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.
November is here, and we’re not going to talk turkey all month; you’re welcome. October is a trigger month for me, and I brought up many things that are not technically SETX history, but I guess you get what you pay for on my site. But really, who else would bring up an anime character on a SETX regional history blog? Especially when your target audience is people aged 35–112. I acknowledge that I may not be the brightest star in the sky. Truth be told, I had been waiting six months to bring up Yuuki! And I may not be finished. If there’s ever a time when we can bring up the history of tanks and tankery in general, I will definitely bring up Yukari Akiyama 秋山 優花里 from the Girls und Panzer series. She was a true historian of tanks. Hell, she was a fan of Sergeant Oddball. So, if you disagree, “don’t hit me with them negative waves so early in the morning. Think the bridge will be there and it will be there. It’s a mother, beautiful bridge, and it’s gonna be there. Ok?”
Well, let’s bring up tanks for a moment. If anyone knows the story of who owns the tank that used to be at the Beaumont airport on Highway 90, I would love to hear it, and a ride would be nice.
On Wednesday, I was at Magnolia Cemetery playing hooky from work because that’s what you do when you get fed up, but I’m self-employed, so. Oh well. I was looking for someone’s loved one, who died in 1917. I was also there to meet a friend to talk about the twenty-two World War I veterans brought back and interred in Magnolia. But in my search, I also found another veteran who fought in World War II. I remembered his name and story from a Port Arthur News article in the Jefferson County Historical Commission files.
Hans Max Keiling immigrated from Germany in 1956. His story should be a movie, as he is one of those immigrants who loved this county for its freedom. I wish I had heard how he got here in his own words, but I will use newspaper articles and a friend’s recollection of his speech at the dedication of the World War II prisoner of war camp in China, Texas.
Hans was from Frankfurt an der Oder, a German town on the Oder river, near the Polish border. He was drafted into the German army and became a master sergeant and a tank commander at twenty-three. He never served in the S.S. In his newspaper article, he stated he only fought the Russians and never faced the Americans. From what I know of the Russian front, it was a nightmare of logistics during which everyone waited for Der Failüre to see how many soldiers would die to hold at all costs some land they shouldn’t have taken in the first place. Keiling did his duty, but when the Germans surrendered, he ended up in Russian hands and was put in a labor camp near Stalingrad, where he spent three and a half years working in a coal mine fourteen hours a day.
From here. I’ll quote the rest of the article, but I find his message of freedom and democracy in many stories of people who were just trying to live their life until some %&*%!& politician screwed it up. (It doesn’t matter which side of the wall you’re on. Don’t hit me with your candidate because if they have a party agenda, they’re the same.)
In 1948, some of the prisoners of war who had special training were sent to East Germany to train “police forces.” Keiling said he had to choose between staying in the coal mines, where he could perish any day, and going to East Germany. He chose the latter, signing an agreement under pressure from the KGB.
Keiling became a special weapons training officer at the “police academy,” but soon “found out this training had nothing to do with police work.” Germany was secretly working to establish a new army, although prohibited from doing so under its terms of surrender.
Nevertheless, Keiling said, he had no choice in the matter. One night in 1950, while walking to the post office, he was kidnapped by two KGB officers and was jailed for six months, receiving monthly “hearings,” then sentenced to 10 years in a slave labor camp.
He was sent to the coal mines in Vorkuta, Siberia, 80 miles above the Artic Circle. Each day, he marched three miles from the barracks to the coal mine, with the temperature usually hovering over at 45 degrees below zero. He was released when Stalin died in March, 1953, but remained in custody of the Russians. He escaped to West Berlin while being transported back to East Germany.
In 1954 he settled in West Germany, where he met the niece of Bruno Shulz, the man who founded Gulfport Shipyard in Port Arthur.
Keiling was finally able to emigrate from Germany in 1956. He moved to Texas and worked for Shulz, managing a trailer park he owned in Kerrville and working on his ranch in Comfort. It was in Texas that Keiling learned to speak English, in part from television. Keiling worked for Schulz until his death in 1981.
He moved to Port Arthur, worked as a security guard until 1984, moved to Temple and moved back to Port Arthur last year.
He has returned to work with the same security company, Maritime Guard.
The good-humored but politically outspoken Keiling said he is proud to be an American.
And uses his freedom of speech in what he considers a struggle against the threat of governmental dictatorship.
“In America, people do not know how fast you can lose your freedom,” he said.
Okay, people, just breathe. Your avocado toast is secure! No. On second thought, I’m not going to blame my favorite kiddos, who seem to have no sense of direction. I belong to Generation X and have many quarrels with those who came before me and those who were born after me. We are the disgruntled. I also have a few issues with my kind. As I stated last week, I don’t do Facebook because I have no interest in hearing most people’s “opinions” on things that don’t concern them. However, I did look at the Wings over Houston page this past weekend, and boy was there a bunch of whiners! I went Saturday because I watched the weather report. Yes, it was cloudy, but all my favorites can fly under the clouds. The pyrotechnics crew was also rockin’ for the Tora, Tora, Tora crowd. I will say that everyone did a good job. Sorry to some that the weather ruined your plans on Friday and Saturday, but Sunday was perfect for your jets. On Saturday there was a lot of crap about the Blue Angels flying under the clouds. Again, if you paid extra to be there on Saturday, you should have been aware of the weather, which the weather is nature’s beast. Hell, my photos were taken that Saturday near the port-a-potty, behind the fence of the photographers’ pit. I guess I remain a master strategist. But that damn loudspeaker was always in the way. The photos are not perfect, but you’re welcome!
An odd thing happened when I was searching the vendors to buy a hat. I have caps, but my Lamar Cardinals hat looks pretty much like the American flag on the moon. It’s become crispy from the sun. My other one is a Houston Texans hat that I would wear to work were it not for the fact that people would keep asking me about the team. This is a problem because I have no allegiance to them. I don’t hate them; I just don’t care. To quote Mr. T, “I have no time for jibber-jabber.”
As I purchased my hat, an older gentleman who looked eerily like Jim “PeeWee” Martin, who passed this year, began to explain to me what the Commemorative Air Force hat meant and the Canadian Jet Snowbirds on it. I told him about my experiences at the airshow. Whether it was at the Jefferson County Airport in the 1980s or ‘90s or at Ellington Field, these shows sparked something in me that I hold dear. These were the days when pilots didn’t have computers running the navigation. They were young and went to war for their countries. In the end, many lost their lives to be patriots on both sides; they ended up as cannon fodder.
I told this man that if it has a propeller, I am interested; sorry for not caring about jets. I’m not against the Blue Angels, Sammie Hagar, or even the Blue Devils, because I don’t follow Duke basketball, but something about the planes from that era inspires me. And they had them this year! As Miss Rachel would say, “Good job” Wings over Houston! If you know about Miss Rachel, then you know! Godsend. I’ll leave a link at the bottom of the page for new parents or grandparents.
Well, the McFaddin-Ward House Museum lecture is on Thursday, November 10, at 6:30 p.m.; if you’re interested, please come. Crossing fingers that I don’t have a General Patton moment like when he talked in front of the Ladies Auxiliary.
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.
The Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour is this week, and almost everything is set. Upon trying to use Facebook to promote it, I encountered a few problems. It’s a cemetery tour, Facebook, and it doesn’t fit into your event list. Food? Gardening? I finally chose Visual Arts because I didn’t want you to think we were trying to get you to do yard work or invite zombies. But I digress. We will have ten presenters on Thursday from 4:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. at the cemetery and nine on Saturday from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. This is a tour to discover the history of some of Beaumont residents and this we have something special that will become a permanent feature. The newest addition to the 75-acre cemetery is the Pipkin section. The land in question was originally the site of the Pipkin Elementary School on Pine Street, where many African American Beaumonters began their education. In 1911, when Millard Elementary School for whites received a new brick structure, the old two-story wooden building was moved to the Pipkin School location on Pine Street. This building was also replaced with a brick structure in the 1920s. In 1974, the City of Beaumont acquired the school and land and demolished the building in 1981. The property was sold to Magnolia Cemetery in 1999. This site is a part of our history that needs to be remembered, and we have an excellent person to share this history with, Lynn Simon.
Here on Ye Olde Block Farm, we do have our share of spookiness and shenanigans. It doesn’t happen often, but it does occur all the same. This land was Martin Block’s farm. He was W. T. Block’s uncle. Martin died in 1945, and the original house burned down in the 1960s. Some of Block’s descendants still live in the neighborhood. We moved here in 2007, and Martin’s granddaughter lived next to us. She was a good source of family history, and my findings from Dean Tevis’s articles about farmers in the 1920s were an excellent addition to her accounts. I even found a photo of the original house that I gave to her and her older cousin, who remembered the structure. I’m glad I could do this before she passed.
We also have live oaks that are four and five feet in diameter. The cousin told me they have been there since at least 1908. These trees are precious to me. I look after them as best as I can. They’ve protected the house during Hurricane Rita, Humberto, Ike, Laura, and Delta.
Mostly, I think that those still here were farmers because they typically show up in the mornings or afternoons. One incident that stands out in my mind is someone sitting on the side of my bed at 5:30 a.m. and making the bed sag. Another time was when I was in my office at around 2 p.m. and heard someone walking in the kitchen. There was someone else here, and they work graveyards, so I assumed that they had woken up and it was coffee time. Thirty seconds later, I stood up and went into the kitchen—no one was there. The other person was still asleep.
This brings me to the third entity that pulls my chain. I don’t know if the original owner of the house (not of Block descent) built it, but he sure did his best to southern engineer things. I think he meant well, but he was not a Jack of all trades, as far as I’m concerned. We did a few renovations and had some things happen. After the first renovation, I was working at a table in the living room, and another person was asleep on the couch. Downton Abbey was playing on the TV, and the lazy boy chair popped open between us. In the fifteen years that we had it, it had never opened by itself. I know I get irked with the past owner for some things, but if he’s still here, he is used to my rants, and I am glad he enjoyed my chair that evening. He also might be just a fan of Downton Abby.
I might get into the second renovation later, where nothing happened because he knew what I would discover. Let’s just say that there were many chosen words that day.
Blackshirt ghost hunters are a different breed. Like I said last week, I am not a professional parapsychologist, nor do I spout that I’m an expert on anything of this nature, but some of the people in this field really go hardcore. Many run around in the dark, taking photos of dust particles while asking questions to an SB-7 spirit box. For those who don’t know, a SB-7 is basically a broken radio that continuously turns the dial to different radio stations. The objective is for a spirit to use this to communicate through the white noise. I have one of these, but it never works for me. It’s about as helpful as the Ghost Radar App I have on my phone, just for giggles. It may have worked a few times, but I don’t put much faith in it. Although there was that time when I was at Magnolia Cemetery cleaning headstones, and it told me to “RUN.” I looked around but didn’t see anything, so I went about my work. Probably just Thomas Langham having a bit of fun. Which I guess the ol’ sheriff is entitled to. (I say this because it was his headstone that I was cleaning.)
Nowadays, there are many more gadgets on the market that beep and moan but I’m really not interested in that stuff. It’s easier just to sit, watch, and listen. If someone wants to make contact, they will by any means. This happens over and over when you’re doing research. I’ll get into this next week.
Some ghost hunters take their investigations seriously, and others are outright mental. Years ago, a team was doing an investigation inside a trailer located in Orange County. Supposedly they caught an EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) of an Indian saying “ugh” and proudly uploaded it to Youtube. I heard the EVP of the so-called Indian saying “ugh”, but the big question is, why would the ghost of a dead Indian be haunting a trailer? And why do you talk to a spirit in English when they don’t know the language? It’s (explicit language here) to think that the spirit of a dead guy or gal has a Babel fish in their ear. These people get really mad when you call them out. It’s almost like they’re politicians but above the food chain level because I would never say they’re worse.
Well, hopefully I’ve angered someone till next week because I’m tired.
On Monday, I drove to Houston, and the weather was perfect. I can imagine unicorns and butterflies frolicking together in perfect harmony, but you people in Houston are a different breed. I will ask how you can strategically shut down all the major highways during morning rush hour when there is nothing in your way. At least there is I-99; it’s out of the way, but I cringe when I have to drive to the other side of Houston. By the way, I will go ahead and say that Buc-ee’s BBQ sucks. Sorry/not sorry, but it’s the best place to go to the bathroom, and the banana bread is good.
Ruth and Florence Chambers
Back in 2015, the Beaumont Heritage Society did its annual Florence Chambers birthday celebration. Florence was born in 1912 and lived in the same house her whole life. As I’ve said before, this house/museum is my favorite because it’s a house that we could live in without millions of dollars. The story of the two sisters—Ruth and Florence—is an excellent historical view of women succeeding in life at a time when most said they couldn’t function unless they were married. Visit the museum, take the tour, and enjoy their story.
That year, the actor who played Homer Chambers (Papa) couldn’t attend the event, so they decided to reenact the funeral of Papa Chambers. Broussard’s Funeral Home provided the casket, and the event went well. I even have a photo of the ghostly images of a few women walking in the background in a time-lapse. I saw at the time that the picture looked ghostly, and I even asked a friend who knew the Chambers sisters to look at it. I said, “Hey, this could be the Chambers sisters,” but she shut me down immediately, responding, “Not in those heels!” Reenactor problems, but gold to me. Everyone did a great job that night, as they do every year.
Well, it’s the second week of October, which means it’s time to carve turnips! Back in the old country, there were no pumpkins to carve, so turnips were initially used. I’ve been doing this for a few years now, and those turnips are a bit hard to cut, but we will prevail. I’m not an artist, but the finished product is usually placed in my office and the living room for everyone to enjoy, but I see a trend of people not visiting during this time. I guess a house that smells like turnips is an acquired taste.
The origin of pumpkin carving for Halloween began in Ireland with the legend of Stingy Jack. Jack was not a good man; not only did he screw up his life, but he also screwed up his afterlife. Hearing the story of Stingy Jack and his worthless life, I put him in either the Senate or Congress. It’s pretty bad when even the devil feels for you. I’ll leave a link below to the story and a video as well. The video is well done—it’s by an independent film producer named Gary Andrews.
Last week, I spoke of my article about the Legend of Sarah Jane that blew up in the past. My article about Bragg Road was no different. Although it didn’t surpass the views of the first one, I saw that people were interested in this lore. Before getting into the story, I would like to make a plea to whoever is using the nice signage for target practice: please point your shotgun somewhere else, because we don’t need that kind of stuff.
Bragg Road is different from Sarah Jane Road because there may be something there. As I said in the blog, I did see the light, but not close, as most people seem to tell me happened to their acquaintances. I have yet to talk to someone who has seen the light in front of them or hovering over their car. It’s always a cousin, friend, or neighbor. That don’t work for me, so it is ongoing research on what it might have been.
I’ll leave a link to the article at the bottom of the page, but this was kind of the first time that we tried to do a logical paranormal investigation. It was the 1980s, and no Ghost Adventures TV show existed. (And that was a good thing!) What did exist was Loyd Auerbach’s book ESP, Hauntings and Poltergeists: A Parapsychologist’s Guide Handbook. So, we tried to document who, how, and what was traveling down that night’s eight-mile stretch. I will say that Paul Newman (not the actor/salad dressing king) did an excellent job of figuring out if the light we saw was a vehicle traveling down the road by brushing the tire tracks off the road. So, we knew just how many cars had passed. But the conclusion was a light that looked like an oncoming train. It never got close to us. It’s still a mystery. If you have a story and you’re not related to West End Wanda, then email me at rediscoveringsetx@gmail.com.
One thing I will always promote is the cemetery tours on Broadway in Galveston. Author Kathleen Maca does these tours, and she literally wrote the books on the cemetery. I’m excited for our upcoming tour of Magnolia Cemetery on the 20th and 22nd, and if you get a chance, the historical knowledge of Kathleen on the residents of the cemeteries on Broadway is a treasure that you shouldn’t miss. She also has ghost tours on the strand. I’ll leave her info below.
October is here, and Fall is upon us. I’m not going to talk about Pumpkin Spice, but I may mention The Great Pumpkin if triggered because Linus was always the smart one of the bunch, although Marcie would have probably made a good researcher—I digress.
According to Celtic/European legends, the veil begins to thin from the two worlds at this time of year, but as a child growing up in Port Arthur, I just wanted candy. Everything was good for the most part, but when I was trick-or-treating as a child, I had to make explicit gestures to a kid at the Church of Port Arthur on 19th street because he was trolling his “You are going to hell because your parents won’t let me have candy” scenario. Story below!
It’s also that time of year when newspaper reporters come out of the woodwork and search for a few of us to play on Halloween-themed articles. I get it, but I don’t envy them for having a deadline. I post weekly, but as I’ve stated before, I don’t make money from this blog, so sometimes you’re not getting much. There are a few haunts, stories, and legends that I will get into this month, so tag your favorite one, new-to-this-area person on the local news beat, and possibly launch your career, with my info. Good luck and Godspeed, new journalist.
Back in 2012, when this blog began, I did an article on the Legend of Sarah Jane Road, and it blew up. At the time, I was getting a few hits a day, but the website was new, and a regional history blog is as niche as it gets. Well, one day, for some reason, people began to share the article throughout the world. In twenty-four hours, it had reached nearly 12,000 views from Russia and Malaysia to South America. It wasn’t a great article, but many SETX ex-residents worldwide remembered their own version of this story. That’s fine with me, but I stand with Mr. Block on the fact that the Port Arthur News reporter doing his theme at Sarah Jane Block’s expense is fiction. Speaking of Mr. Block, I’ll link to the article and his website because he did a few spooky/entertaining stories around this time of the year.
Evelyn Keyes
Last week I brought up Bessie Reid and her story of Kisselpoo. When researching Mrs. Bruce Reid (as Florence Stratton always referred to her in her weekly letter), I stopped by the Museum of the Gulf Coast to get copies of the information that Sarah, the curator at the time, had on Mrs. Reid. While we waited for the printer to finish, I noticed that some of the exhibits had been moved from the first to the second floor. I also noticed that the Evelyn Keyes exhibition was now on the second floor. So, knowing that Evelyn died in 2008 and that the Aladdin lamp in the exhibit contains some of her ashes, I asked, “How does Evelyn like her new home?”. The printer immediately jammed. I don’t know if Scarlet’s sister jammed that printer, but I assume she was not pleased. I’ll add that Evelyn Keyes left Port Arthur at age three when her father died, but she stayed in touch, unlike other celebrities that y’all put on a pedestal, so she’s alright in my book.
The Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour is planned and ready. The dates are Thursday, October 20th, from 4:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. and Saturday, October 22nd, from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. The tour is free and will feature some old and new names. This tour is a history tour of the deceased residents of Beaumont. There will be ten speakers on Thursday and nine on Saturday, so come out and listen to the history of the cemetery residents.
Until next week, slán go fóill.
Halloween on 19th st in Port Arthur
When I was growing up, October was special to me. Not only is it my birth month, but it was also a time of great joy. CavOILcade was still something to look forward to, and toward the end of the month we would always anticipate trick-or-treating down 19th Street with keen enthusiasm.
I vaguely remember my sisters telling ghost stories in the living room. (Does anyone remember the man with the golden arm?) Just when the spooky part would happen, Tiger, our cat, would jump up onto the air-conditioning window unit outside and scare the hell out of us. I loved that cat!
Trick-or-treating was special. We would walk down 19th Street to the train bridge, knocking on doors and waiting excitedly for our treats. Of course, not everyone enjoyed this time. There was that fly-by-night church (if I recall correctly, it was called the Church of Port Arthur) where some kid who looked to be 10 years old yelled at us that we were all going to hell. I promptly responded, “And a fun time we will have!” He didn’t respond. I guess that was the only thing he had been taught to say.
For the most part I did have a good time haunting 19th Street in my cheap Casper costume. I will say though that that damned rubber band on the bargain-basement mask never lasted the whole night, but it made it as far as the house where candy was consumed with great relish. I guess in all honesty I wasn’t a friendly ghost. Just ask the 10 year old at the Church of Port Arthur.
I also remember this was the time when there were stories of some candy being tainted with horrible things, such as razor blades. My father was first to make sure that the candy was safe and edible. Of course he took it upon himself to eat each candy where the wrapper had been slightly disturbed. Even at a young age I could figure this ploy out.
Halloween was special while I was growing up. We had fun in somewhat dark times, but all in all, it was a joyful time in my life, and now I would like to commemorate those who made this time a hoot! Even that poor 10 year old. I hope that in his later years he found greater happiness than that derived from yelling at children who were looking for candy.
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.
This week was the 159th Anniversary of the Battle of Sabine Pass, where 46ish Irishman defeated a Union flotilla of 5,000. They also had Kate Dorman in reserve just in case they couldn’t handle it themselves. A twenty-three-year-old lieutenant named Richard Dowling took out the flotilla by practice and planning. He was also at the Battle of Galveston. His history is fascinating because he arrived in New Orleans at around age four from a poor family, but if I remember correctly, he owned three bars in Houston by age twenty-one. The Bank of Bacchus is my favorite one of his establishments. He died of yellow fever at twenty-eight or twenty-nine (his birth records aren’t very clear.)
Dick Dowling Days 2013
In 2013, during the 150th anniversary of the battle, when it was alright to explain history’s sour past, there were many reenactments for each significant battle, and Sabine Pass was no different. This was the last reenactment battle and the 50th Anniversary of Dick Dowling Days, which was a thing since 1967. I was new to the Historical Commission, which I joined in 2012, and was wondering how I would take off three days of work for this, but I did, and it was worth it that year. Since it was the 150th anniversary, more reenactors were on the Union side, and many were dressed as Navy guys (300, actually!).
It was good to listen to some of them and their stories of past reenactments, letting the history and the hilarity flow. Past battles may or may not have included stuffing a beer can with concrete inside a cannon or firing blanks at a foreign tanker that didn’t know what was happening and swerved to miss the (blank) round. I have some videos from 2013 of some of the staged events; I’ll leave the links to them.
As I look back at the photos, I’m reminded that we’ve lost many of these guys in the past few years. Pictures are great, but their families would rather have them in their lives.
It seems the veil is thinning earlier than usual on the research front. I’ll get into more of this in October, but sometimes when you start researching someone with the hope of bringing their stories to light, and you know there are dead ends everywhere, you reach a point where you ask yourself: Why am I doing this? Then things get wibbly-wobbly, and people unexpectedly start to appear, and suddenly you have new, accurate information that you treasure. My Florence Stratton research was like this, and it is still ongoing; each year, we find more info to sift through for twenty hours over a weekend. I’m not complaining; I like doing this because it answers questions about our past. It is evident that I have a new research project for this winter, and hopefully, we will get more history on someone who I think deserves it.
Well, the Queen has died. This is not SETX related, but I’m going to ramble anyway. My interest in history spans different areas, and Rule Britannia is a big one. It is incredible to me that I have no interest in Dickens on the Strand in Galveston though—but I digress.
Growing up, my TV choices were limited to three channels, but thanks to Channel 39 out of Houston, the Benny Hill Show was available.
On PBS, Channel 8 out of Houston was also a window into different things. Toby Charles’s Soccer Made in Germany was a great program for Americans who couldn’t see a decent football match because the US soccer/football team was nonexistent. This is why I latched on to the English national team back in 1982. Rooting for the English national team is like rooting for the Astros (before they saw the sign) or the Oilers. After forty years of pain, I have switched to the Welsh team.
Queen Elizabeth ruled longer than any of her predecessors. As a princess during the war, she was a truck mechanic. Lilibeth, as her sister Margaret called Elizabeth because she couldn’t pronounce her name, was ultimately groomed by her father, King George, for a role in the monarchy. I can’t speak for Britannia, but in my opinion, she did as well as she could. God save the Queen!
As far as Charles goes, I side with Diana’s kids.
I once asked someone from the UK to explain to me the difference in how the US and Great Britain rally their people. He told me, “The US rallies around its flag while we rally around the Queen.”
After beginning my work week by ticking off both a bull and a five-foot rat snake on Monday, I think I’ve done alright so far. Thankfully, it wasn’t a Brahman bull, otherwise I wouldn’t be alive to write this. The rat snake was pretty annoyed that I woke him up, but I had a weapon; with his side eye, he saw some guy on a forklift coming for him. Note to self: rat snakes move pretty darn fast! I’ll have to start bringing my katana sword to work, but then the bull would probably laugh at me. Oh well, he’s not that swift anyway, or knowledgeable of anything except not wanting to move out of the way when I need him to. Maybe fireworks are a better option.
Well, I did some proper research this week. Some of it will be on the 2nd Annual Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour in October. It involves the origins of Martha Mack (McFaddin) and the Martha Mack Cemetery located between what is now Marina Drive and the end of Elm St. This research is ongoing. I’ll have more material in October. Martha was born in Tennessee around 1842—a census states that she was thirty-eight in 1880. She worked as a laundress for the McFaddins. The cemetery was on land deeded to her by W. P. H. McFaddin.
Martha had five children, but Roxie Patillo and Basheba Simpson Plummer were the only ones I could find a bit more information on. According to the 1880 census, their father was Henry E. Simpson, Jefferson County clerk. If anyone has information on the Patillo or Simpson family, then I’m “all ears,” as Ross Perot, a businessman and 1992 Texas presidential candidate, said after he screwed up some of y’all’s high school football expectations. No Pass, No Play was brutal for people who cared.
Speaking of high school football, what was the last high school from Port Arthur to win a state title? Bishop Byrne Shamrocks 1952. Don’t give me that crap that they didn’t play anyone. They beat your Bum Phillips 34-13 at Nederland, and French High 26-0. Of course, they did it with Raymond Meyer. (Visit the Museum of the Gulf Coast for more on him.)
My father was on that team (#17), and he told me stories of Ray. Legend has it that they would chain him up to the entrance of the visiting teams’ locker room like a junkyard dog for effect. It worked that year. He would have gone pro, but he blew out his knee training for the 49ers. He and his dad went into the barber business and used to cut my hair. That was the nicest Goliath I’ve ever been around.
Also, a shout-out to Bobby Barras, who was also on that team. My father, Bobby, and I went to Rice Stadium in 1977 for the State Finals, where Bishop Byrne appeared again. They played St. Pius; Gary Kubiak, of Denver Bronco fame, was on that team. I know him as a quarterback who ignored his coach’s call for a field goal in his college days. The coach let him do his thing and, well, they lost. That sums up his playing days. I guess he may have had a better coaching role, but I don’t follow Danny White (Dallas Cowboy)-grade QBs. Anyway, the Green Machine lost 21-13, so to drown our sorrows, we went to Luby’s to indulge in tea and water-filled cups of vegetables. I ordered two or three versions of potatoes, which intrigued Bobby. He asked me why I was eating different kinds of potatoes. My reply was clear: “Because I’m honoring the little Irish heritage I have.” I don’t think he talked to me anymore. Thinking back, I wasn’t a good kid—but I digress.
The dates have been set for this year’s Historic Magnolia Cemetery Tour. They are on Thursday, October 20th, from 4:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m., and Saturday, October 22nd, from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. It’s free to all who want to learn not only Beaumont history but also SETX history. There will be some new stories and some old ones. We like our volunteers, who research their topics to shine. My only regret is that I can’t take the tour because I’m on it.
All who volunteer on this tour do a great job to represent the history of our area, while adding their own stories to it. I hope to see you there, and I especially hope you enjoy it. Ciao, for now.
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.
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