Little Yazoo, MS, F4 Tornado – February 21, 1971 (FREE)

“Little Yazoo was never exactly what you could call a town.

A tiny cluster of a dozen or so houses and stores… it would seem it existed mainly as an afterthought to transient motorists who forgot to get gas at the last stop up the road.

But for the people who lived there before Sunday night’s devastating tornado, Little Yazoo was very much a community.

The houses and trailers, now demolished or just plain gone, were homes for families, whose fathers worked in garages or grocery stores along Highway 49 and in the industrial plants in Yazoo and Flora. Some of the fathers worked the land also.

Something of a crossroads for isolated country villages in every direction, Little Yazoo had a church and a school and hopes for its children – just like any community many times larger.

Peculiar images seem to collect in the mind of one who has never before witnessed the awesome effects of a tornado.

One remembers the tiny, sad and somehow embarrassing details, long after the initial impact of the storm’s destruction has been reported, broken down into statistics and dollar signs and written into history.

One recalls the face of somebody’s son, smiling from beneath the shattered glass of a twisted picture frame… or bits of rumpled clothing scattered across a backyard… or among the branches of the trees along the roadside. The trees glistening like Christmas trees with scraps of tin wrapped and impaled against their branches.

One notices the people whose carpets, and books and underwear lie ruined amid mountains of mud and debris. People whose most personal belongings have been rudely snatched up by an uncaring nature and flung out along the ground for any passerby to see. The people don’t seem to realize they don’t know yet where they’ll be living for the next few months… or how they’ll clothe their children… or where they’ll send them to school.

One realizes that fear does not show itself in the faces of these people. They stare quietly, blankly ahead and talk of what they can salvage and “how good the Lord was” to save them.

They are strong people and one cannot help feeling that hardship is not a stranger to them. The men gather in little groups to figure how they’ll manage to rebuild the village; and the women make strong coffee and try to quell the anxieties of the little children, who don’t understand exactly why things aren’t the same as usual.

Soon helicopters whirr overhead. Teams of hardhats organize and begin to attack the scattered remains. Power lines snake the ground and wind around posts and tree trunks.

The governor comes by to shake hands and survey the damage. Traffic is detoured, but a steady stream of travelers and the curious manage to weave through a conglomeration of highway patrol cars, tow trucks and debris.

Clothing and food are collected for the suffering. Hospitals find extra beds for the injured, politicians cry “disaster area” and the dead are buried and mourned.

One soon notices that the tornado is spoken of in the past tense. People care, but after a while, they tend to forget. But the grueling task of rebuilding a town goes on.

And the dozen or so families who lived and worked and made homes for themselves in Little Yazoo and surrounding areas continue to hope and plan and build.”