“Yeah, I got a story for you,” said the old woman in the nursing home.
She had midnight skin, dandelion-fuzz hair, and she smoked Newports. Each day she liked to park her wheelchair in the parking lot where she could face the supermarket, and watch all the happy customers walk in and out of Publix.
At the time, I was a cub reporter, looking to scare up a story for the local paper. Back when Americans still read newspapers.
The old woman faced Publix. She flicked her lighter, drew in a breath, then began to speak.
“You ain’t old enough to remember the flood,” she began.
The Great Flood of 1927 is not often remembered in our selective pop-culture history. Historically, we Americans tend to only remember wars, good-looking movie stars, and crappy pop songs. If you ask a schoolkid about the flood, odds are they’ll look at you as though you’ve got three heads, blink twice, then resume texting.
In 1927, the Mississippi remained at flood levels for 153 days. Rain kept falling. Waters kept rising. The icepacks of the north kept melting.
The river in Vicksburg broke 40 feet. Nashville and Chattanooga flooded. Creeks and tributaries as far away as Kansas and Iowa were inundated.
Nationwide, 170 counties and parishes were drowned, seven states flooded, and 900,000 were driven from their homes. The flood claimed lives from Virginia to Oklahoma.
“This story happened to my uncle…” she said.
Her uncle was married with kids. When the floodwaters invaded his home, the family moved upstairs to stay dry. When the second story flooded, the family moved to the roof. When waters finally engulfed the rooftop, her uncle swam ashore to find help, tied at the waist by a rope attached to his chimney.
“I don’t know how he made it to shore against those currents. Shoulda killed him.”
The family found safety in a church with about 200 others. That same night, while everyone was asleep in the pews, waters encroached. The church was soon underwater.
Everyone left for higher ground, hiking on foot, carrying belongings on their backs.
“Like the Children of Israel,” she said between puffs.
Eventually, they found themselves on a natural island, surrounded by miles of chocolate water.
“You ain’t never seen so much water. Dead cows was floating by. Sometimes a whole house would float by.”
They were trapped on this island for three days without food. Before long, people were fainting from exhaustion. Children were screaming.
An elderly preacher among them gathered everyone around and began to pray aloud. Although weakened from hunger, his prayer was not a request for deliverance.
His was a prayer of thanks. He thanked God for this predicament. He thanked God for sparing their lives. For keeping the children alive. And, above all, he prayed:
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
“Just then, a big old wooden crate came bobbing down the river…”
The crate landed ashore.
When men pried the crate open, many were so moved with emotion that they broke down and wept.
Inside were hundreds of loaves of fresh bread, wrapped in wax paper, sealed dry from the floodwaters. All ate and were satisfied, and there were twelve baskets left over.
It bears mentioning: For nearly 20 years I’ve searched to verify the old woman’s story. I’ve searched audio-recorded accounts. I’ve searched historic newspapers. I’ve looked through folklore archives. But try as I may, I cannot certify that this tale happened. So, I have no choice but to take it in good faith. Of which I have so little.
But as I understand, it doesn’t take much.