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Jeana writes about a camping trip at ten.

Jeana wrote this circa 1950 about a 1920 camping trip to Galveston as a ten-year-old with her brother Ryland, her best friend Marie Lee and her family.

I raised myself on my elbow. The fire was out. The cot creaked as I sat up to see the reason why. There was a sound of lapping.

My ten years, even with the Lees for friends, had not prepared me. I was on a coot under a tent by an automobile. There were sleeping people around me. But we had all gone to sea! The water was swarming with jelly fish, round, opalescent, transparent pearl jelly. There they were gray, gargantuan quivering pearls bumping the legs of our cots. I parted the sodden mosquito bar [net]. I put my hand out and pushed one. It was cold and resistant. “Mr. Lee,” I called.

His head came up in his mosquito bar. Mrs. Lee’s head arose. Marie said, “It’s too early, shush!”

“Well, we have gone to sea.”

Mr. Lee yelped, and jumped from his bed into the automobile. The car would not start.

Mrs. Lee scrambling out of bed. “We’d better all pull our things back out to the beach.”

We put our feet over into the warm, sticky water of summer at Galveston. The small arisen tide was foaming gently on the hard sand. For three feet in the beach, was a mass of jelly fish that the water was busily moving about.

Mr. Lee ordered us all out to push the car to safety. Gabriel [Lee] and Ryland helped. But the automobile remained exactly as I and the down first saw it, stationary.

There were some net fisherman further down the beach. We were sent for them, to please come.

The whole earth was a replica of the jelly fish, grey sky filled with clouds, which the sun could not pierce. The sands were hard and grey and wet. Far out the water was silver moving in patterns of crinkled foil. Looking down the beach at the thousands of lumps of jelly through which we had to pick our way. I wondered if the car would sink or just wash out.

The fisherman reluctantly returned with us. We found sticks and brutally pierced the globs of jelly and Mrs. Lee took our picture so that the sticks were hidden while the men pushed the car dryward. We scurried out and pulled the cots back also.

“Firewood,” shouted our director. We fled toward the higher sand, and came back with satiny, cream branches which we heaped in a pile.

“Get those jelly fish back where they beyond, and we’ll have breakfast.”

Sand, wet and fish smell faded as the fire ate at the woods. The bacon and eggs were floating in bubbles of fat. We were toasting bread on our sticks, which were now divested of sea creatures.

“The clouds threaten rain,” Mr. Lee stated. “Guess, we better go in after breakfast.

Ryland and Gabriel were gobbling breakfast and objecting. They were already suited for bathing.

“Those jelly fish are knee-deep out there. You don’t want to get mixed up [with] them.

“But, Daddy,” this from Marie. “We just came here last night.”

I was tired. Mrs. Lee had kept the fire going for hours last night. I had awakened many times as he poked and pitched on wood. The waves were there making wind in the pines sounds. I was dirty and thought of home pleasantly.

So, we started the long journey home. Gabriel snuck a jelly fish in under the seat of the car. Mrs. Lee kept smelling and said we all needed baths. We giggled so much, she finally demanded the fish.

Mothers certainly are smart.

Eugenia Hunt (left) and Marie Lee (center) circa 1927,

Marie Lee in 1926 at Rice University . [Marie Phelps] — Marie Lee in 1926 at Rice University . [Marie Lee Phelps]

Poem for Lieut. Alfred Ryland Howard

Eugenia Hunt, sister of Alfred Ryland Howard, , wrote a poem that she said he carried into the Battle of St. Lo that took his life.

Jeana wrote this at the bottom of the poem:

This was in my brother Ryland’s pocket, when he was shot down by the Germans at the battle of St Lo. He was a liaison pilot – and aide to General John Matthew Devine. He had 12 men under him, and refused to send them up on reconnaissance without him, even though his superior advised against it. This was on July 4, 1944.

Newspaper article about Captain Ryland Howard

Communion

I can embrace the storms

Which blow,

And floods that hurl themselves

Across the dry earth.

I walk near God and

Feel his being stir my heart,

And know that when I’m dead

I shall not lie there,

But instead

Shall rise to suffer or be one

With the pulsing soul

Who strides eternity!

I know that when I sink

My hands within the earth

I can feel the pulse of God,

Who stirs the loam and

Quickens seed within the sod.

I know that when the rain

Falls fast and hard,

The silver drops are spilled

From out the hand of God.

I know that when a man

Lies broken

And life fast flows

The waiting mire —

That should he think

“My God, fill me with they strength!”

So earthly foe could

Take away his blood.

I know, I know, I know.

These things are in my being.

Always have been,

Always will be.

And you, and you, and you

Can talk a thousand years

Concerning the scientific

Impossibilities

That is not so!

But I have felt God,

And talked to Him.

And that is how I know.

communion-poem-by-eugenia-howard-hunt

Article announcing the death of Lieut. Alfred Ryland Howard

Jeana’s poem about Alpine, Texas 1950

Eugenia Hunt wrote this poem in 1950 about her home in Alpine, Texas

Alpine

My back’s to the edge of the desert,

My yard’s by the panther’s tread.

The moon’s the magic silver

On this, my ancient ocean bed.

The lizards run in the yellow sun

And fire’s in heaven when the day is done.

Eugenia Howard Hunt
August 20, 1950

Sleeping Children – A poem by Eugenia Howard Hunt – Christmas 1950

Sleeping Children

Sleeping eyes all

Fringed around me.

Soft arms as pliant

As clouds

And lips unclouded by thoughts

Parted in slumber,

The gentle moving

Rhythm of breathing.

Fingers, five pronged

In the grey dark,

Charcoal blown

Over fluid forms

Soft as velvet–

My babies

In the night.

December 25, 1950

My Daughters – A poem by Eugenia Howard Hunt

Lalu Robin and Malcolm in Alpine for Grainger and Barbara's wedding — Lalu Robin and Malcolm in Alpine for Grainger and Barbara’s wedding

My Daughters

Out of the jeweled shadows

Of my tumultuous, exquisite childhood,

And the velvet of my teens,

Came my first borns.

They are the image of my

Ephemeral yearnings,

The flesh and bone of my poetry.

the strength of my faith.

Like the willows irredescent

Movements

By a clear brook,

Clean and gleaming,

Sinuous, eternally young

And wholly expectant.

February 1, 1961

Jeana’s poem for Jennie

Jennie Kiesling (right) and the 1976 Yale Crew Team

Jeana (Eugenia Howard Hunt) wrote this poem in 1978 to her granddaughter and namesake Eugenia Kiesling, who is currently a professor of military history at West Point.

To Jennie

Holding the Banner

When they trailed

The dry dust

Making bread to

Feed the Spirit

Knowing the shadows

Are filled with light

Braced when faced

By defeat’s scarring

Face but radiant

Each dawn for

A fresh renewal

Never bitter over

That galling flavor

Of the trailing

Insignia

Believing the battle

More worthy than

The defeat

Saluting the endeavor

Morning & Evening

Are God’s gift

From the Glare of the Day

Sept. 1978 E. Hunt

Photo: ESPN article on 1976 Yale Crew Team

Eugenia Kiesling is a professor of military history at the United States Military Academy at West Point. Professor Kiesling earned her BA at Yale University, her MA at Oxford University, and her PhD at Stanford University. She wrote a curriculum while assigned to NATO forces in Kabul for the National Military Academy of Afghanistan in 2007. Professor Kiesling has many publications, including Arming against Hitler: France and The Limits of Military Planning (University Press of Kansas, 1996); and “The Oldest ‘New’ Military Historians: Herodotus, William George Forrest, and the Historiography of War,” in Herodotos and His World: Essays in Honour of W. G. Forrest (Oxford University Press, 2003). (Source: Article on Onnassis USA )

Jeana recalls what her brother Philo said about being a POW

In a 1970’s journal Jeana wrote about the importance of simplicity.

After my brother Philo had returned from being a prisoner of war, mother planned a picnic. The bustling was noisy and lengthy. Suddenly Phil said, “Prison was so uncomplicated. I had forgotten all of this.” For a moment he almost looked unhappy.

Letter from Jeana to Lalu on becoming 20

Lalu and Roy embarking on their honeymoon.

The following is a draft of a precious letter I discovered among the many journals Jeana kept over the years.
To Lalu on becoming 20 –

Lalu, my lovely daughter,
Someday you will know I hope a mother’s heart. It is so deep and wondrous a thing as not to bear description. It is so full of love and pride and hurt and forgiveness as to encompass the universe in its constancy. And its viewpoint can only be reached by being. The years it takes to love a grown daughter are its measure.

The day you were 20, I stood on the heights and opened my palm and a spirit flew full blown into the way beyond me. I stood, an artist of life and saw my work move out into that fresh experience, twirl her skirts, and laugh that wonderful laugh which is my Lalu. I thought, “How terrible and how divine to be twenty. How awful and ecstatic and heavenly.”

Oh, my dear, growing older is very, very, nice. But have a wonderful time now. Savor, taste it, hold it, give it the best you have, don’t dare hurt it too deeply. Because its like a Venetian glass chandelier, it can only be blown by Venetians in Venice to be that beautiful. That’s what the 20’s are – live them, feel them, and know them, it can only be had by you once. Be aware of every moment of them. They are your citadel, your castle for a fine life after.

I do not agree entirely with the authorities that childhood is so great an experience, that it shapes all our destinies. I think the 20’s do. They are such “aware” years.

Don’t hurry and become frantic searching for the way. Pace it and breath deeply, and see it all. It’s full of burning desires – make them cooperate with your time. The burning flame of the arts are all around you. Hold them like a torch in front of your eyes – and give your best to the one that makes you most sincerely expressive. But remember, inspiration must have honest endeavor and application. Nothing does itself.

Last, but not least, when it’s time to have fun – angel – have the best time of your life. There is no better time to have it.

Here’s to you – and Got Bless my girl.

Love – Mother

Jeana’s Architect bill for Alpine House 1949

1949 was the year Jeana was the president of the Houston Art League, was planning the Alpine house, had a one-year-old (Sperry), and, with her sister-in-law Lennie, drove her nine-year-old son Grainger to Moye Military School in Castroville. (Moye Military Academy)