1953 Tornado, devastates Vicksburg, MS
(a personal account)

I was born in Vicksburg, MS. My family moved from the south when I was 8 1/2-9yrs old. At the time of the 1953 tornado that hit Vicksburg, I was 7years old. I have 'vivid' memories of that tornado, before, during and after,.. even memories of a city of rubble and a visit to a sad-eyed 'Santa' in downtown Vicksburg.

My mother, was divorced, and raising three young daughters alone. Our ages 7,9,11. Mother worked downtown in a clothing store. On her way home that day, she stopped at a market several blocks from where we lived. Her grocery items were on the counter for check- out, when the owner, told her that he had some 'fresh' cuts of meat she should look at,.. she started toward the back of the store to the 'meat' counter. She recounted that an 'overwhelming' feeling came over her of foreboding and it stopped her in her tracks. (She told us this when she got home that day..'before the storm hit'.) She turned with a sense of urgency, and declined the owner's invitation. He tried to convince her otherwise,.. but she was persistent,.. and paid for what she already had on the counter. The owner, who knew her to be a courteous, polite customer.. could barely put her change in her hands, or her purchase into a bag as she said to him, "I have to get home". Then she practically ran out of the store. She said the wind was literally pushing her forward as she 'walked'-'ran' homeward.
We, the children were playing outside with neighboring children, when we saw mother fast approaching,.. I remember the look on her face as she rushed us into the house, and shouting to the other children to run home! We, as children, thought somehow we were the source of her agitation. One of our playmates, 'Betty',. wanted to come in and and continue playtime,.. but mother said firmly ',.. go home, now'.. a bad storm is coming!
She began moving about our small dwelling quickly moving, removing things.. we kids were more focused on what was in the bag from the store! I recall that my oldest sister had pulled out a jar of peanut butter to put in the cupboard, when we heard the sound of an incredible rumbling ROAR, as of multiple trains or jet planes approaching and descending upon us. Mother quickly herded us to a bed, and pulled a matterss over us and her,.. and began reciting the 23rd Psalm of the Bible. Through the grinding, shaking, shuddering, breaking glass, thundering roar now on top of us,.. I heard her voice never faltering.. growing stronger and louder with her recitation over and over. We heard huge old trees being uprooted, violent sounds new to our young ears. Metal slamming. And then, everything just stopped, followed by the eerie strangeness of SILENCE! We ventured out, onto our porch,.. the sky was blood red in the unnatural darkness, things around us toppled, turned, uprooted, but all houses around us still standing. We lived atop a 'hill',. and could look toward the direction of downtown,.. we began to realize that part of the 'redness', were fires burning throughout the city. We listened and heard the sounds of the storm as it retreated, becoming fainter and fainter, then gone. Fire hydrants were pouring forth their contents, and causing muddying in some areas.

A little girl that I had waved 'bye' to at the end of the preceding school day, 'Friday, Dec 4th', was the only member of her family killed on Saturday Dec 5th. I recall that the story was this; that the brick fireplace in their home exploded, with bricks taking deadly aim at her small, beautiful 7year old body. A few days after the storm, I was taken to a local mortuary to view my friend, lying in a small coffin, dressed in a lovely blue chiffon dress, wearing white socks with ankle lace,.. so small, so still. This was my first introduction to death. I recall trying to grasp 'Heaven', where she now played with angels. But how could she be playing,.. she was so still... My 7year old mind deduced that she must be trapped inside that stillness. I wanted her to move,.. as she had only a few days before.. when she played with me, not angels.. when she bade me 'bye' for the weekend..when she wasn't 'still'.

Auntie's house: After the storm we hurried through the blackness of unlit night, down our hill,..along the level road that asended up another hill, turned left three houses, auntie's. Inside, the Christmas tree... outside, screaming sirens,.. eerie glow from fires. Auntie, had been in the 'Piggly Wiggly' market, when the storm hit. Shocked shoppers, plate glass shimming, shaking to a rhythm unwanted.

We visited the store the next day, after the storm. The store stood no more; the floor, counter, and a man's shoe, was all that remained. I believe that the owner survived,. but,.. would my mother have survived had she not obeyed the force that stopped her midway to that meat counter?

Santa: Mother's brave attempt to bring Christmas to her traumatized children's spirits. She took us downtown,.. or what was left of downtown, to a dept store, standing, but 'injured'. Santa's lap,.. Santa was wearing shiny pretend black boot things that only partially covered his 'brown' shoes,.. Santa's dark hair peeked from under a shabbily worn white wig. The string for the false beard showed over his ears, under his dark sideburns. Santa's eyes, watered, sad, listless, as he half-heartedly inquired, "and what would you like for Christmas"? Santa, had no jolly belly,.. Santa was lean and sinewy. Santa, was white, I was not. I wanted to comfort Santa, he was sad, I was sad, I was confused as to why God needed my friend to play in Heaven while I needed her to play with me, on our playground at our school, not wearing blue chiffon and white lace socks, not laying so still, so silent.

My mother is now 93years old, I will ask her for the name that escapes my memory, but not hers. She remembers the family, she remembers the girl-child, I will post that child's name when I have it. I remember rubble of mortar, brick, wood, and 'property' damage, but the true damage occured to people, those known, and those unknown. Someone, somewhere, has a fading memory of each of the dead from 1953. Black or White, none are forgotten,.. because they live in someone’s cherished memory.

thank you very very much for sharing your memories with me and everyone who visits this site
Stu

Researched and Transcribed by Stu Beitler. Thank you, Stu!