Tag Archives: #SETX

Thoughts and Ramblings: Pearl Harbor Meant the Age of No Candy; Audie Murphy; Cecil Bordages; The Gates Memorial Library; Interurban; Bill Quick.

Posted on by

The eighty-first anniversary of Pearl Harbor was this week, and all those I’ve talked with, who were children at the time of the attack, have similar memories. Most didn’t know where Pearl Harbor was and didn’t understand what was happening, but later, when the rationing of sugar and candy began, as children, this really hit home. The older folks, from age fifteen to people in their thirties, who understood what had happened, signed up for service soon after the attack. And yes, many fifteen-plus-year-olds attempted to serve their country. Some even made it to the theaters of war. Audie Murphy was sixteen when he infiltrated the US Army with the help of his older sister, who falsified documents for him. I guess the US Army should be glad that they got duped because no other soldier was decorated more than that little underweight sixteen-year-old.

During the Great War, a fifteen-year-old from Beaumont named Cecil Bordages was attending a private school in New York but decided to enlist to serve his country in 1918. Being large for his age, Cecil looked older than he was, so he was accepted into the Mounted Service Field Artillery 162nd Ammunition Train Twenty-Seventh Division; I would assume he then went off to France with Company F 102nd Ammunition Train. His actual age was discovered, and the army was ready to send him back, but his mother basically told them not to bother, as he would just go back to his unit if they did. He served a year and made it back to the United States. Based on some of the Beaumont Enterprise articles I’ve read, he lived a good and fruitful life with many mentions of helping others. I even saw an article that said he helped the Empty Stocking Fund.

A couple of other anniversaries that occurred in December were the opening of the Gates Memorial Library in Port Arthur and the inauguration of the interurban. The Gates library opened to the public on December 1, 1917, but wasn’t dedicated until May 18, 1918. The library, a gift of Mrs. Dellora Gates to Port Arthur, was in memory of her husband John “Bet-a-Million” Gates and her son Charles. The dedication coincided with another event called “Gates Day.” This event began in 1912 to pay tribute to the late Mr. Gates on his birthday for his contributions to Port Arthur. Gates died in Paris on August 9, 1911. The annual celebration took place each May 18 until 1921, when the Gates family requested its end.

I’ve mentioned John “Bet-a-Million” Gates before, and I stand by the fact that if he hadn’t been here, nothing in Port Arthur would have been built. Arthur Stilwell was all hat, no cattle, and a bit of a loon. But I digress.

December 15 will mark the 109th anniversary of the opening of regular service on the interurban line between Beaumont and Port Arthur. Yes, the Texas Historical Marker in front of the building that used to be its starting point says August 16, but all evidence states otherwise. Would I dare talk smack about the Texas Historical Commission? Of course I would, because it’s wrong. As the final piece of evidence, I’ll throw in a photo of a plaque in which William D. “Bill” Quick’s name is at the bottom, which gives the same info. So, what is an interurban you might ask, and who is Bill Quick?

First, the interurban was an electric train that serve Jefferson County residents from December 15, 1913, to August 15, 1932. The tracks extended from Austin Avenue in Port Arthur to Orleans Street in Beaumont. The train would make nineteen trips per day with an early start at 5:45 a.m. and a midnight finish. Tickets cost ninety cents for a roundtrip or fifty cents one-way and were prorated for the ten stops between the two cities. Stops along the way included South Park, Spindletop, Nederland, Rice Farm, and Griffing/Pear Ridge.

I’ve always found the fact that our county had an electric train in 1913 fascinating. Even more intriguing is how someone in Jefferson County could make ice in August in the 1900s. I’m not a scientist, so I don’t know how that’s possible; I’ll leave it to you engineers who run the great ice Illuminati.

William D. Quick was a historian who lived in Nederland. I never met him, but I guarantee you that every time I do some research, he is in my head, guiding me to try to be as accurate as possible. I attended my first Jefferson County Historical Commission meeting a year to the day that Bill passed. He influenced many people in his life as a researcher/historian, and I talked to many of them in the last ten years. I was honored and excited to be able to go through his research at the Sam Houston Research Center in Liberty. He was very thorough in his work, and I often draw on his example. I was told that when doing research, you should have at least three sources. Bill didn’t go for hearsay; he wanted facts, not content with publishing books.

Bill Quick’s interest in history was vast; he particularly loved Sabine Pass, the beach, and the Sabine lighthouse. Hell, I believe he owned the latter at one point. There is so much information on the Sabine lighthouse in his research at the Sam Center—it’s a researcher’s dream. I’ve used a couple of articles he had in his notes that I’ve never seen anywhere else. One is the 1932 article on the abandoned Lewis Cemetery; the other talks about when Magnolia Cemetery used to have barge funerals because it was too wet and muddy to get to the site. Although I never met Mr. Quick, I follow what he brought to historical research. No one is perfect, and I usually suck at dates and details, but I do want my research to be accurate for others to use. I like to think that Bill Quick is still guiding those of us who care about our history.

Well, that’s it for this week. If you’re in a giving mood, please donate to the Empty Stocking Fund.

https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=X94T5X2AMU82S

Life in Jefferson County in World War II: https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2013/05/25/life-in-jefferson-county-during-world-war-ii/

Audie Murphy: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Audie_Murphy

John “Bet-a-Million” Gates: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Warne_Gates

The Interurban:

Interurban Railway
100th Anniversay of the Interurban

Sabine Lighthouse:

Sabine Lighthouse

Thoughts and ramblings: Santa is a mobster, so meet his henchmen, Krampus and the Belsnickel; The Milk and Ice Fund, the Empty Stocking Fund, and Florence Stratton; What the hell is Vichy water?; The dog got a military funeral; Kaitlin Bain.

Posted on by
Photo credit: Beaumont Enterprise

December is here, and I assume Santa is tuning up the sleigh and flight-testing his reindeer for the big event this month. A dodgy elf, to whom I venmoed twenty euros for his secret dentistry school fund, told me Saint Nick is also giving marching orders to Krampus and the Belsnickel. They will deal with those not-so-good children who don’t like to be judged by an old fat guy who keeps tabs on them. If you don’t know who these two Santa mobsters are, there is a link at the bottom of the blog. Basically, these two are doing Santa’s dirty work. Yes, I’m calling Saint Nick a mob boss. Sorry, not sorry!

December is also a time when people tend to be in a giving mood. You might have read Florence Stratton’s reference to this in last week’s “Thoughts and ramblings.” As part of my research, I found many examples that suggested she had a big heart and cared about those who were less fortunate than her. The last “Susie Spindletop’s Weekly Letter,” which Bill Beaumont wrote because Florence died after undergoing surgery in January 1938, mentions her philanthropic side. Florence always gave money to those who sought her out. This was the ‘30s, and there were many people in need. One thing I will add is that this area didn’t suffer as much as the rest of the country during the Depression, but SETX wasn’t immune to the global downturn. People suffered. Bill Beaumont brought up a reference to Florence’s worries about the Chinese people. Again, this was the 1930s, and the Japanese did all kinds of things to civilians in the Chinese territories they invaded.

Florence was a single woman who lived from 1881 to 1938 and who relied on no one to feed her. Although she was not rich, she was self-sufficient and made a good living. She cared for those around her, which is why she started the Milk and Ice Fund at the Beaumont Journal in 1915. The exact date of the beginning of the Milk and Ice Fund is currently lost, but someone who cares is presently in charge of the Empty Stocking Fund at the Beaumont Enterprise, which followed Florence’s fund, and I’m happy about that! I assume that the Milk and Ice Fund began in San Antonio in 1915. There was an active fund at the San Antonio Light newspaper, and Florence had ties to San Antonio, Brazoria County, and the whole country. Throughout her life, Florence used other people’s ideas for the good of others and herself. She made a profit on her book about O. Henry’s postscripts, which rehashed old William Sydney Porter’s (O. Henry) collection of articles from the Houston Post, owned by her good friend W. P. Hobby. She also published a book entitled Favorite Recipes of Famous Women. Willie Cooper, her best friend, who was also married to W. P. Hobby, would siphon off these recipes to her. The book starts with Florence being ticked off because a man wrote Favorite Recipes of Famous Men. In her forward, she rails against this book’s recipes and its author. She was right in doing so, but I want to know what the hell is Vichy water,” which she mentions in her book. The recipe for how to boil a potato by Alice Robertson, a former congresswoman from Oklahoma, is pretty much in line with that of the original men’s book, but at least no one died, unlike when Florence tried out one of the recipes. I’ll put the full text at the bottom of this blog, but at least she gave the dog a military funeral.

I’m happy that someone at the Enterprise cares about revamping this project—it should be done. Florence would have loved this, and I’m all in if she is behind it. Thank you for your efforts in updating this charity, Kaitlin Bain.

And with this, I hand over the reins to Susie Spindletop, because no other person could rant and ramble here.

A Foreword

I am going to be frank with you. In a misguided moment I began a study of dietetics. This comes into every person’s life at some time and I was not immune. I purchased a cook book, and took it home filled with conflicting emotions.

It was assembled recipes of noted men of this country. I took the compiled ignorance of the intellectuals of America and went singing into my kitchen to indulge my gustatory proclivities on a feast of fat things.

I hummed in a business like manner as I opened the book on the page where Thomas H. Ince gives his famous recipe for chicken halibut and I sang in melodious unison with the teapot as I “boiled some slices of halibut in court bouillon.” The instructions then required that I “have a layer of bechamel on the bottom of the dish.” I have never heard of bechamel, and it sounded like a trick ad in Health Hints. I didn’t know whether it meant another fish or was a Latin name for table soda. I looked at every bottle and box in the pantry and I couldn’t find any, so I asked the cook if she had any bechamel in the house and she said: “Naw, m’m, Ah use vanilla and it’s jes’s good” So I flavored the dish well with vanilla and went back to my book for additional instructions, and found that I had to sprinkle with “parmesan.” I hadn’t heard of that. I never even dreamed that a cook required a college education. Again I turned helplessly to the cook and asked her to find me some parmesan. She looked as blank as I felt or rather as I wanted to express myself. I could have used several blanks. “We don’t never use dat stuff; jes a little coconut in it and let it brown.”

I did it.

I guess I must have let the “slices of halibut boil too long in the court bouillon.” Something was wrong. It didn’t jell. I threw it out of the window and the dog ate it.

The next day I gave the dog a military funeral.

Florence Stratton

Krampus:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krampus

Belsnickel:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belsnickel

Donate to the Empty Stocking Fund: https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=X94T5X2AMU82S

Thoughts and Ramblings: don’t go to Bobby Boucher’s house for Thanksgiving: Iron Chef and the great turkey battle; seventy-ninth anniversary of the Battle of Tarawa; Murray Anderson; Welsh calculus; Susie Spindletop’s my closer.

Posted on by

I hope everyone had a Thanksgiving of plenty and a decent nap afterward while someone in your household watched some foosball. Bobby Boucher’s mother would not be happy with this situation, but then again, I wouldn’t want to have dinner at her cabin. I’ve seen some of her slithering dishes, and nutria nourishment is not something I would wish to partake in either.

Here under the oaks at Ye Olde Block Farm, it’s been an annual event to begin preparing Thursday’s feast on Wednesday, starting at 1 p.m. It’s almost a cosplay of the original Iron Chef series from the ‘90s. But here it’s the “great turkey battle,” and not some other weird stuff Mrs. Boucher would probably like. There is a difference between Iron Chef America and the original show. I remember a friend who tried to watch the Japanese version in the 2000s. Unfortunately, he saw the “great piglet battle.” If you’ve seen the show, then you know they highlight an ingredient. Chop, chop the piglets. They weren’t alive, like the “great sturgeon battle,” but it took him a week to recover from seeing that one. The dinner turned out well, and I’m glad it’s over. As far as my friend is concerned, he knows to stay out of my kitchen.

This week was the seventy-ninth anniversary of the Battle of Tarawa. Port Arthur native Hugo DeBretagne gave his life on D-day three of Operation Galvanic. It was the final day of the battle, and only his comrades know what happened; I couldn’t find any specific information in the war diaries released in 2012. I know nine marines were killed that day, compared to the 1,000 that perished in the first two days of fighting. This wasn’t the first battle that Hugo had been in. I assume he was in the Guadalcanal campaign with the Second Marines (I want to look further into this). I do know that his brother was. Thankfully, James DeBretagne made it out of WWII alive, but not without receiving the Purple Heart.

Both Hugo and his brother James weren’t the only ones who had a tie to this area and fought in the Battle of Tarawa. Murry Anderson, born in Whitney, Texas, grew up on his family’s farm in Deport, near Paris (also Texas). On the Tyler Knows Everything podcast, Murray said he “was doing a man’s work at the farm at age six.” Whether cutting or picking cotton, milking the cows each morning, or picking the corn, it was a rough life during the Depression. When he was seventeen, his father died in the spring of 1942, and the farm became financially unviable. He moved with his mother and his sisters to Dallas. He had six sisters (four got married and lived in Dallas).

Murray’s dream was to fly planes for the Navy, but he didn’t pass the examination. So, he joined the Marine Corps hoping to fly in their corps. The day he was to depart for boot camp, he got a telegram from Washington stating that there had been a mistake in the grading of the exam and that he had passed. He was to report to Hensley Field Naval Air Station in Dallas for flight training. He contacted the Marine Corps about the mistake and was told, “Sorry, but you are in the Marine Corps.” I guess this is why their slogan is “The few, the proud.”

Murray Anderson moved to Beaumont in 1958 and wrote a book about his time in the Marine Corps. The Unrelenting Test of War is an excellent recounting of the history of what he and his fellow marines faced. It is also a gem for understanding what people actually felt and went through back then. I’ll also give a massive shout-out to Tyler Troutman for his interview with Murray in 2020. He has many other stories on the podcast, including how Murray met his wife.

Murray Anderson passed in June of this year, so I want to include the podcast to tell the story in his own words. Our veterans from that era are dying, and every story should be told. Thanks to all who collect the oral histories of these men and women, because I hope that someone in the future will have enough sense to learn the hell this generation endured. Many people complain about their lives and how hard it is nowadays. I see boomers, Generation Xers, millennials, and Generation Zers crying about one thing or another, but try living through the Depression as a child and then fighting a two-front war that didn’t really affect your family, even though you went through a lot of crap that they would never experience and wouldn’t understand. This was the greatest generation, and don’t ever let some boomer tell you otherwise, unless it’s a Vietnam vet, because they got the shaft from the other boomers. Change my mind!

Well, I have to cut this week’s ramble short because I’m currently doing Welsh calculus before Tuesday’s match with the Three Lions. I’ll leave you with an excerpt from “Susie Spindletop’s Weekly Letter” dated November 27, 1927, because Susie was always a strong closer.

Dear Della-

Thanksgiving has come and gone, as you may have noticed, and now for the greatest convention week of the year. I refer to that season commonly known as Christmas when folks do exactly what they are supposed to do because they are supposed to do it. As currently conducted the Yuletide period could not be more stereotyped were it the work of a luncheon club. It is very cut and dried.

But there, there! I mustn’t be dampish. I may believe that persons give presents they have no right to give, and grind their teeth while doing so; I may believe that thousands of stupid cards are sent out every year, with engraved sentiments mailed out to a long-list of friends; I may believe that every household, with very, very few exceptions, labors earnestly and usually unsuccessfully to retain that old timey spirit, but it is rather unbecoming for me to say so isn’t it?

One thing is gloriously beautiful- about Christmas as ever, Della, and that is the steadfast illusions of the children. Anything we can do to continue this charming deceit is effort well spent. Any invention we can supply that will make old Santa invade a snowless country with reindeer and sleigh is an invention which though one of the most impossible frauds ever imposed on an unsuspecting and trustful juvenile, ought to be continued.

And that reminds me of a commercialized Christmas story told in newspaper circles. Seems that an ambitious automobile agent in a southern city wanted to advertise old Nick as coming to town in a limousine Eight, or whatever make of car it was he represented. He had a commercial artist draw up a picture showing Santa at the steering wheel, just lickety splitting into town. He took the ad to the local daily. And the daily would not accept it.

“No, sir,” said the advertising manager, shaking his head, “that won’t go with the kiddies. You may have the best car in the world, but Santa isn’t supposed to know it. He still travels behind reindeer in this paper.

So said Susie November 27, 1927

Iron Chef: Suckling Pig Battle Chen vs Stelvio

222 – The Costliest Day in US Marine History – WW2:

The Unrelenting Test of War by Murray Anderson

Tyler Knows Everything podcast: https://youtu.be/JN-z-QB9TOg

Thoughts and Ramblings: transferring prisoners on a cemetery tour on Veterans Day; cemetery symbolism; Brandon and Skipwith may have been a thing; Woodmen of the World; International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo; Yma o Hyd

Posted on by
Blue skies and tailwinds

This is the last time on Thoughts and Ramblings that I’ll mention what happened last week, but I wanted to include the faces of the people and a few words. I will digress more on this subject on Mondays if needed. Every time I came upon the B-17 Texas Raiders at the airshows, the crew was out there greeting the visitors with a smile and their history lessons. When I first went inside the old girl as a child, I was mesmerized by the plane. A fortress indeed. After many years and crew changes, the guys’ attitude remained the same. They always put the history of the B-17 Texas Raiders front and center. At every airshow I attended, those who manned the Texas Raiders were cutting it up with the kids who showed up for their first event. Even today, that’s something that impacts children. I know the airshow will go on, but that B-17 with only one wheel trying to land during the Tora Airshow will never happen again, and there’s history to that (link below); unfortunately, though, those guys are no longer here to explain its significance to you. We lost six great men on Saturday, and here are their names and faces.

https://warbirdsnews.com/warbird-articles/texas-raiders-one-wheel-tribute.html

Terry Barker, Craig Hutain, Kevin “K5” Michels, Dan Ragan, Leonard “Len” Root, and Curt Rowe.

Without any knowledge of what happened, I’ll add that Craig Hutain was usually the guy in the P-40 that chased the zeros during the Tora shows. He had been flying since he was ten years old (that’s not a typo). As you can imagine, with over fifty years of flying experience, he was an expert. Here, under the oaks on Ye Olde Block’s farm, they will all be remembered. Please keep the families of these men in your prayers.

Blue skies and tailwinds.

Thoughts and Ramblings: transferring prisoners on a cemetery tour on Veterans Day; cemetery symbolism; Brandon and Skipwith may have been a thing; Woodmen of the World; International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo; Yma o Hyd

On Veterans Day, we did a Magnolia Cemetery tour for those who signed up for the McFaddin-Ward House and Museum lecture series. It went really well. Those walking tours are good because you can discuss history in a different setting compared to when someone is stationed at their spot. I love our Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour, but unfortunately, I’ve never taken it because I’m too busy at my station. Still, I did have spies out with digital recorders, and I must say (again) that I love our presenters!

Inside the Norvell Mausoleum

That day, the tour was originally meant to consist of two tours that would last an hour each, scheduled at different times, with Judy Linsley and I as the guides. But things got crossed in the timey-wimey email universe. In the end, though, we did it. We decided that the short tour could be split into two areas. One covered the hill and the original plots of the cemetery, while the other included its lower portion.  Since Judy knows the hill better than me, she would take her group up there and talk for thirty minutes while I took my group around the lower part and talked about those residents. It worked out well because if you want to know about those on the hill, Judy is the one to listen to. I know my people and stories around the office and the flagpole. We agreed that we would do a prisoner exchange at the thirty-minute mark in the middle of the tour area, at the Keith plot where Tom the Tramp is interred. Yes, it was my idea to transfer the people on the tour between the two of us. I thought that by listening to guides who know their subject, the visitors would have a better experience. It was also me who called it a prisoner exchange. This is how my mind works, so consider it if you want me to speak at your event. Thanks to all who participated. I assume you enjoyed the tour because you were a great crew.

One thing that I brought up on the tour was the cemetery’s symbolism and some fraternal features. A funerary urn, for example, represents immortality. If there’s a drape over the urn, it symbolizes the veil between life and death. A broken obelisk or column means a life that ended prematurely. One obelisk on the hill was put there to memorialize Brandon Chaison, who died aged twenty-one when he was thrown off his horse. Family tradition holds that he and Skipwith McFaddin, W. P. H. McFaddin’s daughter from his first wife, were in love. I will also add that one of my favorite names is Skipwith. The other two are Seawillow and Fannie. My stepdaughters are thankful that I was not around in the naming department, but they might make a fantastic Brady Bunch reboot if anyone’s interested. I threw that out to you for free. Sorry if you’re named Marcia, Jan, or Cindy, but those names rock!

Woodmen of the World

When you scan over the many acres of headstones in Magnolia or any old cemetery, you may see ones that look like tree stumps. They are the product of the Woodmen of the World, an insurance company back in the day. The company is still around, but I believe they’re not as prominent as used to be. The Woodmen of the World derived from the Modern Woodmen of America, a fraternal group founded in 1883. The Woodmen advertised themselves as an organization for the “Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant, the agnostic and atheist.” In other words, they didn’t care who you were; they just wanted your money.

In Magnolia Cemetery, you can find many different fraternal groups. The Odd Fellows are a prominent one; they even have their own section. I’m always wondering if today we could bring back to SETX some sort of fraternal order, such as the International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo, Inc. They are still active but have too many restrictive rules that I don’t agree with. However, I’m game for using a Cheshire cat as a mascot. Anyway, this order was founded in Arkansas in 1892 during a layover by some guys from the timber and lumber industry whose train had broken down. I’m sure debauchery ensued, and we had another order that today lives on as a webpage. They were big back then until the depression hit. Who knows what the actual order is up to now? Illuminati stuff probably, because their symbol is a cat, and cats want to take over the world. Please tell this to the Dogtober people in Beaumont; Catvember is all they ask for, but I digress.

The World Cup begins today in Qatar, and I was just informed that no beer will be sold in the stadiums. I blame FIFA for this; my condolences to the English, the Germans, and the Welsh for this tragedy.

Until next week, cheers mate! Gott ein Bier! Yma o Hyd (we’re still here, and to hell with everyone else, because we’re Cymru!).

Craig Hutain flying the P40:

One Wheel Tribute by Kevin Michels:

https://warbirdsnews.com/warbird-articles/texas-raiders-one-wheel-tribute.html

Gravestone symbols:

http://wolfememorial.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/GRAVESTONE-SYMBOLS-and-THEIR-MEANINGS.pdf

Woodmen of the World:

https://www.woodmenlife.org/about/history/

Odd Fellows:

Home

International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo, Incorporated:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Concatenated_Order_of_Hoo-Hoo

Dogtoberfest:

Home 2023

Yma o Hyd:

Thoughts and Ramblings: Me, Krampus, and der Belsnickel will be up to nothing; World War I memorial; the Beaumont Boys; Minor’s cross

Posted on by

My calendar is done until February, so Krampus, der Belsnickel, and I will enjoy nothing at all until then. Actually, I am looking forward to bringing up a Welsh character called the Mari Lwyd, but that’s in December, so no more Welshness until then. However, I will say that it’s a guy dressed in a sackcloth with a horse skull on top that knocks on your door and incites a rap battle for your food and alcohol! I love the Welsh! Stay tuned.

At both the lecture and the cemetery tour, we discussed the movement/committee that wants to move the World War I memorial from Triangle Park to Magnolia Cemetery. I’m sure you’re wondering where this park is located, and I’m also certain that you didn’t know there was a memorial dedicated to the Beaumont Boys who died in World War I. Well, the current location is on Main street, in front of the old Beaumont Enterprise building, across the street from the Fire Museum of Texas. Triangle Park may be the smallest park in Texas because it’s triangle-shaped with only the monument and a bunch of aggressive jasmine as greenery. Truth be told, the memorial used to be in Keith Park, located at the present-day site of the Julie Rogers Theatre, which was built as the original city hall in 1927.

The memorial was a project of a community of Beaumonters who wished to honor those who died in the Great War, whether in battle or during the Spanish flu pandemic. The Beaumont Journal led the fundraising, which consisted of donations of no more than $5 per person, so that as many people as possible could donate to the memorial. Initially, the monument was supposed to have the names of all the Beaumont Boys who perished inscribed on it, but this never happened. Though if these fine folks/extraordinary researchers get their way, it will finally happen. I’m excited about this, and so are the people at Magnolia Cemetery. So, if you know anyone pulling the strings at the City of Beaumont, you may mention this project. All help is appreciated!

Twenty-four Beaumont Boys were brought back home after the war. Twenty-two of them are interred in Magnolia, and two are down the road in Evergreen Cemetery. George Carroll Smart, the first Beaumont Boy to make the ultimate sacrifice, is buried near the flag pole in his family’s plot. Shortly after his death, George’s sister received a letter from Captain T. C. Reid, Commander of the Thirty-eighth Infantry, with details of his death.

“Private Smart died as is only a good soldier’s privilege, namely: facing and fighting bravely our enemies. Private Smart has always shown himself to be a very good soldier, always obeying orders readily and in every way earning the highest esteem of his officers and fellow soldiers; his comrades are to this day mourning the loss of a dear friend and good soldier who gave up his life gladly and bravely while fighting for humanity and liberty.

His grave is located on Moulins Hill, overlooking the river Marne. Our local chaplain placed a cross with his name and number on it and offered a very appropriate prayer over his grave, and I think nearly every officer and man in the company paid his last respect to him before leaving that area. Please accept my deepest sympathy in your bereavement.”

A sad way to learn of your loved one’s death, but George did come home, which somehow brought closure to the family. Others did not get that luxury. Their loved ones still lie somewhere in Europe, never to return.

A few years ago, I was photographing headstones in Magnolia and came upon an old cross with the words “That I Gave, That I Have.” I didn’t learn the meaning of these words until last week when I was in the same area. I was searching for the Minor family plot to see if one of the Beaumont Boys, Farrell Dabney Minor, was ever brought back. As I noticed the cross again, I saw a Daughters of the Texas Revolution medallion on it, so I checked the name. The cross is for Eleanor Minor. Her husband, Farrell Dabney, and she lie side by side. There was no trace of their son Farrell Dabney Minor Jr. Eleanor gave everything she had for the war effort, but he never returned.

Until next week, welcome home, boys.

Thoughts and Ramblings: 2nd Annual Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour; McFaddin-Ward House Museum Lecture Series; Wanda of the North End was a good person; Wanda of the West End hates Smurfs and Bette Midler; Welshyness and the Three Lions; Bigfoot may have scared a child, but he has no TWIC card or ISTC badge to be on the land near Oak Bluff Cemetery.

Posted on by
Photo Credit: Port Arthur News 10.31.1984

Our 2nd Annual Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour was this week, and I would like to thank everyone who came out and supported us. It’s always a free event, and we strive to improve it. We have a lot of great people volunteering their time to bring out the history of both Beaumont and Southeast Texas, and we are blessed to have them.

Art of Unliving Beaumont Enterprise

If you missed the event but want to take the tour, then you are in luck. In November, we will be part of the McFaddin-Ward House Museum’s lecture series. Our lecture is on Thursday, November 10, at 6:30 p.m. Two hour-long tours will be conducted on Friday, November 11. These will be walking tours, and they will cover the same ground as the ones held in October. You will need to sign up for the tours with McFaddin-Ward House; check their website for further details. I always enjoy the walking tours because we can cover more history.

On Halloween of 1985, Port Arthur News staff writer Cynthia Cook ran a story about a Beaumont Witch that she fictitiously named Wanda. Don’t worry; this Wanda was from the North End, and who I did correspond with. At the time, her other sister from the West End was too busy griping about those “Blue Devil” Smurfs taking over the children‘s souls while they watched the cartoon to notice me. All I will say is that it never ends well for Wanda of the West End.

It was a decent article, but the historical claims made by the reporter were sketchy at best. Even so, Wanda was a good person. I wrote to her because, in the article, she called herself a White Witch, which translates to healer in the old country. If you were to apply the term nowadays, she would be classified as more of an Appalachian Granny Magic Witch. Yes, that is a thing. To be precise, I thought of her as being more in the New Age movement and not as a witch per se. She was very positive and yearned to help however she could.

At that point in life, I was into English history and obsessed with a book by Elizabeth Goudge called The White Witch, published in 1958. I tried to write a few of my own, not very good, stories. These were historical fiction from a place I’d never visited. Nonetheless, I was determined. I told her of my interest in English/Welsh history, and she referred me to a book by Evangeline Walton called The Song of Rhiannon. This was part of a four-book epic based on the Mabinogion. The Mabinogion, based on old oral legends, was written between 1050 and 1225 by Christian monks. It was translated into English by Charlotte Guest in 1838, although William Owen Pughe did translate a few stories in journals in 1795, 1821, and 1829. These were the stories left over after the Arthurian legends we know today as the story of King Arthur.

Some of you may recognize Rhiannon from Stevie Nick’s song. Yes, this is the same story, but Rhiannon wasn’t a witch. She was a goddess in the Welsh pantheon. Who knew that Wales had a pantheon like the Greeks and Romans? (Rant incoming.) Hell, the Welsh can’t even get a different shade of color on a map of the UK, which I know ticks them off. Well, this year is different, because guess who’s in the World Cup? This should be interesting. #Cymru. Sorry for the excess “Welshyness.” (Is that even a word?) I’m sure my editor will be annoyed at me for that, but 40 years of pain supporting the Three Lions (England) has taken its toll.

I learned from Wanda that it doesn’t matter what your story is. Put it out there. And I did, 28 years later, by publishing a book. I will get into that next week. I often wonder what happened to Wanda and hope her life is still positive. As for Wanda from the West End, she is currently up in arms about trying to block Bette Midler from sending curses through her television. Sistas! She never stops.

Up until a few years ago, I would visit Oak Bluff Cemetery in Port Neches, and I always wondered why there were no trespassing signs near the bayou. Then I googled a KBMT News story that happened. Apparently, someone showed up with a camera and took a fuzzy picture of Bigfoot throwing rocks on Refinery land. I will say that that hairy beast has neither a TWIC card nor an ISTC badge. This means that he is unauthorized to be on that property. And yes, he will suffer the consequences. That being said, I do not believe that Bigfoot was throwing rocks at Oak Bluff Cemetery. Though there was that one time when something showed up at the Sabine lighthouse.

There is an article in the Port Arthur News dated October 31, 1984, by staff writer Peggy Slasman. Slasman had interviewed a Port Arthur resident whose father was the Sabine lighthouse keeper in 1905. The story began as the fog rolled over the marsh, and the lighthouse keeper’s 10-year-old daughter stepped out on the porch to enjoy her favorite time of day. Unfortunately, this morning was different. The silence of the early morning was broken by movement in the marsh. She peered out over the railings, wondering what could be lurking near, when suddenly, she saw something so terrible that she screamed and fainted.

Her parents later found and revived the child. Both dismissed their daughter’s story as a figment of her wild imagination, but they couldn’t help but notice her obsession with her tale.

A month later, the lighthouse keeper was hunting in the marsh when he heard movement in the reeds. He crouched down and stared in the direction of the sound. To his dismay, before him stood an eight-foot-tall, hairy, dark, ugly “thing,” which scared the lighthouse keeper so much that he ran toward the safety of the lighthouse, forgetting his loaded rifle in his haste.

The monster was seen by others 12 times that year, but it never harmed anyone. Most Sabine residents believed it to be a bear, which is indeed quite possible, but one can only speculate. That same year, a storm flooded the marsh, and the beast was supposedly drowned or washed out to sea. However, according to Slasman’s article, some say it still lurks in the marsh. I have no idea, but whether it’s Bigfoot or Kisselpoo, those mosquitoes are brutal.

Next week, it’s time to Niitakayama Nobore at Ellington Field in Houston. These people put on a great event. I’ll leave a link to it.

Until next week, keep your cauldrons close, and don’t let Wanda of the West End near it.

Appalachian Granny Magic –

https://www.learnreligions.com/appalachian-folk-magic-4779929

Mabinogion –

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mabinogion

https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofWales/The-Mabinogion/

http://www.mabinogion.info/rhiannon.htm

Bigfoot –

http://texascryptidhunter.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-port-neches-wood-ape-sighting.html

Bessie Reid and the story of Kisselpoo; Sorry for ruining your childhood stories; Iron Eyes Cody was Italian; Gremlins in the courthouse; Old Roy

Posted on by

Bessie Reid wrote the Legend of Kisselpoo in 1923. It was published in the Port Arthur News on July 1st. The story was epic because it was derived from Indian legends found from New Mexico to Louisiana. With Florence Stratton, Reid also published a textbook called When the Storm God Rides in 1936, but this book does not concern the history of SETX except for one link. I’ll add the story and then get in the weeds of our area.

It is when that orb sheds its full light across the lake that the story has its greatest attraction. Then the tale-tellers declare, in the silvery path across the twinkling water, sometimes can be seen a canoe bearing a boy and girl in strange clothing, paddling up the shimmering moon way.

The tribe of Kisselpoo, so runs the ancient story, lived by the lake; and she, the only child of the chieftain, had been born when the moon was full and was under the protection of the moon goddess. When Kisselpoo was fifteen years old, tales of her beauty and ability had traveled far, and many braves from other tribes came to woo her. The one whom the leaders favored was head of several groups whose land adjoined to the north; and, although he was older than her father and already had many wives, arrangements were made for their marriage.

When nuptial preparations were far advanced, a stranger, whose home was seven sleeps distant toward the setting sun, arrived in the village. He was tall and straight as the pines, and for gifts he brought arm bands of a shining metal, set with stones like rainbows and like the blue of the skies. Kisselpoo loved him, but her wedding was set for the time when the moon would be at its brightest. That night as the luminous disc rose over the horizon, she waited in her finery for other maidens of the village to come to her father’s lodge and lead her to the elderly northern chief.

Instead, she heard the westerner’s deep voice softly speak her name, and with him she fled through reeds and grass to the lake where a canoe lay waiting. Swiftly they glided out on the water; but already the princess had been missed, and pursuit, led by the chieftain from the north and medicine men of her own tribe, was close. Her father did not participate in the chase, for he had dreamed a dream in which the moon goddess appeared to him and urged him to let his daughter wed the Indian from the west.

The medicine men called down the wrath of their gods, and a storm came up, ruffling the lake and upsetting the canoe, so that the eloping pair was last seen in the path of moonlight. Thereupon, the moon goddess, angered, called upon her kinsman, the storm god from the tropics, who rode in on a devastating hurricane. When at last the waves retreated into the Gulf, there was nothing left of the village or its inhabitants. The moon goddess decreed that the Lake of the River of Cypress Trees, for allowing itself to yield to the medicine men’s commands, should slowly disappear and all the streams that feed it bear down silt and mud to fill it.

For many moons after the great storm, the waters of the lake were clouded with mud, and its sandy bottom was covered with silt. The fish that were once abundant were now only a few. The sandy shores of the lake were stained, and shorebirds that once nested in the reeds and fished the shallow flats were gone. However, the spirit of the young lovers has remained with the lake that Kisselpoo loved so dearly. The moon goddess has shown forgiveness, and the lake is free of the curse that could have destroyed it. One can only assume that Kisselpoo had asked her protector, the moon goddess, to restore the beauty of the place of her birth. Now a swift current from the River of Cypress Trees is sweeping away the silt, and a fine sand shall again cover the lake floor.

With each new moon, the water becomes clearer, and great schools of fish have returned to the lake. Beautiful shorebirds and waterfowl have also returned to the sandy shores, along the salt marshes where alligators and furbearing animals abound. Meanwhile on a night when the full moon is rising, to those who have the power to see such things, appears the canoe with its two occupants who shall watch over Lake Sabine and protect its beauty until the last full moon.

One thing that this story mentions is when the god Hurrican devastates the area. In an article entitled Southeast Texas Indian Homeland, W. T. Block says that the demise of the Nacazil tribe in this area might have been caused by the Great Hurricane of 1780. I don’t know if this is factually true, but it would fit into Bessie Reid’s take on the story (if she even knew that a hurricane had hit the Texas gulf coast at that time). Unfortunately, W. T. Block’s notes are not present, and I have no way to confirm this, but it did make a great story!

I’m no expert on indigenous peoples, but I do see that a few are embracing their Karankawa ancestry. I wish them well and hope they don’t invite me to lunch.

Now that I’ve ruined a few people’s childhood stories of the beautiful Kisselpoo, who didn’t exist, I would like to take it further. Do you remember that Indian in the 1970s commercial crying because West-End Wanda was throwing her Burger Chef wrappers out the window of her 1970 Ford Pinto? He was Italian—but I digress.

Jefferson County Courthouse 2012

On Wednesday, I attended a Jefferson County Historical Commission meeting. The gremlins were in full force around the elevators and possibly in the County Clerk’s office as well. Our usual quorum was met, plus some familiar faces to everyone’s delight. After the meeting, while taking the suspect elevator that made a few members late, I glanced at the panel and remembered that the courthouse is thirteen stories, and at one time, the county jail took up five of them. I toured the floors early in my journey in SETX history and will leave links to both the article and the photos at the bottom of this blog.

At our after-meeting (the one in the parking lot, because we were kicked out when they closed the building—as usual), I brought up a memory of working in a shipyard, which I try to forget, but it did make me think of my neighbor Roy in Port Arthur. He taught me many things in life and was a godsend and an excellent source of information. He worked in the shipyards in New Orleans during WWII, and he talked about it frequently with me because he knew I enjoyed his rambles. He grew up in Leesville, Louisiana, and is one of the few people who have influenced my life. He was special to me, and I loved every minute of his rants about Port Arthur, growing up in Leesville, being a union carpenter, and having to wear a sidearm on his belt in the 1960s to build his brother-in-law’s house because the union was on strike for whatever reason. Politics aside, this was wrong. I’ll leave a link at the bottom of this page.

Well, that’s it for this week, but October is on its way. Enjoy your family, neighbors, and friends. Alla prossima! Happy fall y’all.

SOUTHEAST TEXAS INDIAN HOMELAND:

THE BURIAL MOUNDS OF OLD PORT NECHES

By W. T. Block:

http://www.wtblock.com/wtblockjr/indian.htm

Iron Eyes Cody:

https://walkoffame.com/iron-eyes-cody/

Jefferson County Courthouse Jail:

Article:

https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2012/09/27/jefferson-county-courthouse-jail/

Photos:

https://flic.kr/s/aHBqjA8nZx

Remembering Roy:  

https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2012/07/24/remembering-roy/

Thoughts and Ramblings: Don Larson; The Babe; Sydalise Fredeman; Bob Hope; Park Plaza Cinema; Joyeux Noel; Johnny Janot; Felix the cat gets the shaft.

Posted on by

A few years back, I purchased some photos from an estate sale. They were taken by Don Larson, who worked at The Port Arthur News, in the early 1980s. I didn’t spend much on them, but to me, they are iconic. The first photo is from the Babe Zaharias Historical Marker dedication on 7th street in Port Arthur. (Yes, Babe was from Port Arthur, but Beaumont tries to claim her all for itself.) In my opinion, Babe was big enough for the universe to claim her.

In the photo, the lady trying to hold on to her hat is Sydalise Fredeman, who saved the Pompeiian Villa from Port Arthur’s gauntlet of destruction of its history. Back in the 1960s, both Port Arthur and Beaumont didn’t care about their history, so they decided to destroy many structures within their city limits. Still, Mrs. Fredeman took no crap in Port Arthur and saved this treasure along with the Port Arthur Historical Society. (At the time, she was the Port Arthur Historical Society)

Also in this photo are Bob Hope and Bum Phillips, and I’m almost sure that Wayne Newton is in there somewhere. The second photo is the groundbreaking of Bob Hope School/Hughen School. Of course, neither Bob nor Wayne are manning the shovel, but that’s alright when your philanthropy gives kids a much-needed boost.

Apropos of Hughen School, I remember Mr. Le (the last name might be misspelled because, at age 10, I wasn’t J. Edgar Hoover informed yet). He was my neighbor in the 1970s and ‘80s. He was a very nice man who always laughed and was just a great adult to us mongrels in the neighborhood. He rode his bike to work each morning; if I was on my bike, it would be a race. He had two sons who were good to us mongrels, but when mom found out her two kids were mongrels, usually each week, dad did the disciplining. I don’t know all their family history, but I know that Mr. Le was a captain in the South Vietnamese Army before relocating here. They were great people, and I am glad to have known them.

Another photo is of the Park Plaza Cinema sign. This is special to me because I believe I saw the first Star Wars movie there 12 times. (Of course, multiple viewings were had by not getting up and leaving after the movie ended.) Smokey and the Bandit was another one that I enjoyed while learning sign language from Sally Field in the movie. Jackie Gleason was the man.

The other day I watched again a movie called Joyeux Noel. It is loosely based on the Christmas truce during World War I. It had a great message: “Why the hell are we fighting out here in the trenches when we could be home with the wife and our newborn? Instead we are here, stuck in the mud with Felix the cat.” It’s a good movie and I’m sure that if you rent it or buy it on Amazon there are subtitles. But if you watch it on YouTube, someone from France has uploaded it and there are no subtitles. No problem, my Scottish is good (the movie says British, but this was a Scottish regiment, and the Scotts would tell you the same.) I can understand German passively because of an interest in German music and some French because I took a class in high school—but that was a long time ago, so my French sucks. There are many poignant moments throughout the movie, but I was really irritated when the French spoke. I can’t give a reason for it, but I got annoyed when the commander spoke.

This wasn’t a problem when I would listen to Johnny Janot’s Cajun Bandstand on Sunday mornings on KLVI in the 1980s. He was the best. That dog of his really got him into trouble. I don’t understand why Johnny named his dog Sex anyway. Please click on the link below, where Johnny tells the story himself.

And speaking of Johnny, before I get to my point, he had a song called the Woodpecker Song, and in my short-lived musical life, we did a cover of it, but metaled it up a bit. Cajun Metal, who thought.

The thing that really irritated me was not in the movie, but it’s connected to it. In a scene where all the soldiers begin to come out of the trenches and trade chocolate and alcohol, Felix the cat shows up. The German soldier acknowledges him as Felix, but the French soldiers insist that his name is Nestor. There is nothing more to this scene. But in real life, this story is based on a trial and verdict by a French commander/general. After the truce, someone in charge decided to put Felix on trial for treason. Not to get into the weeds per se, but cats were good pets in the trenches during the great war. Mud, toxic gases, and rats were a big part of soldiers’ suffering in those trenches.

Felix, the cat, was a cat. He cared nothing about Germany or France fighting a war. He ate well until this French commander learned that he was playing both sides. Felix was thus executed for treason. (This really happened! Link below.)

Well, that’s it for this week. If you see me around town, don’t speak to me in French because I may scratch you if you do, but you could try singing. French singers are great. I bid you Meow (that’s cat speak for “bonjour”). Au revoir.

Johnny Janot:

Felix the cat:

https://www.wearethemighty.com/mighty-history/cats-wwi-trench-companion/#:~:text=One%20cat%20by%20the%20name,friends%20long%20after%20the%20war.

Thoughts and Ramblings: When the Levee Breaks; The Dutch Come to Paradise and Blanche Morgan’s Journey

Posted on by

I heard last week that the LNVA canal in Beaumont sprung a leak and flooded some homes. That would have never happened in Nederland because Dutch heritage runs deep in the families’ blood there. It’s summer, and the kids are out of school, and I know one of them would have plugged that hole in the levee without an afterthought, or maybe not.

Dutch Windmill Museum

Speaking of the Dutch, I brought up Arthur Stilwell and his antics last week and, well, the reason many Dutch came to SETX was to “Come to Paradise.” Let’s face it, this area is paradise only to fishermen and mosquitos, especially in 1895, but they came and stayed anyway. In 1895, the Port Arthur Land Company was formed by Dutch bankers/investors who initially financed the construction of the Kansas City Railroad (Arthur’s baby before John Bet-a-million Gates did a hostile takeover and kicked him to the curb). Those bankers advertised a good game, but their palm trees, beaches, and paradise approach were inaccurate. The families that came here endured many hardships. Still, with hard work, they prospered.

This reminds me of another story a blog reader sent me. Blanche Morgan’s journey to this area was sparked by Mr. Stilwell. I’ll put a link to the original article below, but I do want to add her own words here.

It was the first of October, before father had sold all his rent property and our lovely home.  Finally, the day came for he and brother to leave. He kissed us good bye and held mother close to him and said, “Now don’t you worry, I am going to find a place where the sun shines all the time.”

We were lonely without father and brother. Grace and I went to school and finally one day mother received a letter from father which said, “I am on my way south to Port Arthur, Texas. While I was in the depot in Kansas City, Missouri on my way to sell the apple orchard I met a man named Gates and another named Stillwell. I got to talking to them, and what do you know – right across the ticket room hung a canvas which said, “Port Arthur, Texas – the Flower of the South.”  Mr. Gates said the town was close to the sea and was built on Lake Sabine, that it was sunshiny and warm.  He was taking several other men with him to Port Arthur. He bought my father and brother a ticket and said to come on this excursion with him to Port Arthur.  My father gladly accepted the offer and traveled with them.  Port Arthur was not much of a place to live in.

The Journey:

I took along a note book to write down events and things which I saw out of the train car window. Laura, my oldest sister had her pet canary in his cage to take care of. Mother sat back in the car with her eyes closed, and I noticed tears rolling down her cheeks. My youngest sister, Grace, saw them too, and she said, “What are you crying about, we are going to see Daddy.”  I kept up with the stations we stopped at, and watched the people get off and on the train. We reached Albia, Iowa, and changed cars to the Wabash. It was so dark now you could not see anything out of the windows.

Time passed and everyone was sleeping, or lying quiet. I just couldn’t sleep but somewhere between midnight and 8 a.m. in the morning of the next day mother was shaking me and saying, “Gather up your things, we are in Kansas City, Missouri.”  We climbed on a bus drawn by horses and sat up on top, and it was awful cold. The bus took us to the Kansas City Southern Railway station.  We went inside, and there was people from everywhere. We were pretty hungry and mother opened her basket of food and spread out a tablecloth on the bench, and she gave thanks for the food, and for getting this far safely. We were about halfway now, on the road to our new home, a place of excitement, awe and disappointment. If mother had of just known what kind of place we were coming to, she never would have come.

At 12 noon we boarded the Kansas City Southern train for Port Arthur, Texas. We were 2 days and nights on this train, all of us growing tireder all the time. After we left Kansas City, Mo. the snow left and finally the last day, all we could see was farms, hill sides all green, flowers blooming, the sun shining, and it was unbelievable to us, at this time of the year to not see snow and see green trees and flowers blooming.  When the conductor would come through, we would ask him, what kind of place was Port Arthur, Texas. He just grinned, and said, “Oh, I can’t tell you anything, just let it be a surprise.” And believe me, it was a surprise.

On the third night we arrived in Port Arthur, Texas. It was dark and hot for we had on our winter woolens for Iowa weather. The Kansas City station still stands and looks like it did when we first came here. Father and my brother came and helped us off of the train.

Entering of Port Arthur, Texas

As I stepped off the train into the darkness, I was afraid for in those days there was very few electric lights. My brother walked with me, we was going to a hotel to stay all night.  In the dim light I could see one story wood frame buildings, dim lights shining out of the doors and windows. One block away from the station, on Proctor Street on each corner was a saloon.  I heard my mother say, “What kind of place is this, for you to bring your family to.”

In those days there was saloons on every corner. Procter Street was the main street, it ended at Greensport. The streets was shelled and nothing but board sidewalks, with most of the board being loose or gone. As we walked along father warned to watch our step, and not fall on a loose board.  We arrived at the hotel – a one story framed building, were given our rooms. We three girls together, father and mother, a room and brother one by his self.  The air was filled with the odor of the refineries, and we could hardly stand it. We girls finally got bathed and into bed, for we had not slept in a bed for three nights. It felt good and I am sure we never turned over, for all three of us were worn out.

We were awakened by our father who rapped on the door and said, “Come to breakfast.” That is one thing our family always did was have breakfast, and supper together. If one was late from school, the supper was held up until all could sit down together. You talk about a surprise, we were used to creamery butter on our toast and what we had was so rancid we could not eat it. The bacon was all right, but the milk was canned, and nobody in Iowa ever used canned milk. Well, our meal was not eaten. We found out later, that everything had to be shipped in and by the time it arrived here it was too old. As you know there was no refrigeration in those days. You got your ice from the icehouse and had those old ice boxes, that by night fall, the ice had already melted.

The drinking water was tanks of rain water. Every home had a large galvanized cistern attached to pipes from the roof of the house where it was caught and ran into the cistern. All drinking water had to be boiled and all milk had to be brought to a boil.  There was very little sewage. All toilets had a galvanized container in them, that was emptied by negroes who pulled a large tank on a wagon drawn by two horses, down the alley and emptied them into the tank. The odor was sickening, when this was being done.

After we ate breakfast we went for a walk out to the peer. The sun was shining on those white shell streets and it was beautiful. I never saw so many yellow roses as was blooming here then. The peer was a wooden frame buildings, dance floors, band stands, restaurant, but on piling. We walked out there and looked at the lake, which was beautiful, a white sandy beach was all along Lake Shore. This was before the canal was cut through and ruined our beautiful bathing resort.

There were excursions every Sunday who came in to visit our peer, and bathing resort.  Gates and Stillwell had did a good job of advertising of Port Arthur. Boats came in from Lake Charles, Orange, and Port Neches – all tied up at the peer, loaded with men and women in their Sunday best to eat or sit and listen to the Mexican Band who played all Sunday and way into the night.

On our way back from the peer I gathered up some of the shells and put them in a box and sent them to my school teacher I had left in Iowa. Oh – I thought to have streets covered with shells was the most wonderful  thing I had ever seen. As you know people who live away inland never see boats and sea shells in large quantities, like they do when living near the Gulf or Sea.

Sunday finally arrived and we had always went to church. So father, mother, and all of us children went to the Methodist church. It was a 1 story framed building on fifth street. We had left a large brick building with pipe organs, plush seats, and when we entered this church it was quite a contrast. We sang the same hymns and the preaching sounded the same, he was reading God’s word from the same bible I knew, and it made no difference to father, when I heard him say to mother, “God is everywhere, Bless his Holy name.”

I love oral histories and I was thankful to receive this one. Well, that’s it for this week. Any family history stories would be appreciated!
Afscheid!

Blanche’s Journey: An Early Look at Life in Port Arthur https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2014/04/16/blanches-journey-an-early-look-at-life-in-port-arthur/

Tulip Transplants to East Texas by W.T. Block

http://www.wtblock.com/wtblockjr/tulip.htm

Madeline Khan; Remley- Hillebrand and LeBlue Cemeteries; Fatima Sing Hpoo; Wong Shu; Dissing Arthur, and was Mark Wiess a Brownie?

Posted on by
Smaun and Fatima Sing Hpoo

I’m tired! Not Madeline-Kahn-Blazing-Saddles tired, but tired all the same. Work life and air-conditioned research life are at odds, but we will work through the dilemma, as work life pays for research life.

Remley-Hillbrand Cemetery

During the ongoing Texas Historical Commission cemetery inventory project, we’ve updated the names of known cemeteries in Jefferson County. One problem is when you know of a cemetery that has been bulldozed over the years, and there is no record of its removal. Frankly, there is no record because the bodies were never removed. In Port Neches, W.T. Block wrote of one, and I believe him. I’ll link his article at the bottom of this blog. In the article, you can tell he was ticked off. The Remley-Hillebrand cemetery, located on the Southeast corner of the Dearing and Rachford Streets intersection, was bulldozed and concreted in the ‘40s. W.T. noticed this after he returned from serving in the army during World War II.

This is more common than you think. Remember when I mentioned the fire station on College Street? It was built on land used as a burial ground during the Civil War and following yellow fever deaths. Also, let’s mention Le Blue Cemetery. You can pass over that on past Parkdale Mall, between Dupont Credit Union and Spell Cemetery. Most likely, Le Blue was a part of Spell Cemetery, but it was paved over with no record of removal of the residents. Now you know that when traveling over the LNVA canal toward Lumberton, you are driving through the hallowed ground; hold your breath and hope the residents don’t grab your feet!

One person that is a regular on our Magnolia Cemetery tour is Fatima Sing Hpoo. If you search this name on Google, you’ll see many photos of a Burmese woman who visited Beaumont in December of 1902 but passed away in the Crosby Hotel on December 30th. She was part of a team with her brother, Smaun, both of whom were involved in a show completing gymnastic feats, and the billing stated they were the perfect humans but smaller. Fatima was 22 years old, was 28 inches tall, and weighed in at 15 pounds, and Smaun wasn’t any different in height or weight. The day after, the advertisement in the Beaumont Journal read that Smaun would perform alone. We don’t know where Fatima is buried in Magnolia Cemetery, but we tell her story to keep her name alive.

Another story from inside Magnolia’s borders is that of Wong Shu. I will state that there is a headstone with a “roof” of Asian design near Brakes Bayou. It was always a mystery concerning to whom it belonged, because the writings are Chinese characters. Could it be Fatima? No, because the headstones are distinctly different between Myanmar (Burma) and China. The written characters are different as well. So, a few years back, Mr. Don Smart found an article in the Beaumont Enterprise about a Cantonese sailor who drowned in the Neches. He sailed on the Standard Oil Company tanker Santana. The ship had been docked in Beaumont for some time, on hiatus because of the volatility of the Mexican oil trade. I’ll put his story below. I am almost sure it’s his headstone, but we must do the rubbings and translate.

Thinking about Arthur Stilwell, he was a bit all hat and no cattle. He talked a good game, but if it wasn’t for Bet-A-Million Gates, Port Arthur would have never been built. I’m sure the Scottish Brownies would confirm this, but I’m certain they’re still mad at me for calling them English Faeries in my last blog on Arthur. I do know when I wrote the first draft of “Under the influence of Brownies,” it just disappeared from my computer. Now I know not to engage in politics, especially concerning Scottish and English spiritual entities.

Should I dare call the Brownies’ Mark Wiess, because that’s who tipped off Arthur about buying the land in Port Arthur instead of the Sabine Pass. Those Sabine Pass characters were greedy, and Arthur was a shyster who drafted his books after the fact, but I have no skin in the game, so I will post the links at the bottom of the page.

Like I said, I’m tired, so I’ll leave you fatigued from work life. I would rather be tired from research life, but that won’t happen. Cheerio!

Wong Shu :

https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2017/01/03/the-uninvited-guests-the-funeral-of-wong-shu/

Arthur Stilwell: https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2016/02/17/under-the-influence-of-brownies/

Mark Wiess, Not Brownies, Told Stilwell Where to Build by Judith Linsley: https://www.sfasu.edu/heritagecenter/9328.asp

W.T. Block:

http://www.wtblock.com/wtblockjr/smith.htm