Tag Archives: Port Neches Texas

Thoughts and Ramblings: I Miss Mr. Heat Miser; The Seagull; Ronald, Texas; Preserving the Legacy of W. T. Block Jr; Remembering Roy; Red Cross Armband; Don’t Ever Mess With My Bananas!

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Good morning to everyone except Mr. Snow Miser. Here he comes now, the big ham. His icy crap and low temps suck. I prefer Mr. Heat Miser because he’s Mr. Green Christmas. He’s Mr. Sun. He’s Mr. Heat Blister and Mr. One Hundred and One. They call him Heat Miser because whatever he touches starts to melt in his clutch. He’s too much!

I hope you all survived this icy nonsense called mid-January. I blame all the folk participating in dry January. January is never dry, just frozen for the weekend, then we deal with rain and the Canadian thistle weeds, clover, and other growing stuff that appears in spring. Not to brag, but I am certified in afterlife heat-tolerance training. This does not matter in January, though. It basically means that I have a jacket on when the temperatures fall below 67 degrees.

This week, I have been focusing on the Port Arthur High School yearbooks that I acquired from a friend who texts me whenever he finds something from Port Arthur. Although I can’t take everything he suggests, he somehow finds a lot of interesting stuff at estate sales. I have five editions of The Seagull, the yearbook of the first years of Port Arthur High School. I have the ones from 1918, 1922, 1923, 1925, and 1927 thanks to Mr. Don Smart. All the years are digitized and can be viewed at the Portal to Texas History. I’ll leave a link at the bottom of the blog.

I’ve also been looking at my maps, and the city of Ronald stands out because it was, I believe, a place where the train stopped. I have a map of the city from a Texas and New Orleans Railroad Survey. I did find a “Ronald, Texas” stop on the Houston and Sabine Pass Railroad. It was just south of Fannett and northeast of Big Hill on an 1898 map that I purchased from the Spindletop Boomtown Museum over ten years ago. I will state that this map keeps on giving, whether it’s finding Catherina Stengele’s rice farm and land or Ronald McDonald touting that he and N. A. Gallagher founded a city (yep, that’s his name, and now I really want to look into the story). I will also give kudos to the Spindletop Boomtown Museum for selling this treasure.

On Friday, I attended the “Preserving the Legacy of W. T. Block Jr.” lecture. Bill Block, W. T.’s son, did a fantastic job of explaining why we need to preserve history and how to do it. His journey of reclaiming some of W. T.’s files and learning the ropes of self-publishing to bring his books back to print for a decent price is commendable because some of these online stores are ridiculous. In the end, though, will you pay for what they offer? Luckily, the reprints of his father’s books are accessible at a decent price. I’ll leave a link at the bottom of the blog.

This event really had a good turnout, and I hope to attend more of these gatherings at the Tyrrell Historical Library. My only regret was not knowing that the Listen Closely podcast hostess/“Old News” Facebook page creator was in the audience. If you haven’t checked out the podcast and the Facebook page, I have the links! If that’s okay with you, Mrs. Marble! I love your work.

A few weeks ago, a reader sent me down memory lane. I found out that someone in her family lived basically across the street from the house I lived in during the 1990s. Also, we had a mutual interest in one of our neighbors. I have many spirit animals that have influenced me (isn’t that what the kids say? Or is that the new-aging community?). Margaret Hamilton (Wizard of Oz), Bunny Rabbit (from Captain Kangaroo), Oscar the Grouch (from Sesame Street), and Yukari Akiyama 秋山 優花里 (Tank Enthusiast from Girls Und Panzer) have all had an influence on my life, but not as much as Roy Temple. My neighbor, who was a living being, had a major impact on me on many levels. He taught me a lot and told me stories of coming to Port Arthur from Leesville, Louisiana, in 1957. I did a tribute for him in 2012. I’ll leave a link.

I don’t know if I ever told this story here before (I could go back and look for it, but it’s cold and my search engine is sketchy). A friend—we’ll call him Doug—saved a few treasures from a garbage pile. Unfortunately, someone passed, and the nieces and nephews threw out many boxes of gems. (This happens all the time, so if you have something to pass on, you should know that your family members are the worst people to trust to pass it on. Make a plan.) These boxes contained oil stock certificates, abstracts, lawyer stuff, a map of Hardin County, and a World War I Red Cross armband. The stock certificates were never given to me. Although worthless, they were cool, so the finder decided to keep them. They gave me the other stuff. I contacted the Hardin County Historical Commission and agreed to give them the map and all the papers. I decided to keep the armband. Everything was good to go the day before. That evening, as I was photographing and digitizing as many papers as I could, I became ill—ill enough to recognize the sign that a treasure needs to be in a certain place. The next afternoon, I dropped off all the papers, along with the armband, because that is where I suspect Mr. Cruse wanted it to be—I digress.

Today, if you visit the Hardin County Museum, you will see the Red Cross armband in the case, among other historical relics. I don’t go there often, but I love this museum, and I hope it continues to grow.

Would you be interested if there was a volunteer day to help clean up an abandoned cemetery in Jefferson County in late January? If you think you might want to help, reach out to me so I can give you the details. I will definitely be talking about this in future posts; for now, we need to get the details in order.

Until next week, make sure your bananas are secure in your kitchen because Ratatouille paid the ultimate price for sneaking in under the oaks on Block’s Formosan Farm and trying to eat my bananas at 3:30 a.m. The bananas are safe now, but my Tanto short sword is chipped.

Don’t ever mess with my bananas!

The Seagull -Port Arthur High School Yearbook 1918: 

https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139825/

W.T. Block website

http://www.wtblock.com/

To Purchase His Books:

https://www.amazon.com/stores/W.-T.-Block/author/B001JS50ES?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Listen Closely Podcast:

https://www.facebook.com/HTTLISTENCLOSELY

Old News:  

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61555333351969

Tribute to Roy:  

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

Museum of Hardin County:  

https://www.facebook.com/MuseumHardinCounty

Thoughts and Ramblings: TPC and the Turkey Farm

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The U.S. Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board (CSB) released a new safety video on the investigation into the TPC plant explosions. Usually I’ll let the vultures feed on this, but I do have some history with this “Turkey Farm,” as some called it in the Texaco Chemical era, known now as the TPC Group Chemical Plant.

Back in the early nineties, when I was pondering a career (no, I was just a slacker, and I ended up at C. H. Heist Corp., hydro blasting filters at Neches Butane), I saw many things in this refinery. The first observance was that half of the refinery was clean but the rest was in disrepair. I was told that the clean units hadn’t been used in 40 years. I don’t know if this was true, but it would fit. Also, back then I was usually in the betamethaoxyprofil nitrile unit (I don’t even know if I spelled it right, but my editor has been told to skip this word because I was tired of looking at it, and I’m not going to spend time on it now). I’m not a chemist, but betamethaoxyprofil nitrile is something I wouldn’t put in my cauldron. This “additive?” is not made today. We’d been called there to clean a drain, but some jackleg college graduate thought it good to try to take over the situation because we couldn’t get the water to flow. Being a jackleg myself, I just watched as he stuck his bare hand in the hole to try to clear it. This was after he was yacking about his love of female companionship. We all knew he was an idiot, and luckily another Neches Butane employee was there to tell him that sticking your hand in a drain full of Benzine causes cancer. His face turned white; I guess that education of his taught him nothing. True story. I was taught if your glove can’t reach it then use your rubber boot. I didn’t go to college to learn the correct etiquette for being a boilermaker, or whatever the hell the jackleg was, but I have drunk Texaco water, so I’m pretty much doomed—I digress.

The “Turkey Farm” nickname for Neches Butane was directly administered by the folks at the old Jefferson Chemical when Texaco owned them both, as far as I have heard. I know someone who was in accounting at Jefferson Chemical at the time, and they stated that Jefferson Chemical made the money while Neches Butane lost it. I have no horse in the race, but I can believe it because of Neches Butane’s history. As for as my history in refineries, that ended sitting in a smoke shack at 2:30 in the morning (when they had a smoke shack). “What the hell am I doing here, and why!”  At this point I was done with refineries.

Cut to February 2019. As I drove south on Magnolia Street in Port Neches, I noticed that the flare at TPC had a problem. It was shooting a hundred feet in the air! Then, as the wind took it to the ground, it was moving like one of those inflatable air dancers the car dealerships use to get your attention. And no one said anything other than we were having problems with a unit. Fun times in Port Neches. It almost sounds like the daily observance at Flint Hills. Shout out to the El Vista residents in Port Arthur. Keep safe.

The night that TPC had their mishap, I was asleep but was awakened by texts from nurses in my family because they work the night shift out of town and had no knowledge of the situation. Luckily there was no damage here, but a ring camera fell in the blast. I did not seek reimbursement, but Wednesday morning’s air traffic over Jack Brooks Regional Airport looked similar to the signing of the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Bay. Every lawyer from Houston to Dallas was flying in. I did my usual work that Wednesday, but I kept getting updates from Judge Jeff on the phone (because I subscribe to STAN, the Southeast Texas Alerting Network) on the evacuation status of residents. I like Judge Jeff a lot, and I usually love to hear his voice, but if you remember, 2019 Tropical Storm Imelda did her thing, and the Judge gave updates after updates. We were fine here, but I understand some people don’t realize that you DON’T RUN YOUR GENERATOR IN YOUR HOUSE!

That afternoon, I was in Beaumont at an office and thought I heard the garbage truck outside. No, the notification on a camera at my house said otherwise. That was the moment the “rocket” lifted off and scared the hell out of everyone in charge. (It was actually a unit tower that caught on fire and shot into the air like a firecracker.) I left and picked up what I needed at HEB. Remember, this was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I went home and began to cook Thanksgiving dinner the night before the holiday, like I have done for years. (We just heat it up on Thursday.) As the turkey was cooking, we did a walk-about in the neighborhood and watched the smoke from TCP move to the Fannett area of Jefferson County. Despite the calls for evacuation, I chose to cook Thanksgiving dinner that night and watch movies. The first movie was Dunkirk! (What else would be suitable?) The next was 1917.

I woke up to changing winds, and the smoke, but those who were worried about hell on earth—of us needing to evacuate—drove in and had Thanksgiving dinner in the afternoon. We are all good, under the Oakes on Ye Olde Block’s Formosan Farm, but we will endure whatever bullshit is handed to us.

I don’t care about Neches Butane, Jefferson Chemical, Texaco Chemical, or any other shite company in my past, but I hope those in charge will have to answer for this. They won’t. Even the Vultures who flew in are not your friends. It’s a game that no one ever wins. But I do find it fitting that the end of TPC came the day before Thanksgiving. It kind of puts the “Turkey Farm” reference in context. Gobble, gobble.

To quote 西住 みほ, Nishizumi Miho, Panzer Vor! We all move forward. And I hope we can leave this business, and it’s history, behind.

U.S. Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board (CSB) Report:

12 News Now:

https://www.12newsnow.com/video/news/local/mid-county-residents-express-frustration-over-tpc-reaching-30-million-bankruptcy-settlement/502-2cbaec27-fb4d-496c-bd91-73585e53b85b

Southeast Texas Alerting Network:

Home Page

Tropical Storm Imelda:

Click to access AL112019_Imelda.pdf

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

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Smaun and Fatima Sing Hpoo

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

Remley-Hillbrand Cemetery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wong Shu :

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

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

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

W.T. Block:

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

Legend of Sarah Jane Road

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Most people who have grown up in the mid and south Jefferson County have heard at least one version of the legend of Sarah Jane and the lowly road that it’s attached to. I remember riding the darkened road myself many times in the 1980s. I even fished from the bridge during a dark and foggy night. So, what did I see? (He paused to entice the reader before modestly stating that the author saw nothing of substance.) We will however delve into that a bit later.
So who was Sarah Jane, and what are the legends surrounding this ghost road? In one version, on a moonlit night, you may see her ghostly apparition searching the marsh and thicket for her baby who drowned in the murky waters of the Neches River.
Other versions include Sarah Jane as a lady pirate (or Lafitte’s girlfriend). In a further account, she was attacked by a group of bandits, so she placed her child in some weeds near the bridge. When it was safe, she returned for the child—but it was gone. It somehow got into the canal and disappeared.
The story I know is as follows: Sarah Jane was crossing the bridge of the canal when she accidently dropped her baby in the water. Try as she did, she could not save her child, and it drowned. Distraught about losing her child, Sarah Jane hung herself from a huge oak tree further up the road from the bridge.
There are many renditions of this story, but whichever version I read, I inevitably uncover a big problem with the historical accuracy. I am not saying that something isn’t afoot along the Neches—I just don’t think it was with Sarah Jane. Union soldiers were never in Grigsby’s Bluff (Port Neches), which another version implies. In this report, Sarah Jane hears there are Union soldiers making their way toward her cabin, so she puts her baby in a wicker basket under a wooden bridge before fleeing the area. Later, when she returns, the basket and the baby are gone. (Please note that this area, in the past, present, and future has been, is, and will be known to have alligators frequenting its waterways. To put anything remotely fleshy in a waterway is therefore not advisable.)
In an article by Carl Cunningham Jr. in the Mid County Chronicle dated October 28, 1998, the author asserts in an interview with W. T. Block (whose family owned a lot of the land in this area) that a reporter from the Port Arthur News made the connection to his mother’s name (Sarah Jane Block) and the dark spooky road, and so the legend began.
As I said, I spent many a night on both the road and the bridge but never saw anything of substance—except for one night. Three friends and I had decided to drive down Sarah Jane Road to see what we could see, or at least scare the hell out of the couple making out on the parked motorcycle we encountered while driving with the headlights off. (Thank you, Bryan, for warning them of our impending appearance with your rendition and re-enactment of the laugh from the movie “Gremlins.”)
Just before our encounter with the Harley lovebirds, I looked into the trees and noticed a faint ball of light shooting across the tree line. I immediately asked another friend Hector if he’d seen it.
“Uh yeah,” he had said nervously.
Replaying the scene in my mind, I do not think the light in question was of a paranormal nature. But I cannot figure out what it actually was. Possibly a type of swamp gas that most hauntings are blamed on. It could have been, but we did not investigate further. I will also add that there was no alcohol involved on this day on my part or any of the others.
In the following weeks, a few friends (including Hector) also took a ride to the bridge. This time, my friend Hector decided to be belligerent toward whatever could be lurking in the darkness. At about this same moment, the fog began to roll in swiftly. Disheartened and a touch spooked by the sudden appearance of the fog, Hector returned to the safety of the car, and they quickly retreated. As they drove away, the storyteller told me that the fog seemed to keep up with them. (Note: The storyteller had not partaken of any alcohol, but I can neither confirm nor deny Hector’s involvement with the beverage that night. I will say however that this was the last time Hector was aggressive toward a ghostly legend.)
For me, the question of whether or not Sarah Jane haunts the lowly road between Groves and Port Neches is still unanswered, but with this area’s history, there are other possible players in the saga. North of the road, there were six Indian burial mounds, all standing 20 ft high, 60 ft wide, and 100 yards long. (Note: All the mounds were destroyed by the year 1900 for various reasons.) Indians have a rich history in this area and their set of own legends to boot.

(See Legend of Kisselpoo.)
Therefore, in closing, if one ever finds oneself traveling down the dark and winding Sarah Jane Road, I would refrain from yelling out profanities because you never know who or what might be listening.