I first heard the story of the 1925 tornado that obliterated Father Nerinckx’s historic log cabin from Daddy, who told it with all the flair of oral tradition. According to him, the twister left nothing of the small cabin but a pair of elderly Black residents sitting unscathed in their rocking chairs amid the wreckage. Not a single log remained, yet the couple had not a scratch on them. For good measure, Daddy would add that the tornado’s winds drove wheat straws so forcefully they pierced nearby fence posts like tiny arrows. It was an image that showed both the sheer ferocity of nature and the strange mysteries of survival.

    Daddy’s account, vivid as it was, wasn’t the whole story. Oral traditions are often like that—full of striking images but prone to omissions. Thanks to the research of Joseph Ellert Mudd, a fuller picture of the cabin’s history comes to light, filling in gaps and expanding the story beyond the storm that claimed it.

    It begins in 1812, when Father Charles Nerinckx established the Little Society, a fledgling religious order that later became the Sisters of Loretto. For over a decade, the log cabin at Little Loretta served as Father Nerinckx’s home and the headquarters of the Little Society near St. Charles Church in Kentucky.

    After his death in 1824, the Sisters moved to St. Stephen’s Farm, the present site of the Sisters of Loretto, nine miles away, leaving the cabin behind as a relic of their humble beginnings.

    In 1829, Austin Smith, a farmer and laborer, purchased the property. He and his wife, Kate, lived in the cabin for many years, raising their family within its historic walls. By 1895, recognizing the cabin’s significance, the Sisters of Loretto purchased one unit of the double cabin from Austin and his wife, moving it to their Motherhouse for preservation.

    Austin refused to leave the remaining portion of the cabin behind, even when his family encouraged him to move elsewhere. “This place has stood too long to be abandoned,” he reportedly told them. His deep attachment to the cabin kept him on the hill, even as the years weathered the structure around him.

    Then came the tornado of 1925. It was late afternoon, and the sky had turned dark, signaling an approaching storm. Two of Bernard Smith’s granddaughters, visiting their grandparents, hurried inside. The wind howled like a distant freight train, growing louder by the second. Their grandmother urged them to kneel and pray, exclaiming, “The upstairs windows are bursting out!”

    The tornado struck with a deafening roar. The air was filled with the sound of splintering wood as the cabin was lifted clean off its foundation, scattered like matchsticks down to Hardins Creek. When the storm finally passed, the cabin was gone. The only thing left was the rug on the floor, improbably intact, and the chimney, toppled nearby.

    Amid the wreckage, Austin sat in his rocking chair, most likely in shock. He did not move or speak for a long time, as though rooted to the place where so much history had unfolded.

    With the destruction of the cabin, a tangible connection to Father Nerinckx’s era was lost. Only the foundation stones and the toppled chimney remained to mark the spot where the Little Society had begun. But the story of the cabin—and the resilience of the people who lived within its walls—endured.

    For generations, the tale of the 1925 tornado has been told and retold, growing richer with each telling. It’s a story that speaks not only to the awesome power of nature but also to the enduring strength of human memory. Though the cabin itself is gone, its legacy survives in the stories that keep it alive. In this way, the past is never truly lost.