who lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, we remember only one thing about that summer: Hurricane Camille. Her very name conjures visions of apocalyptic destruction, heartache, and death. Much of the world I had known vanished fifty years ago tonight.
Gone were many quaint things that had made the Coast home: Victorian gazebos and shooflies, grand mansions along the beach, and columned churches. And for months after that, gone too were the sounds and smells of everyday life: the wailful mourn of train whistles, the chatter of birds and crickets, the briny smell of seafood from the Point, and honking car horns.
But that was yet to come.
As I readied myself for church that Sunday morning, August 17, 1969, the sky was already a strange, yellowish-grey. Mom decided to stay home and prepare for the storm, even though it was predicted to hit the Florida panhandle. Dad was flying into Mobile later that day and driving home. Sitting in the choir loft of FBC Gulfport, listening to Dr. John Traylor’s sermon, I knew something was amiss when, during the service, deacons began scurrying around asking men in the congregation for assistance. Then, I heard the sound of scaffolding being erected. The clatter of hammers against iron and wood distracted from the sermon as the church’s huge stained-glass windows were covered with thick plywood.
Whispers could be heard, too: “The storm had turned toward us.” Someone interrupted Dr. Traylor’s sermon with the news. He then prayed for everyone’s safety, asking God’s mercy on his congregation. I could not get home fast enough. In my absence, a cousin had called Mom, asking her if she, her husband, and her three-year-old daughter could ride out the storm at our house. Mom, of course, said yes.
The afternoon was spent readying everything for the storm. We were concerned whether Dad would get home before bad weather closed the highway. After some tense hours of worrying, he did. We all gathered in our hallway—quilts for bedding, flashlights and candles, water, food, and a transistor radio. Dad said a prayer. We hunkered down and awaited our fate. The electricity failed at 9:26 that night. Little did we know that it would be three weeks before it was turned on again.
The rain increased, lashing our little house with sheets of watery hail, or so it seemed. The wind intensified. Within hours, the house creaked and groaned as if fighting for its life. The screeching wind pushed hard against the windows; they appeared to breathe. I could see them moving ever so slowly, in and out. The back door did the same, pushing against its hinges and lock.
Over the wind, though, we heard what sounded like mini-explosions. Looking out a window, we saw writhing black shadows silhouetted against the black night sky. The towering pines in our backyard lunged back and forth. One by one, they would bend, pop back up, bend again, this time almost touching the ground, and then, with an explosive crack, break off about four feet above the ground. We settled back into the hallway for safety, not knowing if we would survive the night.
As the storm raged, Dad turned the dial on the transistor radio, looking for news of the storm. The only station he could find with any clarity was out of Knoxville. As the house shook and the wind screeched, we were serenaded by the Mull Singing Convention. “I’ll Fly Away” was the opening song. Mom sat quietly, as did I. She held me tightly in her arms. My cousin’s daughter giggled and laughed, thinking we were having a birthday party due to the candles. But what awaited us in the morning was no birthday party.
Unlike Hurricane Katrina in 2005, Camille was a fast-moving storm, which is what saved the Coast from further destruction. As dawn broke, it was evident that we had survived a cataclysmic event. Our street, Wilson Drive, was covered in debris. The neighbor’s roofs were damaged. Power lines were down, some still dancing with electricity. The morning heat was like a steam bath, the air dead still. But we had survived; survived one of the greatest natural disasters to hit the U.S. mainland up to that point. Many others did not.
In the days and weeks that followed, life’s normal ebb and flow returned to the Coast. Neighbors, bound by a shared experience, rallied together to help each other. Federal and State assistance arrived, bolstering our efforts. The Coast, however, would never be the same again. Gone was a simpler time and place, so it seems looking back on those days. As I age, I tend to romanticize the past, as many do. But to a sensitive, sheltered boy of seventeen, digging through the remains of what was and would never be again, I knew my world had changed.
The day before, everything was as it should have been. Now, the morning revealed something new, something frightening. Camille had awakened something inside me, made me rub my eyes and see the world for what it indeed was and still is. A place with little peace, satisfaction, or happiness unless you are grounded in what you believe. Hopefully, it is a belief that transcends all of life’s tragedies and pitfalls–a belief in God and Family. To my simple mind, today’s world awoke on the night of August 17, 1969.
(Originally published August 17, 2019)
