Jim Jones and Harker's Island

My mother's father was a shrimper and he docked at a little barrier island of the  Outer Banks called Harker's Island.  It is part of the "Down East" area of Carteret County; the southernmost end of the Outer Banks, and was isolated from the mainland for so long, you can still hear a bit of "High Tider" accent the island natives are known for.  Many of those natives are distant relatives of mine and there are roads and landmarks named Guthrie and Jones accordingly.  My granddaddy was James John Jones (Jim Jones), a tall, big boned man who lived by "The Book" and spoke only when he had something to say.  I never knew what my brother thought of Granddaddy Jones, but my sister loathed him and I adored him.  He was never reluctant to take a "switch" to an unruly child and I can remember him chasing after the 3 of us through the marshy expanses of the island.  I usually caught the worst of the switchin', being the youngest and slowest, but I never seemed to mind; maybe he didn't switch quite so hard on my bare legs because of my "condition".  Whooping  cough had left me with a heart murmur that the doctor had warned my mother against allowing me to run and engage in excitable play.
The thing I remember most about my grandfather was how comfortable I was when I was with him. Years later he would visit us in Norfolk and take me for long walks on the beach as they brought in the fishing nets.  He would point to strange and prehistoric looking sea creatures caught in the nets and tell me some fascinating fact about their habits or habitat.  Sometimes he would  find a mussel or clam and pull out his pocket knife and open it up, scooping out the tender morsel and slurping it down, or offering it to my little bird mouth.  I felt safe whenever he was around. He taught me some of the mysteries of the ocean; a place where he was most at home; where his silence was intent upon reading the signs of sky and surf; where he had connection to other living things.
Jim Jones was born in 1888 in Wales and was orphaned at an early age.  He worked in the coal mines until the age of 9 when he was hired as a cabin boy on a frigate headed for the Carolina coast.  He landed on Harker's Island and was taken in by Henry Jones, working on one of his fishing boats until he met and married Alice  Reed, an Irish immigrant with marital ties to the Guthrie family, also of Harker's Island.  Alice was a fiesty, gregarious beauty with a wicked sense of humor and a mischievous Irish smile.  He doted on her adoringly, I was told by many, and when he would leave on long fishing voyages, he took great care to hire on someone to care for the small farm and home they had established in Beaufort on the mainland.  Inevitably, I am told,the hired hand would  end up sitting in the kitchen with neighbors and friends, trading jokes and tall tales, while Alice and Jim's dozen or so children ran around the place, happily unkept.  My grandparents were as different as night and day, but somehow made a life in this wild marshland for their 13 children; all of whom grew up independent and strong.
But in 1952, my mother, the youngest of those 13 children, was widowed with 3 children herself, the youngest of whom was sickly and dependent.  She had no consistent means of support and, for whatever societal or familial reasons, was on her own in the midst of few opportunities for stability.  My granddaddy found a home for us on Harker's Island.  Those were some my happiest memories of my childhood.