Join us for the Third Annual Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour.
Thursday, October 19th, 4:00 – 6:00
Saturday, October 21nd, 10:00 – 2:00
The purpose of this tour is to promote the rich history of our area through the lived experiences of our past residents. There are many stories, mostly forgotten over time, that we feel need to be told and remembered. We hope you will enjoy this opportunity to look back on our SETX history and will share some of the stories about the people you will learn about on the tour.
Susie died last night. That’s why her letter won’t be in its usual place in the Enterprise tomorrow morning. We thought you ought to know. Here at the office we’re all rather stunned. Susie belonged to both papers, you know. She gave about 35 years of her life to these papers, Susie did, and from the editor who read her copy to the boys upstairs who set it there’s a strange, hard reluctance to accept the fact that her desk over there in the corner is closed for good.
Susie was … well, call it a tradition. She had more sheer newspaper sense up in her little finger than we brash younger fry have in our collective brain. We used to ride her a lot. Kidding Susie was good fun?—because she was “old school.” Hers were standards of that first brave sortie of women into curt, intense business of journalism. And she clung to them to the last in spite of us. Underneath, we loved her for it. She knew that, thank goodness. Good old trail-blazer.
Della, just to look at Susie you’d never have guessed the enchanting glamour of her life, Quiet and self-effacing, Susie was, with a funny little habit of tidying her hair all the time. But she’d met presidents, interviewed princesses, attended the highest functions of Washington. Long-distance calls came to her from Harper’s Publishing company, from the New York Times, from senators. I never knew a woman could have so many contacts—important ones. I never knew a woman who could, even by virtue of long service to a specialized profession like journalism, find somebody she knew in every city of importance in the nation. I never went to Susie with a question and came away without an answer.
M.M.
Beaumont Journal January 29, 1938
Farewell To A Valued Friend:
THE DEATH of Miss Florence Stratton brings genuine sorrow to a numerous company. It is with a feeling of the greatest personal loss that those of us who had been closely associated with her through the years in newspaper work mourn her passing. And all of us who knew her well feel quite certain that when she entered that corridor of eternal darkness she did so unafraid, her head held high and her spirit uncowed.
First as a public school teacher and then as a newspaper woman, her whole life from youth to death was busy and useful. She loved her work, found no diversion that equaled it in pleasure and satisfaction,and to it devoted her talents and energy to the full. On her last assignment when she suffered a slight stroke she stood by her guns until her chore was completed, then left the office never to return. Into her work she put the sympathy and sentiment that marked her character. She was always a womanly woman, concerned primarily with the interests of women, and always a gentlewoman in the broad and best sense of the word. In the course of her long and honorable service she made and kept innumerable friends, by all of whom she will be tenderly remembered, and the still larger circle who knew her through her work will not soo forget…
Beaumont Journal January 29, 1938
Beaumont Enterprise January 31, 1938
Friends of Low and High Estate pay final respects to Miss Florence Stratton
-One, Only ‘Susie Spindletop’ Called Rare and Gracious Influence, Versatile Genius
Several hundred people, her friends in life, paid the last tribute yesterday afternoon to Susie Spindletop. Miss Florence Stratton, for more than 35 years a Beaumont newspaper woman, and one of the most beloved figures in the newspaper world of her Texas, was buried on a hillside in Magnolia cemetery following impressive services at her home on McFaddin avenue. Her grave was covered with flowers, great sprays of blossoms she dearly loved, and smaller offerings from friends representing every walk of life in her city.
Rev. George E. Cameron, rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal church, who conducted the rites at the residence and at the graveside, said of her that there was but one Susie Spindletop– one Florence Stratton, and that she was the exception to the rule that everyone’s place could be filled satisfactorily by someone else.
While he spoke there was hardly a dry eye. Every room on the lower floor was filled, while scores stood outside. Every old family of Beaumont was represented. In the throng were many of Beaumont’s most prominent figures in the world of business, its courts, and professions.
Associates Attended
Scattered among those attending, often in little groups with saddened, downcast faces, was almost every newspaper man and woman in the city, with many of the Fourth estate who had worked with her in years gone by.
During the services several red camellias lay on her stilled typewriter in the editorial room of the Enterprise, place there by some member of the staff.
Miss Stratton’s body lay in a gray casket in the quaint dining room of her home beneath the portrait of her beloved grandfather, the late Asa E. Stratton, Sr. The casket was covered with a gorgeous blanket of white carnations, the offering of The Enterprise company, to which Miss Stratton had been attached for about 18 years. Upon her breast was a small spray of lilies of the valley and violets, which were perhaps her favorite flowers.
Floral Memorials
The entire house –the one spot on earth she loved best –was filled with blossoms. They came from every section of Texas –Houston, San Antonio, Dallas –from New Orleans, Lake Charles and other cities of Louisiana, from Tulsa, from her beloved Brazoria County, her birthplace, and from as far away as Virginia. The floral offerings from distant points, however, were limited only by the fact that distant friends did not know of her sudden passing in New Orleans Friday night.
Near the casket stood an appealing floral piece made of Japanese magnolias, sent by Miss Stratton’s fellow workers of the Enterprise staff. There was another from the editorial staff of The Beaumont Journal and other employees of the newspaper, on which she was employed prior to that paper’s being taken over by The Enterprise in 1920.
There were also flowers from the typographical chapels of The Enterprise and Journal –the men who for years “set” the Sunday column known as “Susie Spindletop’s Weekly Letter,” and her garden features and others. Among the offerings were those from Mrs. Ruth Sergent of San Antonio, her close friend; Miss Matilda Gray of Lake Charles, and her nephew, Lieut. Ernest Stevens of the United States navy, stationed at Portsmouth, VA.
From Out of Town
Among relatives and friends from out of the city were Mrs. Tom Stratton of Angleton, Mrs. Jessie Stratton of Angleton, Bryan Stratton of Houston, Mr. and Mrs. J. E. Burkhart, Jr., of Houston, Mrs. W. V. Ezell, her aunt, of Houston, and Miss Mary Masterson, Mrs. Edna Saunders, Underwood Nazro, Martin Miller and Jimmy Bonner of Houston.
There were several long-distance calls of condolence, as well as telegrams of those of her friends –and she numbered them from New York to San Francisco –in every part of the country.
Rev. Mr. Cameron opened the Episcopal service with a part of the 14th chapter of St. John –“Let not your heart be troubled.”
Then he spoke tenderly of Miss Stratton, telling of the unusual place she held in Beaumont and in Texas. He called special attention to her charities, all of which were little known to any save those who accidently found them out. He said that her spirit was as exquisite as old lace, and that “like old lace, she fitted into any environment.” He said that her heart had a tremendous capacity for affection.
“A Gracious Influence”
His remarks follow:
“This hour is one of deepest bereavement. Standing here among these books, the old family heirlooms, these beautiful flowers and loyal friends, and in this little humble cottage, surrounded by green trees and shrubs each planted by their mistress with a yearning and searching heart we feel the gentle impact of the spirit of her who only a few hours ago, was such a lively gracious influence in our lives.
She was a genius as rare as she was versatile. She is an exception to the rule that everyone’s place can be filled satisfactorily by some other person. There was only one ‘Susie Spindletop.’ Our beloved was an extremely keen intellect that brought meaning out of every phase of human activity. Nothing escaped her notice, and with her imagination awakened her literary paragraphs ran on endlessly and interestingly because they were as broad and as deep as life, itself.
We wonder if these treasured symbols can speak to our hearts as they spoke to our beloved. Among these books there walked a veritable host of literary minds that provided a congenial fellowship; these fragrant blossoms were messengers of peace and refreshment that called to mind the shady lanes and quiet places of childhood and youth; this humble cottage was a friendly home where acquaintances could meet and exchange ideas, without fear of misunderstanding and without criticism, and every bush that bloomed and every bird that sang around this home brought messages from the mysterious spaces of life.”
Her Charities
“Her heart had a tremendous capacity for affection. Not only was she at home with and an inspiration to every accomplished scholar she met, but she loved without stint the poorest, lowest creature on earth. Suffering and injustices aroused her deepest emotions, and upon the helpless she spent herself in affection, bringing help, and relief to untold numbers among the poor of the city.
Her spirit was as exquisite as old lace, and like old lace she was adaptable and fitted pleasantly into any environment. Hence she never complained, and often we marveled at her patience. She was the embodiment of gentility and had absorbed into her personality the nectar of fragrance from the roses of her own garden.
Yet there was a wistful element in her nature. She saw so much to do, so many distressed people to be helped, so many important events still unwritten, so many books yet unborn, one was immediately impressed with her yearning to work and help. We commend her to our heavenly father the source of all intellect, the prime mover of every human impulse, the inspiration of every noble deed, with the belief that in his hand, under his guidance, her yearning for completeness and goodness will be fulfilled. May the Lord bless her and keep her, and make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her.”
Miss Kent Plays
At the close of his talk, which brought tears to many, he offered a prayer, and Miss Alice Kent, a friend of Miss Stratton, played the violin.
Tenderly her body was taken from the home she loved by a group of her friends. Acting as pallbearers were Ashley Weaver, Alfred Jones, Terry Duff, Sam Lipscomb, Norval McKee, Bernard Deufser and Frank Godsey, of Beaumont and her friend Watson Neyland, of Liberty. Employees of The Enterprise and Journal were honorary pallbearers.
The procession of cars from the home to Magnolia Cemetery, escorted by motorcycle police, was more than a mile long. Silently as they left her under the blankets of flowers her newspaper people wrote “30,” their farewell.
Florence Stratton March 21, 1881- January 28, 1938
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been back to researching Florence Stratton. I’ll get into her life in more detail later this month, but regular readers of this blog know that I’ve been researching her since 2012. My ongoing endeavor—collecting all of her “Susie Spindletop’s Weekly Letter” articles from February 28, 1926, to January 23, 1938 (the final letter, dated January 30, 1938, was written by someone else)—continues.
I do have most of the letters, but my goal is to obtain legible photocopies of every Weekly Letter, and that has proven to be a challenge. While all of them were scanned at some point, many of those on microfilm—as well as some available online—are barely readable. If you do the math, that’s about 520 letters. It’s not an overwhelming number, but it will still take time. Physical copies exist at the Sam Houston Regional Library and Research Center (the Sam Center) in Liberty, which adds another layer to this already lengthy project. We’ll see how it goes.
The new year also came with a resolution to find new homes for some of my books. Between 2012 and 2016, I acquired many volumes that are difficult—if not impossible—to find unless you’re physically at the Sam Center. Phase one of this effort resulted in a donation to the Jefferson County Historical Commission (JCHC) library. Phase two is still undecided, as I’m not yet sure where the remaining books will go—except for my Florence Stratton books. I know exactly where those are headed.
One of my prized possessions is the Willie Cooper Hobby memorial book, which was never formally published. I assume it was distributed only to a select group of people. I’ve seen only two other copies: one at the Lyndon B. Johnson Library (which holds Willie Cooper’s papers) and another at the Tyler County Historical Commission in Woodville. Willie Cooper Hobby was the first wife of William P. Hobby, Governor of Texas from 1917 to 1921; the daughter of Sam Cooper, who was instrumental in securing Beaumont’s deepwater port; and the best friend of Florence Stratton. I’ll leave a link here for those interested in Willie’s story:
In other news, last week I attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Spindletop Park on Port Arthur Road. The event showcased new interpretive panels commemorating the 125th anniversary of the Lucas Gusher and the beginning of the Spindletop oil boom. The park has been in disrepair for some time, but the Beaumont Heritage Society (BHS) applied for and received a grant from the McFaddin-Ward Foundation to fund the panels, which are designed to last at least 25 years. A big shout-out to Shelby Brannan, director of BHS, for making this happen.
Judith Linsley was the main speaker that day. Along with her sister Ellen Rienstra and Jo Ann Stiles, she co-authored Giant Under the Hill: A History of the Spindletop Oil Discovery at Beaumont, Texas in 1901, an excellent and highly recommended book. Also in attendance were descendants of August Nelson of the Nelson & White surveying firm, who brought along a 1913 map of Jefferson County and a 1902 map of the Spindletop oil field. I’ve added photos of these items.
This was one of the first events I’ve attended in quite a while, and I truly enjoyed it. I also dusted off my camera and photographed the event—doing a respectable job, considering how long it’s been. Here’s a link to the photo set:
On Wednesday, I played hooky from work because I was invited to tour a rice dryer. Most people probably wouldn’t find that exciting, but I have a long-standing obsession with these structures and have wanted to see the inside of one for years. Thanks to the owners, I finally got my chance—and I wasn’t disappointed. I’ll share a few photos here, but I will say this: riding the elevator is an experience. Now I know what a torpedo feels like when it’s fired in slow motion.
I hope to dive deeper into this subject later in the year, but lately I’ve felt the urge to cross more items off my bucket list. On that note—does anyone happen to have a B-17, B-24, or T-6 Texan with an extra seat? I feel a strong need to expand my list.
Thursday morning found me back at work, but that wasn’t so bad because I was working at the tower at Jack Brooks Regional Airport—always a treat, especially when you can watch takeoffs and landings. Being there also reminded me of the history of Marine Scout Bomber Squadrons VMSB-931 and VMSB-932, which were based here briefly in 1944 for dive-bomber training. Below is a recap of research I conducted in 2019.
It was fall 1944, and the war was still raging on both fronts. Like most periodicals across our nation, local SETX newspapers centered on the liberation of Belgium and the European theatre. The heavy fighting on Peleliu and throughout the Pacific were occasionally mentioned, but these events seemed to take a back seat to the success in Europe. It would be at this theatre that Marine Aircraft Group 93 (MAG-93) would train its pilots for battle. MAG-93 began in April 1944 at Cherry Point, North Carolina. Its first squadron was commissioned on April 15th under the command of Major John L. Dexter and was known as Marine Scout Bomber Squadron 931. Other squadrons, such as VMSB-932, would also be commissioned into MAG-93 and would spend countless hours (round the clock, for a brief time) in training centered at Jefferson County Airport. However, the Marine Scout Bombing Squadron (VMSB-931) will be our main focus in this article.
Jefferson County Airport 1945
In May, VMSB-931 was transferred to Eagle Mountain Lake, Texas (near Ft. Worth) to begin their operational training. It also became attached to Marine Aircraft Group 33 (MAG-33). The squadron consisted of 18 SBD-5 (Dauntless)-type aircraft with 37 commissioned officers and 160 enlisted men. Records show that only one operational accident occurred during this period, which resulted in the damage and loss of an SBD-5. Fortunately, there was no loss of life, and the squadron continued their training through July, attaining a 43.1% readiness for combat rating by their superior.
By August, it was time for the squadron to begin the second phase of their training; thus, the VMSB-931 were temporarily detached to the U.S. Naval Section Base in Sabine Pass, Texas “for duty in connection with the basing of tactical squadrons of Marine Aircraft Group 33 at Jefferson County Airport, Beaumont, Texas. This duty includes gunnery, dive-bombing, and overwater navigation training,” wrote Commander John L. Dexter in the squadron’s war diary on the first of August. The next week would consist of setting up operations at their new location and finally beginning their overwater flight training on August 8th.
As most of us know, the Gulf can be very unpredictable in September, and 1944 was no exception. On September 9th, a tropical storm formed about 170 miles southeast of Matamoros, Mexico, and began to move north. All planes were evacuated out of the area to where I would assume was back to Eagle Mountain Lake. Their absence would not last long, however, because Tropical Storm Six would move northeast and make landfall at the Mississippi River Delta on the 10th with top winds of 65 mph. Needless to say, all planes were back on September 11th. Training resumed the next day, and here is where our story takes a deadly turn.
During overwater flight training off the coast of the Sabine Pass, 2nd Lieutenant Marion M. Puliz attempted to rendezvous from below the lead plane flown by 2nd Lieutenant Richard L. Savoie, resulting in a mid-air collision. Both planes crashed into the Gulf and sank in 35 feet of water. Both pilots and the two gunners, Corporal Richard R. Stoddard and Private First Class William C. Bathurst, were killed. 2nd Lieutenant Puliz’s body was the only one recovered out of the four.
More tragedy hit 931 eight days later when 2nd Lieutenant William G. Duvall “attempted a slow roll at low altitude. He lost control and went into a progressive stall, hitting the water on the left wing. Plane was observed to explode and sink immediately upon striking the water,” wrote Commander Dexter. Both the pilot and the gunner, Private First Class Albert W. Bitner, perished in the crash, and neither body was recovered.
Amazingly, there are a few newspaper accounts of these tragedies; however, with few of them offer details of the actual crashes. For instance, the Port Arthur News reports consisted of the identities of the victims and, oddly enough, a few mentions of sightings of a body a few weeks later off the coast of High Island. A search for the bodies after each accident occurred was conducted by the Coast Guard, but no remains were found.
An article dated September 27 reported that a swimmer informed the Coast Guard that he had brushed against a body while swimming just off the coast of High Island. A search ensued that lasted until 2 a.m. but was deemed “fruitless” by Coast Guard officials who, in their statement, said that the swimmer “had been mistaken.”
The following day, the Port Arthur News reported, “Louis Welch of Sabine Pass, county commissioner of Precinct 3, also reported seeing the body to Coast Guard officials. According to Welch, he sighted the body floating in the Gulf water about one mile east of the Chambers and Jefferson Counties boundary line.” Welch tried to “tow it ashore,” but a wave swept the body away. The search for the body was resumed, but it was never recovered.
Operational training ended September 21st for the VMSB-931, and the squadron returned to Eagle Mountain Lake a few days later. But this was not the end of the Marine Aircraft Group’s training facilities here in Jefferson County, as the 932 (VMSB-932) would arrive at Jefferson County Airport on September 26th to begin their operational training as well. I am unsure where these brave young men ended up after their training, but I can only guess that a few would have participated in ending this long, drawn-out war. I researched further, but there are thousands upon thousands of war diary documents to sift through and many more rabbit holes that I find myself not capable of going down in a relatively short amount of time. One day, if time permits, I would like to continue on the trail of the 931, but plenty more tales are coming soon.
I wrote a novel and published it in April of 2013. Before that, back in my teens, I wrote a bit—but it never amounted to much. I also wrote lyrics and music in a band that was basically a garage band that never went anywhere. That’s usually how it goes: you go from teen to adult, and jobs—especially girlfriends—get in the way. (Just ask the Beatles. Shout-out to Yoko!)
Musicians weren’t paid much back then, and they still aren’t now, so bills had to be paid. Still, I miss my Japanese black-and-white Fender Strat that I sold in the ’90s when I decided I was “done” with music. Of course, I had a Strat because Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple) and Dave Murray (Iron Maiden) had one.
In the mid-2000s, I found myself with an idea for a story I wanted to write. Like my earliest attempts, the characters and setting were European—Great Britain, specifically. That goes all the way back to my first real effort at fiction in my early teens, a story called Tales of the White Witch, inspired by Elisabeth Goudge’s novel The White Witch.
That story, written when I was 13, was set forty years after the English Civil War (1642–1651). It followed a young healer named Sarah Ann Taylor, living alone with a cat and a pet raven, ostracized by her village unless someone needed healing. Her only friend was the local reverend, a genuine believer who had lost his wife and son in the war decades earlier. In the end, Sarah survives after being tied to a stake to be burned by the townspeople.
Heavy stuff for a 13-year-old—but I doubt that story will ever see the light of day.
When I began Blood of the Innocent, the story could easily have been told in England. But I’m a stickler for knowing exactly what’s happening in a place at a given time, so I brought the story home. I wanted to tell this area’s history while the characters moved through it.
I used a few real landowner names but didn’t go any further than that—so no, none of the McFaddins or Frenchs were running around with hatchets in an 1875 murder novel. I did use the Menard House in Galveston as a meeting place, where the main character hopes to buy land and start a new life. I also leaned into the very real—and very idiotic—notion of why Galveston was believed to be safe from hurricanes while Indianola was not.
Many of the characters were inspired by people I knew or am related to. Etienne Broussard, for example, was based on A.C. Hebert of Vinton, Louisiana. I first met him at his store and later got to know him better when he opened Giorgio’s nightclub. He got me hooked on Quarter Horse racing, and I remember driving through the back area of Delta Downs—past the stables—to watch one of his horses run. His horse, Bobareba, won a race it wasn’t supposed to, and A.C. had some very colorful things to say to the unhappy spectators afterward. He was a real character, and a real inspiration—though the version in the novel is a bit milder.
One character who was supposed to die early ended up surviving. That character was based on a family member I have no ill feelings toward, but they fit the role perfectly—and I had a wonderful time torturing them all the way to the end. When you’re writing, you’re God, and these things happen.
I made a point of referencing real locations so readers could follow where the characters were in each chapter and understand what existed at the time. Many readers recognize the mention of the Indian mounds in Port Neches at Grigsby’s Bluff, but there’s no mention of Port Arthur—because in 1875, Arthur Stilwell hadn’t yet been told by the ‘Brownies’ to build his railroad to the Gulf. The next town south was Sabine.
(Shout-out to Sam Houston for Sabine and Sabine Pass even existing.)
Aurora’s homestead was located north of Lake Sabine until the 1886 hurricane convinced everyone that higher ground was a better idea. The Sparks family, who left Aurora had a cemetery located on what is now the DuPont refinery site. That cemetery was removed in the 1950s and relocated to Forest Lawn Cemetery in Beaumont. This removal was legitimate—unlike many Beaumont cemeteries, which were simply paved over.
I also wanted to describe what the landscape looked like in 1875—because it was nothing like what we see today. You wouldn’t have seen trees until you were deep into Beaumont. I once had a then-and-now photo from the Beaumont Enterprise: a shot taken in the 1920s where South Twin City Highway crosses 32nd Street in Port Arthur, looking as bare as the road to Sabine Pass. The 1950s photo—probably around 1959—showed the new high school buildings clearly from the south. Today, you can’t see them at all.
About 90% of the vegetation here isn’t native. Bermuda grass came from Africa. St. Augustine grass was developed in a laboratory—which is why it doesn’t grow from seed. Chinese tallow trees (or, as my uncle called them, “Port Arthur trees”) were introduced because someone wanted to see leaves change colors. Shout-out to my yearly “Hangin’ with Aggies” continuing education at Doggett Park.
Several people helped along the way with this project. I contacted Texas Parks and Wildlife in Angelina County to confirm whether alligators were present in the area in 1875—since one character mentions seeing them. I also relied on a W.T. Block article noting that 20-foot alligators were recorded at Sabine Pass during that period.
The French translations were done by Thomas Boissy, a French singer I met through Sellaband in the early 2000s. Kristen Tabor was a major influence and encouraged me to publish the novel. She’s an excellent writer and an even better person.
Blood of the Innocent was intended as the first book in a three-part series. I haven’t finished the second book yet, though seven chapters are done. Time will tell. As my old neighbor Roy used to say, “If I finished all the projects I’ve got now, I’d be 140 before I started anything new.”
If you’d like to explore my work, Blood of the Innocent is available on Amazon. Prime members can read it for free, and it’s also available at the Port Arthur, Nederland, and Port Neches libraries.
Last Saturday, I decided to take a drive down Memory Lane. While poking around on the MarineTraffic app—which is pretty cool if you want to know where a certain non-military ship is—I was reminded how much I used to rely on it. Back when I was big into photography, I’d use it to see what was coming down the waterways. These days, I mostly use it when I’m put on taxi duty for family members arriving on cruise ships. Tracking a ship’s progress beats sitting around for hours wondering where I can pay to park in that part of Galveston. Weekday struggles near the Strand are real!
I noticed a couple of tankers heading up the Neches River toward Beaumont, so I parked at the boat ramp at Port Neches Park for a bit to watch them pass. Then it occurred to me it would be better to catch up with them at the Sarah Jane Bridge. So off I went, driving past Grigsby’s Bluff (the old asphalt docks), a place I knew very well in the 1990s.
If you’ve read my most-read blog post about the Legend of Sarah Jane Road, then you already know about my friend Bryan. During the first Gulf War, we were taking a line boat to tie up a tanker at the then-called Texaco docks, and it was cold. Bryan—being the lovable degenerate he was—was wearing a ski mask. As we rounded the corner toward the ship, he let out his version of a Rebel Yell… or maybe I should call it the la-la-la yell. Either way, it scared the hell out of the security guard. No aggressive moves, no weapons—just someone who clearly wasn’t ready for that kind of nonsense. (At least it woke security up and got them doing their job.)
I digress.
We worked for Harbor Marine at the base of the Sarah Jane Bridge, and there are plenty of stories I could tell, but I have no idea where most of those people are today. For those interested, here’s a link to my original post about the legend:
Skipping a drive down Procter Street (or is it Proctor Street?) past Eddingston Court, we instead went down Woodworth Boulevard. I couldn’t help but wonder if Port Arthur is trying to match TxDOT in the number of road projects. Woodworth south of Procter is completely torn up, cutting off access to the road in front of Rose Hill Manor. I’m not in the loop on Port Arthur street maintenance, but it looks expensive. Meanwhile, the side streets still seem like they could use a little love—but that’s been a taxpayer issue for as long as I’ve been driving.
Since Lakeshore Drive was unavailable, we headed through downtown via Procter to Houston Avenue. It’s interesting that the train depot demolished in the 1960s was later rebuilt exactly the same, and now houses the Port Arthur International Seafarers’ Center. I guess Sydalise Fredeman couldn’t save everything back then—but she did save the Pompeiian Villa.
If you clicked on the second link, you’d learn that Babe Zaharias was born in Port Arthur, not Beaumont. A little education never hurt anyone. There’s a Texas Historical Commission marker on 7th Street in Port Arthur, in the lot where her home once stood.
The photo taken that day was shot by Dwight Larson, who worked for the Port Arthur News. I bought several of his photos at an estate sale, but somehow I keep getting his first name wrong. In later posts I called him Don, which is incorrect. If I do it again, feel free to call me out—I’m not thin-skinned and have no problem calling out others either.
Our next stop was over the bridge to Pleasure Island. If you pull over and sit there for a minute, the flying avengers will welcome you—hopping around your windows, waiting for you to open the door. (Don’t.) Mosquitoes, like TxDOT, are the devil. Sabine Pass is even worse, thanks to horse flies attacking from the rear and the flank. Deep Woods Off is mandatory. I would also suggest a flamethrower!
Back in the day, Pleasure Island was the place to go. Many people I’ve talked to over the years remember the Pleasure Pier Ballroom and the youthful shenanigans that went on there. One of them was A.C. Hebert, who owned Abear’s Grocery off Interstate 10, Exit 4, in Louisiana. I spent a lot of time at that first exit in Louisiana between the ages of 18 and 20. I’m not sure what drew me there—maybe the boudin balls. I do remember Rattlesnake wine coolers being pretty good. So was Louisiana’s age-limit loophole for alcohol.
I digress… again.
I also remember someone telling me she drove to Pleasure Island as a teenager, then drove backwards all the way home so the odometer wouldn’t show she’d left the house. These damn Boomer kids! To be clear, she did not drive backwards over the GulfGate/Martin Luther King Bridge (built in 1970). It was the other bridge—the one that kept getting hit by ships.
Which brings me to older history.
If you want a good book on Port Arthur history, visit the Museum of the Gulf Coast. They used to carry—and hopefully still do—Port Arthur Centennial History 1898–1998. The photos are wonderful, and Yvonne Sutherlin’s fingerprints are all over the research. She’s someone else I deeply respect and thank for her contributions to our local history.
Originally, Arthur Stilwell built a boardwalk out into Sabine Lake for visitors and residents to enjoy. From 1910 to 1913, a ferry brought people to the pier. From 1913 to 1927, a drawbridge took its place. My friend Jerry Burnett, a train enthusiast, once told me about the trolley known as the Stringbean, which in 1914 ran from Procter Street to the Pier for a nickel. Judging from the photo (courtesy of Port Arthur Centennial History 1898–1998), it looks like a lawyer’s dream—lawsuit heaven.
All versions of the drawbridge had problems. Ships hit them regularly, among other issues. Finally, in 1968, the GulfGate/Martin Luther King Bridge was built.
And yes—it still gets hit by ships.
One last personal note about Pleasure Island: while I wasn’t around for the Pier era, crabbing in the 1970s was outstanding. We’d fish and crab on the steps of Sabine Lake in line with Woodrow Wilson School and pull in 13 dozen blue crabs in an hour. Fresh crab is hard to beat—and I don’t want to hear about your BBQ seasoning method. Plain boiled is the way to go.
Just a warning on my culinary arts!
My gumbo recipe came from an Italian in New Orleans, so yes—I make shrimp, chicken, and crab gumbo. (Shout out to Emeril!) Surf and poultry, my way. Shout-out to Mrs. Douget for the roux, because I don’t have time for all that stirring. And has anyone priced out a gumbo lately? Over $100 these days.
Between 2011 and 2015, the Civil War Sesquicentennial (150th Anniversary) took place. (Yes, I know—some of you have about 25 different names for this era. I’ll say what I tell the reenactors: my grandfather came to this country in 1868, after y’all got your *^%$ straight. They tell me they still haven’t, but they’re working on it.)
Those years were reenactments galore. Every major battle of the war had its dates set, and reenactors—at least the ones I had the opportunity to know—were ecstatic. Reenactors are a different breed, and it didn’t matter whether they represented the North or the South; they had the correct clothing, weapons, and mindset. Which brings up an important point about historical research: if you want to know what happened at a battle, ask a historian; if you want the details, ask a reenactor.
One reenactor in particular, Ron Strybos, stood out as truly one of a kind. Ron portrayed Colonel Crocker during the latter annual Dick Dowling Days events, which originally began in 1963—the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Sabine Pass, a battle the United States lost.
I’ll get into that shortly, but there was another scrap before the famous battle.
In October of 1862, fifty Federal troops came ashore in Sabine with a howitzer. Their objective was to burn the Confederate cavalry barracks. While marching through town, they confiscated Captain Dorman’s horse and cart to transport the cannon—though not without resistance.
Captain Dorman’s wife, Kate, witnessed this, and her Irish temper boiled over. Without regard for the consequences, she shook her fist in the air and scolded the Federal troops, declaring that she hoped Confederate boys would kill every last one of them before they returned—and that if she had twenty-five men, she could take out the Federals and their cannon herself.
After burning the Confederate barracks and stable, the Federals marched back through Sabine. This time, they returned Captain Dorman’s horse and cart, along with a warning: if he didn’t keep his “damn wife’s mouth shut,” they would hang him. Furthermore, if Kate didn’t apologize, they would burn the hotel.
Kate’s response was that she would see them in the Nether Regions first—and they could set fire to it if they wished.
A week later, another Federal patrol came ashore. This time they burned roughly a quarter of the town, including a sawmill and several residences, but notably left the Catfish Hotel untouched.
This was the lore of Kate Dorman, who at Dick Dowling Days was portrayed by Darlene Mott. I need to say this: Darlene was Ron’s equal when it came to reenacting. She made other reenactors visibly grimace because they never quite knew whether she was serious—especially when she pointed that knife at them.
In 2013, the Jefferson County Historical Commission, along with other organizations, planned an ambitious historical reenactment complete with artillery, gallantry, and meticulous detail. Around 300 reenactors participated, along with a naval presence under the command of “Colonel Crocker” for the attack. I don’t think participation had been this high since the event’s early days—something many veteran participants reminisced about all weekend.
I volunteered more than 36 hours that weekend, starting with a foggy Friday morning drive to Sabine Pass to handle participant sign-ins at 6 a.m. If you remember that weekend, there was a constant marsh fire burning on the Louisiana side, giving the entire area an ominous, foreboding look—especially with an approaching flotilla.
Note: In the actual battle, the U.S. plan was to surprise Fort Griffin at the mouth of the Sabine River. Unfortunately for them, their 5,000-plus flotilla was spotted early. That was a problem, because they came up against Richard W. Dowling—a poor Irish immigrant who arrived in New Orleans at the age of four and clawed his way into prosperity, owning three bars and other ventures. You can learn more about Dowling by reading the excellent books of historian Edward T. Cotham Jr. https://www.edcotham.com/
I’m not a historian—I’m a researcher—so my brain works differently. I see Dick Dowling as Eli Manning and the New York Giants, and the U.S. forces as Tom Brady and the Patriots. Dowling served as a lieutenant at both the Battle of Galveston and the Battle of Sabine Pass. The U.S. lost both battles when, on paper, they should have dominated.
The Giants beat the Patriots twice in the Super Bowl with Eli Manning. Was Dowling a great leader? I don’t know. But he had street sense, and his opponent was a government that has often underestimated its adversaries—and paid for it. (I won’t mention Pearl Harbor, but…) Sun Tzu wrote about this kind of thing around 500 B.C. in The Art of War, so the concept has been around a while. It’s worth a read. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_Tzu
Friday went smoothly as the sign-in person. I checked in many participants, including Jed Marum—a musician I greatly admire—along with several friends. Outside, the smoke still hung in the air, reinforcing the feeling that something ominous was brewing.
Some of my photographs were entered into a contest that weekend, which I honestly didn’t care much about. Not to brag, but I won five ribbons from a small field—maybe ten entrants. They critiqued my photos as “non-professional.” No kidding. I wasn’t a professional photographer in 2013—and neither were they. I’m still not in 2025. Nor are they. But I digress.
Saturday was battle day, along with all the stories and shenanigans that come with it. Everything went well until my so-called expert camera knowledge failed me while filming video. I didn’t understand the difference between photo and video memory requirements on my card. (Yep—how are those expert photo ribbons helping now?) I spent the evening at Best Buy buying a better memory card while the reenactors danced and ate Billie Joe’s BBQ.
Sunday morning’s foggy, smoky drive went fine, though fatigue was catching up with me. At least I didn’t have to camp in Sabine Pass with the mosquitoes—or the rogue alligator that wandered into the Northern camp.
At the time, I was recovering from shingles. I now understand what JFK must have felt in the back of the head in Dallas—pain I experienced again in 2020 and never want to revisit.
The days were hot. I also remember meeting a dehydrated Sarah Bellian for the first time. She was the new curator at the Museum of the Gulf Coast and loved to cosplay. She arrived dressed in a Vietnam-era uniform—clearly new to the area and unaware of the theme—but that was fine by me. She’s awesome in my book. Throughout her career here, she did outstanding work for the museum and the JCHC, and even thought of me and my obsession with Tora! Tora! Tora! when she later found related letters while working at the Pacific Fleet Submarine Museum. https://www.bowfin.org/
That weekend, I met people who likely never would have visited Sabine Pass if not for the 150th anniversary. I met descendants of Colonel Crocker and Dick Dowling (the latter from Ireland). My most meaningful meeting was with historian Tim Collins, who researched Dowling’s life in Ireland and wrote a book about it—I have a signed copy. He pushed me to dig deeper into Kate Dorman’s story, which I’ve done, though researching 19th-century women leaves very few wormholes to crawl through.
To wrap it up: this was a weekend I’ll never forget. Many participants we will never see reenact again have since passed.
Rest in peace, Ron. Whether portraying Colonel Crocker, a Mexican Army officer, or any of the countless roles you played in bringing history to life, you were the best.
Tim Collins—you are an inspiration to me, just like Bill Quick, whom I never met but deeply respect for his research.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been around cemeteries in one way or another. I suppose I can add that to my résumé, right alongside working around cows and waterways. Since 2014, I’ve managed to juggle all three. I’ll save the cows and maritime shenanigans for another day.
At my first meeting of the Jefferson County Historical Commission (JCHC) in December 2012, the Cemetery Chair spoke about an abandoned, overgrown cemetery off Labelle Road. She described trying to access it from the north, on an adjacent property, but being thwarted by what she delicately called “mad cows.”
Later, I decided to give it a try myself—but I took the direct approach, entering from the front and leaving the heifers safely behind a barbed-wire fence. I parked along the road and stepped onto hallowed ground armed with a line trimmer and a hedge trimmer. Two hours later, I reached the first broken crypt.
For me, Lincoln Rest (Burial Park) has been an on-again, off-again project for more than thirteen years, though its history stretches back to 1930. I want to provide some context for those who may never have heard of it.
That first day, I noticed several broken crypts. I later learned they were vandalized in 1967 by a group of teenagers from Beaumont. As research progressed, the JCHC determined the cemetery’s proper name was Lincoln Rest Cemetery, a burial ground used between 1930 and 1950 for low-income individuals. It has been abandoned ever since.
While the county has cleaned it up sporadically over the decades, there has never been a permanent overseer—so the cycle of neglect continues.
Over the years, multiple JCHC members sent letters expressing concern. Mildred Wright—arguably the greatest Cemetery Chair Jefferson County ever had—was especially vocal about the county’s lapse in responsibility. The most recent letter I’ve seen dates to 2008, though she and others raised concerns well before that.
The last major cleanup occurred in 2015. Credit where it’s due: three acres were cleared beautifully. But Lincoln Rest spans eleven acres, and the work stopped there.
At one point, Precinct 4 considered using the site for indigent burials to save money. After the initial cleanup, that idea quietly disappeared. Emails went unanswered. COVID became the excuse—until communication stopped altogether. This isn’t political; it’s observational. Call it what you want.
What frustrates me most is this: in 2015, Cleveland Dyer, then 97 years old, tried to access the cemetery with his 77-year-old son. His father, who died in 1932, is buried there. We recorded an oral history with Mr. Dyer. All he wanted was for the grounds to be maintained and for his father to have a headstone.
Nothing ever came of it.
In April 2024, a small group of rebels—led by yours truly—entered Lincoln Rest and mowed around the twelve crypts within the three acres cleared back in 2015. Every bit of it was volunteer labor. It was the first mowing there in nine years. Here’s a link to the photos.
I’m thinking about going back in 2026 to do it again. If you’re interested, contact me at rediscoveringsext@gmail.com.
In 2013, I became Cemetery Chair. What does that mean? I’m the person you contact when you have questions about a cemetery—or when you find a headstone on your newly purchased property. (Nine times out of ten, it’s a discarded marker. No, you do not have a body buried in your backyard.)
The role also involves working with the Texas Historical Commission. They’re understaffed and underfunded, so local commissions do much of the legwork. I don’t mind. This is my county.
Also in 2013, the Liberty County Historical Commission launched a fundraiser called Whispers from the Past. It ran for two years and inspired me, along with Judy Linsley, to create the Magnolia Cemetery Tour—minus the cosplay. Liberty County did a phenomenal job.
The Magnolia Cemetery Tour began in October 2014 as a docent-only history tour for the McFaddin-Ward House, the Beaumont Heritage Society, and JCHC members. In 2015 and 2016, it expanded to public tours—complete with a happy hour in the cemetery. Shockingly, that went very well.
The 2017 tour was canceled due to Hurricane Harvey, and the program remained on hiatus until 2021. More on that soon.
As Cemetery Chair, I visit cemeteries when time allows. I’m especially fond of visiting Kate Dorman in Sabine Pass. I leave her pink bows and streamers yearly—I have no interest in getting on her bad side.
W.T. Block called her a firecracker, and rightly so. She once tried to take on the U.S. Navy with 25 men. The men didn’t show up. Kate did anyway.
She also stayed during Yellow Fever outbreaks to care for the sick, alongside Sarah Ann King Courts and Sarah Vosburg. More on them next week.
Sabine Pass includes several cemeteries, including McGaffey Cemetery, which volunteers and I helped survey. It’s more than 150 years old and has endured hurricanes, flooding, mosquitoes, and horse flies—you are never alone out there.
One unresolved mystery remains: the mass grave of Yellow Fever victims. Ground-penetrating radar hasn’t helped—heavy clay soil, roots, and fill material all interfere. If we ever bring in Gary Drayton and that other guy from Curse of Oak Island, I’ll let you know.
Another haunt I frequent is Greenlawn Cemetery in Groves, where most of my family—and some friends—are buried. One friend in particular was Jerry Burnett. He was my insurance agent, but we rarely talked insurance. Instead, we spent hours discussing the Interurban and his love of trains. I’ll get into the Interurban, the Stringbean, and the last train out of Sabine Pass in the coming weeks.
Jerry is buried not far from the Veterans of Foreign Wars section, where Rudolph Lambert, the second person from this area to die in France during the Great War, is interred. The first was George Smart of Beaumont, who lies in Magnolia Cemetery.
This same section is where I discovered Gene Rowley, Rex Rowley, and a small memorial stone to Hugo DeBretagne, who gave his life at Tarawa in 1943 and was buried at sea. Like Magnolia Cemetery, Greenlawn holds thousands of stories. Unfortunately, it’s not very history-friendly. As Laurence from Twister (1996) would say, they’re “corporate kiss-butts,” doing as little as possible to help with research.
It looks like I’ll be writing multiple cemetery blogs in 2026, because I’ve only scratched the surface.
And finally—
Respect for the dead matters. So does respect for the living—especially a 97-year-old man who just wanted his father’s grave kept up.
I understand counties are busy. Manpower is limited. But accountability still matters.
And before I close: thank you to whoever handles maintenance in Sabine Pass. The cemeteries are always mowed.
Joining the Jefferson County Historical Commission (JCHC) in 2012 opened up many interesting opportunities for me to delve into different histories and meet others from adjoining counties with their own stories to share. It was the perfect chance to broaden my knowledge of the region and extend my interests beyond county lines.
Growing up, I was always interested in history (though I’m sure my high school history teacher, Mr. G., would disagree—his class was right after lunch, and my teenage self was committed to daily naps). Don’t get me wrong; Mr. G. was an excellent teacher—passionate, dedicated, and determined to bring history to life. My brain just doesn’t perform well in a classroom setting, or in a Zoom meeting at noon. (Yes, I’m calling you out, Texas Historical Commission! Happy hour is at six; evening meetings would be lovely.) It probably goes back to those early years when I was dropped off at school hours before the day started because I had a single parent who had to work. (Single fathers work, too!)
Looking back, my earliest historical interests were World War II—no surprise, given the flood of movies from that era—weather, and the paranormal. When you grow up in a house with three older sisters, ghost stories are inevitable. And hilarity ensues when Tiger, our cat, leaps onto the air conditioner to stare inside because he wants someone to let him in, scaring the bejeebus out of everyone. Fun times.
I never had a true historical mentor growing up—unless you count the television. Watching World War II movies beside my bedridden grandfather, who stayed in a hospital bed at home, is one of my clearest memories. Another is from when I was ten and my father told me the story of how my other grandfather was bitten by a tarantula in his garden in the 1930s in Beauxart Gardens. Even at ten, I knew enough about spider habitats to realize that tale was… geographically challenged.
In my teens, music became another form of historical inspiration. (And yes, all you leftover satanic-panic jacklegs from the ’80s may exit now—or I’ll send the evil eye back at you threefold! I might even throw in Carmen’s “The Champion” while I’m at it.) Carmen—note for the uninitiated—was a Christian musician with some genuinely good songs. Unfortunately, my friend’s aunt, who presented herself as a pious ^%$@, called us out for listening to a song about a boxing match between the devil and Jesus. She didn’t realize Jesus let the devil knock him down. The devil wanted him to get up because of what would happen next. The song ends with Jesus victorious, of course. At the time, I thought it was hilarious—she couldn’t tell her own religious lore from a set of lyrics; she just wanted to display her “look at me!” devotion. Technically, judging is a sin, so she’d be right there in hell with us. Probably neighbors. And unfortunately for her, I mow the lawn at 5:30 a.m. It’s hell—there’s no sleeping in.
Eventually, my interest in history shifted toward England and Wales after reading Elizabeth Goudge’s The White Witch (1958). That book heavily influenced my first attempts at writing. I published a historical fiction novel in 2013, and I have many people to thank—but more on that in the coming weeks.
In the early 2000s, I had a client named Charles Irwin, whom I will readily acknowledge as a legitimate Texas historian. Born and bred in San Antonio, he moved to Southeast Texas in 1957—just in time for Hurricane Audrey. He was a chemical engineer (and I emphasize engineer), and while he was incredible when it came to history, the engineer in him sometimes made communication… interesting. One recurring debate involved Hurricane Humberto’s path. He always insisted that Humberto strengthened over land. Trying to explain that it was actually off the coast near Corpus Christi and that an incoming cold front whipped it up along the coastline—well, explaining that to an engineer is a special challenge. I even had radar images! When it made landfall at High Island, someone I knew was working on a beach house at Crystal Beach, and the storm scared the hell out of him at two in the morning. (Eighty-mile-per-hour winds will do that.)
You know what’s scarier? Being woken at three a.m. by Larry Beaulieu’s backside on the TV screen as he tries to fix a camera while KFDM’s radar is down. I was watching my phone radar—which showed Humberto’s eye over Port Neches—while the TV was saying the eye was in Vidor. Meanwhile, my cat was wandering the neighborhood, confused about the whole situation. That morning was chaotic, but hilarious in retrospect. I even have a link for that, too.
One road trip Mr. Irwin and I took was to Anahuac, where we visited the Chambers House and the museum. I had done some work in Anahuac before, but I’d never known about the Chambers House until I took a wrong turn and suddenly—there it was. The window alone was stunning. My mind went immediately to Aleister Crowley’s winter home rather than Texas (me being a heretic in the eyes of my friend’s aunt, you know).
We had a great visit to the museum, and seeing the house interior was an added bonus.
Engineer quirks and all, I genuinely miss my friend. I loved our talks about Texas history, even if I could never quite get him to acknowledge Southeast Texas history with the enthusiasm it deserves—he was a true San Antonio loyalist. If you’re interested in Texas history, I believe his books may still be available at the Museum of the Gulf Coast.
Next week, since I’m the Cemetery Chair of the Jefferson County Historical Commission, I plan to focus exclusively on my 13 years in cemeteries and give a recap of what’s going on with the Cemetery Inventory Project.
Sayonara for now. \m/-_-\m/ Rock in peace—everyone except my friend’s aunt.
I’ve been away for a while, and the break has been a needed rest. I make no money from this blog, but I still think it’s important to present an accurate history of our region, to share news about what the Texas Historical Commission is doing, and to occasionally indulge in things that have nothing to do with SETX—like Sensha-dō (戦車道) and Yukari Akiyama (秋山 優花里).
When I started Rediscoveringsetx.com in 2012, my goal was to support every museum in Southeast Texas. But over the last 13 years, some museums have closed, and others—usually the ones with money—hired social media experts and are now fully capable of promoting themselves. They don’t need me to shill their history anymore, and honestly, that’s a good thing. Still, you can find photos of the ones that closed on my Flickr page:
After that era, my focus shifted to researching specific topics from regional history. Some of these stories will show up later. I will say this: historical research is not a 1970s crime-solving TV show where everything wraps up in an hour. Proper research takes time. You can make up answers—as some historians do—but most people prefer the truth. And the truth doesn’t show up on a weekly schedule.
In more recent years, this blog has mostly been my thoughts and ramblings about our history and whatever else I care about. Again, I’m not making money, but at least the history is good. Maybe not as good as the “experts” on Facebook who insist there were slave quarters inside the Phelan Mansion constructed in 1928—but hey, that’s Beaumont and Facebook. Knock yourself out. Yes, you can even find it on Ancestry. As the Russians say: доверяй, но проверяй — doveryay, no proveryay — Trust but verify.
So, what have I been doing during my time away? Besides vegging out on Japanese baseball—my personal delicacy ever since I learned about the Curse of the Colonel—I’ve been doing what I hope my kids will do when I die: going through all my research files and digitizing everything.
Every file cabinet is being checked. Every paper copy is being digitized and sent to the Jefferson County Historical Commission (JCHC). The physical papers will then be passed along to whoever wants them—or thrown away. I have no hope that anyone else would come along and preserve this stuff. I’m doing them a favor. You’re welcome!
The first drawer alone took 38 hours to complete. I’ve now finished the first file cabinet and am moving on to my Florence Stratton files. Most of that research is already digitized and shared with people who can take it further than I can. My regional history books will be an own ongoing project as well. It’s amazing how valuable some of these books have become—and even more amazing how often people throw them away.
For example, I found my copy of Sapphire City of the Neches by W.T. Block on the floor of a house in Port Neches that had been auctioned. It was lying next to Down Trails of Victory: The Story of Port Neches-Groves High School Football and a Fats Domino record. The house had already been cleaned out, but somehow these survived. The last time I checked (a few years ago), an autographed copy of W.T. Block’s book was going for around $400. The other book? I didn’t check—everyone who cares about PNG football already owns it. Kudos to W.T. Block’s son, who saw the collector prices and wisely reissued the books on Amazon at reasonable prices.
Working through these files has brought me back to moments of discovery, and to histories people shared with me over the years—or that I uncovered myself. I’ve been rediscovering favorites from the blog, RediscoveringSETX.com, and it’s been fun.
The Rowley Family
One reason the first drawer took so long is the Rowley family. I spent countless hours on their history after a chance moment at Greenlawn Cemetery, where I saw Virginia (“Gene”) Rowley’s headstone with its poem and photograph. It was a somber moment—and I learned someone had created a 12-minute film taking “creative liberties” with the family’s story. That didn’t sit well with me. I care about facts, not someone’s L.A. dream script. Gene deserved to have her story told correctly.
A family member later reached out to me about my post on Gene, her father’s suicide in 1934, and her accidental death in 1942 in San Antonio. Gene died in an auto accident while working at Kelly Field as a radio operator. They confirmed much of my research and shared new details about her siblings, Vera and Jerry. That cracked open an entirely new story.
Vera (known as “Dido”), Jerry, and Jerry’s wife Evelyn formed The Rowley Trio, performing with the likes of Johnnie Horton and even George Jones. Despite their family’s tragedies, both Dido and Jerry built successful careers. Dido went even further by joining Don Mahoney’s children’s TV show in Houston—Don Mahoney and Jeanna Clare with their Kiddie Troupers. It was like a local Roy Rogers and Dale Evans show.
I never would have uncovered all of this without help from a family member. Thank you, Ben Rowley.
Evelyn Keyes
One of my favorite exhibits at the Museum of the Gulf Coast is the display on Evelyn Keyes. She left Port Arthur at age three but never forgot her connections here. Her display is beautiful—and if you look closely, you’ll notice the Genie lamp from A Thousand and One Nights (1945) is hollowed out. When she died in 2008, she requested that some of her ashes be placed inside it.
Years ago, when Sarah Bellian was Coordinator, I visited the museum looking for information on Bessie Reid, a birder and author of The Legend of Kisselpoo. While Sarah printed the info, I asked how Evelyn liked being moved from the first floor to the second. Right then, the printer froze. I said, “Well, I guess she doesn’t!”
Blanche Morgan
People have shared many histories with me over the years, but Blanche Morgan’s story needed to be front and center. Imagine this: your mother is sickly in Iowa, the doctor says she needs a warmer climate, and your dad sees a sign in Kansas City that the Kansas City Southern Railroad (KCS) will take you to paradise. What could go wrong?
(Answer: quite a lot.)
I’ll post the link below, but I’ve never been a fan of Arthur Stilwell. The only reason Port Arthur exists is because of John Warne Gates. Stilwell, in my view, was all hat and no cattle. He also lost investors a fortune trying to build a railroad to the Pacific through Mexico.
For the record, I did accidentally acquire an autographed copy of Stilwell’s Confidence or National Suicide? This is why you don’t leave things in your online cart if you don’t want to buy them. But I digress.
Til next week, I’ll leave you with the Hanshin Tigers Curse (呪い / のろい) — The Curse of the Colonel
The Hanshin Tigers Curse was a long-running superstition blamed for the team’s decades of struggles after their 1985 Japan Serieschampionship. The curse centered around an unusual event involving a statue of Colonel Sanders, the mascot of Kentucky Fried Chicken.
How the Curse Started (1985)
After the Tigers won the Japan Series in 1985—led by star slugger Randy Bass—ecstatic fans in Osaka celebrated along the Dōtonbori Canal. Tigers fans are famously intense, and the city basically exploded with joy.
During the celebration, fans began pulling people into the street who resembled players to jump into the canal in their honor. But no one resembled Randy Bass, the team’s bearded American MVP.
So what did they do?
They grabbed a full-sized Colonel Sanders statue from a nearby KFC, declared it their Randy Bass “look-alike,” and threw it into the canal.
That’s the moment the curse supposedly began.
After 1985, the Tigers went through:
18 consecutive losing seasons (1986–2003)
Multiple last-place finishes
A long list of near wins that collapsed at the final moment
A reputation for heartbreak comparable to the Chicago Cubs pre-2016
Fans believed the team would never win another championship until the Colonel was recovered.
People searched the Dōtonbori Canal for years, with no luck. The statue was considered lost forever. But in 2009, construction workers dredging the canal recovered the upper body of the statue, later the right hand, and eventually most of the remaining parts. It was reassembled and returned—with ceremony—to a local KFC.
Even after recovery, the Tigers did not immediately win a championship.
However, things did improve. They made the Japan Series again in 2014, and claimed their first Central League pennant in 18 years in 2023, and finally winning the Japan Series, ending the curse in most fans’ minds
For Tigers fans, the 2023 win was a massive cultural moment—some said it felt like “Osaka was released from a 38-year spell.”
Blanche Morgan : https://www.rediscoveringsetx.com/2014/04/16/blanches-journey-an-early-look-at-life-in-port-arthur/
Recently, the need to recruit new members into organizations such as historical commissions, heritage societies, and local groups or clubs has become more urgent. However, attracting young members poses a challenge. It’s not that the young are not interested. The problem is that these organizations pander to their flocks. What I mean is that most of the members of the groups I belong to or support are retired, and they typically want to participate in events held between 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. on weekdays (some even say, “Start your event at 10:30 a.m. because I have other sh*t to do before”). Accommodating their needs is a good strategy if these individuals have the means to donate to these organizations (and some do). The problem is that when those who donate pass away, the interest in the project to save a historic house or another historic preservation effort comes to an end. Why? Because you are left with the children or grandchildren of the individuals in question, who don’t care about what mom or grandma was into. This is a significant problem not only in historic preservation but also in research. When someone who did historical research dies, there is a good chance that their family will not give a rat’s rump about saving anything in their office (“Throw everything to the street—he/she/him/her/it was a hoarder!). Did I get the pronouns right?
My beef is mainly with organizations and people scheduling their events on a Thursday or Friday morning because “It won’t clash with my grandchild’s recital,” or whatever. I work for a living, and taking time off for an event is pretty much impossible. I have to plan weeks in advance. The meetings of the Texas Historical Commission are planned six months to a year in advance.
I will say that the Beaumont Heritage Society, which I’ve had problems with in the past, is now run like a well-oiled engine. There is a reason I was a little skeptical at first, but if you put the right people in charge—people who think outside the box—you become successful. They now have a great organization. Lately, I’ve seen more organizations reaching out to their followers on social media and holding events in the evenings and on weekends, when the working class can actually attend. Kudos to all of them!
Luckily, most historical commissions hold their marker dedications on a Saturday, which is great! 10:30 a.m. it is! However, I’ve noticed that some of the older organizations that require a history test, both written and oral, to become a member (you know who you are, Sons of X or Daughters of Y) often do not consider your work schedule or personal life. The only organization I will freely call out is the Galveston Historical Foundation. I will note that they are getting better; fingers crossed. They do good work, but they also pander to their flock. However, they are getting better at pandering to their volunteer department. That was my problem with the Beaumont Heritage Society a few years back, but they’ve now seen the light. Treat your army of volunteers right, and you are unstoppable. Pull the elitist card, and your organization will die. Hey, volunteers are a valuable resource, so treat them with the respect they deserve!
An organization that I thought was defunct is actually still alive, and it is the International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo. Let’s see what my chatbot (his name is Bill) has to say about them!
The International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo is a unique and historic fraternal organization founded in 1892, dedicated to fostering fellowship and promoting the welfare of those in the forest products industry. Known for its distinctive traditions and whimsical symbolism—such as the use of a black cat with its tail curled in the shape of the number nine—the order seeks to unite professionals from all sectors of the timber and lumber trade under a shared commitment to ethical business practices, mutual support, and the betterment of the industry. With chapters across the globe, the Hoo-Hoo order emphasizes the importance of human values, environmental stewardship, and community service, striving to uphold the legacy of camaraderie and good humor envisioned by its founders more than a century ago.
I may qualify to be a member of this organization because, technically, there are times when I have to deal with trees. Unfortunately, I have to deal with cows, bulls, snakes, and water, as well as merchant marines, more often, but I would love to join. Below, I explain how the order started.
The International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo was founded on January 21, 1892, in Gurdon, Arkansas, by a group of six men involved in the lumber and forest products industry. The men had been delayed at a train depot and, while waiting, began discussing the need for a fraternal organization that could unite people in their profession in a more informal and engaging way than traditional business associations.
Led by the journalist and lumber trade magazine editor Richard Fletcher and assisted by Bolling Arthur Johnson, the group envisioned an organization that embraced humor, fellowship, and mutual support rather than rigid rituals and titles. The founders named the new group the International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo, with “concatenated” meaning “linked together.” The organization adopted unusual titles such as Snark of the Universe for its president, and it embraced a lighthearted tone while promoting goodwill, cooperation, and ethical conduct in the lumber industry. Over time, the order grew into a respected international fraternity for those working in forestry and wood-related professions.
Until I discovered that it is still active, my goal was to bring this awesome order back! Maybe buy a house in the Oaks District of Beaumont, then change its features without notifying the district. I would put Cheshire cats everywhere I could get away with it (hey, their period!).
It is nice that a third family member has reached out to me concerning research I did on a certain subject. It is especially satisfying because all three individuals agree that my research was spot on. I shared with the family what I found in all the sources. It is a plus when a relative sheds light on a few persons in their family whose stories you ignored. The Rowley Trio was unknown to me until a family member filled in the dots. I’ll leave a link to this story!
This week marks the beginning of hurricane season, and we have a few greatest hits on the list that weren’t retired. We begin with Chantal. Many here remember that Chantal was the Category 1 hurricane that wiped out the beach road between Sabine Pass and High Island in 1989. We all loved that road. No disrespect to the town of Winnie, but the Texas Department of Transportation and its determination to dig up every mile of Interstate 10 from El Paso to Orange are the devil. I would rather spend 20 minutes driving from Sabine Pass to High Island than driving for an hour on Highway 73 to Winnie, then down Highway 124 past Stowell to High Island. Shout-out to the Whataburger in Winnie. It’s my go-to breakfast stop if I have to drive to hell (Houston).
Humberto is next. Many don’t remember this hurricane because it happened in 2007. We all remember Hurricane Rita in 2005, but probably no one outside this area does because they focus on Hurricane Katrina, which hit New Orleans a month earlier. I’m not bitter; I just don’t care about what happens in NOLA. Ever! In 2005, we had the three sisters, Katrina in August, Rita in September, and Wilma in October, which hit Florida. After Wilma, no hurricanes hit the US in 2006 or 2007 until Humberto. A friend of mine, a chemical engineer by trade, used to argue constantly with me about how Tropical Storm Humberto upgraded to a hurricane over land. My friend has since passed away, and I cherish my memories of his friendship, but engineers! I showed him radar evidence and data indicating that the storm meandered off the coast and then sped up due to a cool front moving through. This is why the storm intensified and reached hurricane strength before making landfall on High Island.
I also have a couple of other stories about this storm. One concerns someone who wasn’t my friend. He was working on a house in Crystal Beach and was awakened at two in the morning by terror: winds of 80 miles an hour (but no surge). I just wish I had a video of this. I would have enjoyed this scene more than when I was in first grade and we were herded in the hallway of St. James School, with the seventh graders hunkering down because of a tornado warning. In the end, there was no tornado—just straight-line winds and dark clouds—but the terror in the seventh graders’ eyes was priceless. (As a first grader, I didn’t care about the seventh graders at all. Yes, I was not a good child. As you can figure out, I’m the same as an old person.)
The other story is as follows: On the night of September 12, 2007, I went to sleep and woke up to a hurricane at three in the morning. I checked the website of KFDM on my phone and found that the radar was in full hurricane mode. I turned on the television to see the backside of Larry Beaulieu front and center as he tried to find out why the camera was not working. At that point, Hurricane Humberto took out the radar, which meant that the station didn’t know where the eye of the hurricane was. Beaumont took more of a hit than Port Neches and Nederland. The eye passed over Port Neches when those at KFDM thought it was south of Winnie. My cat nailed it because he came from the neighbor’s house wondering what the hell was going on. We brought him in as the backside of the eye began. I remember he was very vocal on WTF was going on with the weather. This was the same cat that disappeared before we evacuated for Hurricane Rita. He stayed during that storm. When I returned after Rita, I found a female cat and kittens hanging out at the house. Since I was working out of Atascocita and not living at my house, I never saw the other cat or kittens again. I’m not saying the cat, affectionately known as Sh*thead, the cat was trailer park, no doubt!
Next up is Tropical Storm Imelda from 2019, which even TikTok users should remember. This storm damaged what Hurricane Harvey missed in 2017. However, Harvey was not a hurricane when it showed its worthless head in Southeast Texas. Harvey dropped 65 inches of rain in Nederland in five days. Imelda dropped 43 inches of rain and flooded areas that had survived Harvey. It basically finished what Harvey started.
And then there was Hurricane Jerry (1989). I remember this because I may have audio recordings of myself talking about it as it happened ( a project similar to our pirate radio days!). Jerry wasn’t much, but he did show up, which is more than most cared to do at the time.
I want to add this: All you beachgoers who are determined to bring back the beach road between Sabine Pass and High Island—I support your plea. However, we are dealing with the Texas Department of Transportation, as well as second-tier Texas bureaucrats. It will not happen, unfortunately. Both are *&^%$&, whom I despise! Good luck anyway!
Well, it looks like I’m done here for the week. Remember, it’s hurricane season, and you should grab a beer, then run like hell!
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