The Hineston Chronicles Volume 8 Number 3

The Hineston Chronicles 

Volume 8 Number 3

Photo posted to

Historic Hineston

Facebook group
‎Mark-Percella Snyder‎

 

Carolyn's Corner

By Carolyn Dyess Bales

                                Why Would you Consider the Virtual Genealogy Association?

                                              

The Virtual Genealogical Association is a global organization serving family history enthusiasts of all levels, geared towards those: ... with an interest in connecting, networking, and mentoring with global genealogists.  

As Dick Eastman further explained, A Virtual Genealogical Society is necessary for the following reasons:

• whose circumstances make it difficult to attend local genealogical society meetings
• who prefer online presentations, special interest groups (SIGs), conferences, and socializing
• with an interest in connecting, networking, and mentoring with global genealogists

In today’s climate where time, money, jobs, families, etc make it hard to physically attend conferences, the Virtual Genealogical Association is very attractive.    

The Virtual Genealogical Society began with the recognition that many family history enthusiasts are merging technology and globalization in their genealogical pursuits. We aim to provide a forum for genealogists to connect, network, and mentor with genealogists around the world through monthly meetings online, webinars, social networking, annual conferences, and in-person meet-ups at conferences, institutes and events around the world.

Membership is just $20 per year and provides:

• 24/7 access to Members-Only section of website
• Recorded monthly webinars by nationally-known speakers
• Webinar handouts
• Live chat with featured speakers in members-only Facebook group
• Fillable PDF forms for family history research
• Digitized monthly newsletter
• Eligibility for prizes offered during monthly webinars
• Access to Special Interest Group (SIG) discussions and handout
• Discount on annual virtual conference registration cost
• Eligibility for prizes during annual virtual conference
• Discounts on genealogy software, databases, publications and products
• Members-only Facebook group for networking, mentoring, and socializing

The Virtual Genealogical Society encourages all members to continue joining the genealogical societies in their local area and/or in the area where their ancestors lived. These societies can provide additional benefits that include:

• Access to their local database of records and indexes
• Mentorship from society members with expertise in local records and repositories
• Field trips to area repositories

The Virtual Genealogical Society will be hosting a three-day virtual conference from November 1-3, 2019. Confirmed presenters are listed on our website: http://virtualgensoc.com/

I did join right away.    It is another way to network, learn new techniques, and keep in touch with the genealogy world. For $20 per year for conferences in the comfort of your own home and networking is a reasonable charge.   

We have an active social network in our members-only Facebook group and in the smaller Facebook groups set up for our 40+ chapters and Special Interest Groups (SIGs).   At the present time, I am the administrator for  Louisiana and for Mississippi.

For more information, contact us at info@virtualgensoc.com or visit http://virtualgensoc.com/.

Reunions 

SMITH Reunion - October 20th - ( Gardner Baptist Church ) Gardner, Louisiana Begins around 10AM; bring dish; bring pictures, etc. Carolyn Dyess Bales.

MEYLIAN Reunion - October 20, 2018 - Fellowship Methodist Church Pavillion, Hineston. 11:00 till ? Bring covered dishes, drinks provided. Kathy Squyres Meylian.

Deaths

Wanda Lee Bollinger, 80, of Alexandria passed away Tuesday, July 10, 2018. Burial was in Pine Island Cemetery, Simpson, LA 
William "Sonny" Lewis, 86, of Alexandria passed away on Tuesday, July 17 2018.. Burial was in Calvary Baptist Church Cemetery, Gardner, LA

Donald Wayne Walden 60, of Sieper, passed away on Monday, July 23, 2018. Burial was in Mt. Zion Cemetery, Many, LA.
Billie Jean Whittington, 82, of Kinder, pasted away on Saturday, July 21, 2018. Burial was in Willis Flats Cemetery (also known as Bethel Cemetery, Humble Cemetery) Plainview, LA.

Linda Faye Braddy, 69, of Calcasieu, passed away on Tuesday, July 17, 2018. Burial was in New Hope Baptist Church Cemetery, Elmer, LA.

Randy Jack Wright , 69, of Elmer, passed away on Sunday, July 29, 2018. Burial was in New Hope Baptist Church Cemetery, Elmer, LA.
Mae Edwards Thompson, 75, of Pitkin, passed away on Wednesday, August 29, 2018. Burial was in Occupy Church #1 Cemetery, Pitkin, LA.
Roy R. Johnson, 79, of Houston, passed away August 23, 2018. 

John Ross Lawson, 75, of Alexandria,passed away on Sunday, September 2, 2018. 
Cecil E. Clark, Sr., 71, of Boyce, passed away on Tuesday, September 4, 2018. Burial was in Burrough Cemetery, Elmer, LA 
Myrtle Margaret Richmond, 84, of Forest Hill, passed away on Sunday, September 9, 2018. Burial was in Amiable Cemetery, Melder, LA.

Bronson Keith Marler, 78, of Alexandria, passed away on Wednesday, September 12, 2018. Burial was in Alexandria Memorial Gardens, Woodworth, LA.
Nettie Lucille Padgett, 81, of Hineston, passed away on Sunday, September 16, 2018. Burial was in Beechwood Community Cemetery, Hineston, LA.
Gene Lamar Monk, 77, of LaCamp passed away on Tuesday, September 18, 2018. Burial was in LaCamp Cemetery LaCamp, LA.
Frances Aline Rougeou Snoddy, of Lecompte, passed away on September 21, 2018. Burial. was in Rougeou Cemetery, Elmer, LA.

Huey Douglas Bonnette, 80, of Elmer, passed away on Wednesday, September 26, 2018. Burial was in Fellowship Cemetery, Hineston, LA

Story posted to 

Historic Hineston

Facebook group by

Dianne Duncan

Marie's Story (continued -this was the first chapter in the book she started)

I was alone in the waiting room. I picked up a magazine but found nothing that could hold my interest, so I put it down. The doctor would not be in for another hour or so. It was a small hospital and so quiet; no one seemed to be astir except the nurse who stopped in now and then to ask how I felt.

The door opened and two men walked in. I recognized the red-headed one and almost wished I could avoid him. I should have been glad to see my cousin, but he was a preacher whose words were as fiery as his hair and it was embarrassing to be the object of his sermons.

However, there was no escape, so I stiffened as one does involuntarily when they shut their mind and harden their heart unwilling to be persuaded.

“What are you doing here?”, he asked, surprised to see me.

“Well”, I said, trying to sound sarcastic, “I’m awaiting the stork”.

It took a moment for him to recover from his surprise and then he let loose. “Do you mean to tell me you are going to try to raise two children, alone, without God?” He already knew about my divorce. I listened as politely as I could as he went on and one about how a person needs God, not only for himself, but especially when they have children to bring up. The nurse rescued me when she told them they could now go in.

After they left, the nurse asked, “Well, who are they”? I told her they were preachers. The red-headed Irish looking one was Bowman Legg, my cousin; the other one was the pastor of the church at The Curve in Pitkin.

Pitkin is the little farming village I call my home town. I went to school in Pitkin and my father bought his groceries and supplies there, but my home was three miles from the town. The place I called home had no neighbors within yelling distance. It was on a hill overlooking the fields of sugar cane or rows of corn or other crops. It may seem strange, but it was in many ways similar to my present home which also stands on a hill, isolated from other houses, overlooking rice paddies. No place could truly be home to me unless it is one a hill with something growing to look at. There is so much here to remind me of my childhood home, yet it is so different. During rice harvest, I cannot help but remember sugar cane harvest with all the neighbors working together, stripping the stalks, hauling to the mill, the grinding into juice, and then the long slow boiling of juice in large vats placed over the furnace. Children were as attracted to the sweet juice as the hone bees that swarmed around the mill. Japanese children share similar thrills when steamed rice is pounded into omochi to lay up for the New Year’s festivities.

Until I graduated from high school, I had crossed the state line only once, and I had been too young to remember the occasion. I heard later how I had nearly lost my life while waiting for the ferry to take us across the Sabine River into Texas. I was wading in the river and wandered into the deep water. I’m told that I was only saved by the hand of God.

My childhood were the years the locusts had eaten. During my first year of school, we lost our mother; a great cloud came over hour home and was eclipsed only by the cloud that darkened the horizons of our nation. Ravished by depression, our nation elected an administration which promised to bring economic recovery, but all the superficial remedies of the New Deal merely prolonged depression until Would War II gave industries a shot in the arm. This in turn, brought economic recovery to the country., Worst of all, during those years was our recognition of Communist Russia and the flood of atheistic propaganda of communism that swept the country.

Those were hungry years. Some children went to school without lunches; many went barefoot. But the hunger that was so real to me was not physical. Although I devoured every book in the small library, I was not satisfied. There was so little to supplement the high school library, that trashy confession magazines and western fiction were swapped under desks. The only newspaper we had was a weekly with a magazine section. I treasured this paper When it came, I would sneak off to the cane fields and hide under their cool shade where I would read it from cover to cover. I would clip poems and stories and save them into a notebook; then when I had nothing to read, I would take out my notebook and memorize my favorite pieces and compose poems of my own.

The possibility of going to collage was not even entertained in my wildest dreams. If family men could not fine work, how could a slip of a girl work her way through college? Perhaps I might have found a way had there been anyone to encourage me, but that was a country school. The only students who went to college were the sons and daughters of teachers, who would, in turn, become teachers. Besides, I did not know exactly what it was that I hungered for.

I graduated in 1941. The war was on in Europe, but that was so far away that I was not touched by it. War-like maneuvers were going on in our community; Yankee soldiers would stop by to ask if this road went to such and such a place. Sometimes they would ask where they could find alligators. Here they were in Louisiana two weeks and had not seen an alligator yet. Sometimes there would be an air battle overhead . If it was at night we would watch the fireworks, but it was so unreal; it was just games. Some of my classmates were finding jobs in Camp Polk, but that was not for me. I wanted to go to the city where I thought I would find a broader world.

However, I found the city more lonely than the country. Although I made friends, they could not satisfy the deep hunger within me. The object of my search was so elusive. I went to night school, but did not find it there. I spent hours in the library, but my search was in vain. There was no one to teach me what to read, nor how to direct my reading; I simply chose books at random and joined book of the month clubs. Most of those books went into a bonfire later.

For some time I had been corresponding with a hometown boy who had joined the Navy. His letters were always interesting and in 1941, the stationery was elaborately illustrated with a Hawaiian flavor, sometimes with photos of Waikiki Beach or hula dancers. It was all very romantic until one Sunday in December. I had spent a lazy day reading until afternoon when I decided to drop in and see a cousin who lived nearby. Perhaps we’d attend church that evening. When I got there, my cousin asked if I knew that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. I was so stunned that it took a while to comprehend. I went to church with them; after the service, I went to the altar to pray, not for myself, but for my boyfriend. His ship was in Pearl Harbor.

From that day one, everything changed. My girlfriends were getting married and going with their husbands to some distant camp or port to be together a short time before their husbands were sent overseas. There seemed to be no security anywhere and young people who had just been friends before, suddenly became sweethearts and marriage soon followed. It seemed so important to “belong” to someone and to live as though there were only a few days left to live.

My boyfriend survived Pearl Harbor and in time, got a long furlough, and we too became engaged and later married not comprehending the significance of the marriage union.

I never knew what normal married life was like. He had sea duty for the duration. I lived in a port town awaiting the rare occasion when his ship would come in, and often had to ride crowded trains and buses to some distant port to see him.

In time, all my heart’s longing became bound up in the baby I was expecting and in the dreams of the home we house have when the war ended. No long was I searching for that magic something. I thought I had found it; only its fulfillment was being delayed. When Dianne Marie was born, I thought there was never such a wonderful baby in all the world. Before she was born, I had returned home for my father’s funeral and as it had become unwise to travel, I stayed home. But all too soon, I was back on the West Coast, this time in San Francisco. The war had taken a turn for the better; my husband’s ship came in more frequently to San Francisco, but the reunions were never very happy ones. Since marriage I had become a mother and the guardian of my two younger sisters. Responsibility had matured me, but my husband was still the carefree youth and when his ship came, he wanted to pint the town red with his shipmates. I thought this was just a part of the general restlessness caused by the war and I waited hopefully for the war to end.

When the war ended, the city of San Francisco went wild with celebration. My sisters and I watched the ships as they began to return. Mothers, wives and sweethearts swarmed in San Francisco from all over the U.S. to meet their loved ones. When convoys arrived, in entertained hometown friends and cousins. I visited the red Cross Hospital to see one cousin who had spent the duration as a prisoner of war in Japan. It seems as if everyone’s husband had returned except mine. Months went by and finally the long awaited telegram came. I was to meet him in Portland. But upon arrival, my joy was turned to ashes, for instead of wanting to come home, he wanted a divorce.

A few months went by. The divorce did not materialize. After thinking it over, he decided he did not want a divorce after all. He finally got out of the navy and came home, but within a very short time we were divorced. During this time, my heart turned to stone. There was no soft spot within me except for my little girl and the new baby I was expecting. I was not weak nor helpless. I thrived on bitterness and hate was my strength.

By this time, God had begun to move in our lives, thought I felt further from God than ever in my life. My two younger sisters had decided to go to San Antonio to attend Bible School and I returned to my old home to await Donna’s birth.

The hospital was some miles away in another town, so my former high school teacher, Mrs. Etta Cain took me under her wing. She looked after me, taking me to the hospital and being everything that a mother could be at such a time.

When the nurse asked me about the two men and the reason they prayed for the woman they had come to see, I could tell her who they were. However, I did not know how to tell her about their religion; how they prayed for the sick and believed in God’s healing power.

A few hours later, the doctor was applying cold towels to my forehead and teasingly he said to me, “Oh, this is nothing, just wait until you have a dozen”. When I told him there would be no more, he merely laughed and said “they all say that”. I blurted out that I no longer had a husband so there would be no more children. He urged me to talk and I talked. There seemed to be a release and I believe that in that hour I was delivered of much of the stored up bitterness. How wonderful the Lord works! Within the next few hours I was to feel the wooing of His spirit for His Love and reached out and was claiming me for His own.