Galveston Memories

Galveston, oh, Galveston — I can feel your sea winds blowing ...

In 1949 I stood, often and long — on the seawall at 39^th street — gazing out over the rolling surf. Breathing the clean air, massaged by the gentle breeze that caressed my bare arms. Seagulls floating, mysteriously, gliding without wingbeat, parallel to the shoreline, patrolling the edge of the water.

Traffic behind me on Seawall Boulevard was a matter of indifference.. The occasional tourist strolling along the sidewalk was ignored.

My world consisted solely of the wind, the water, the birds and my immersion in the marvelous universe of the Gulf beach.

After an indefinite time, when my soul had been restored, I turned and walked the three blocks to my home near the corner of 39th Street and Avenue S.

I waved to the operator of the Magnolia gas station on the southwest corner, and promised him that I would return to help him later that afternoon. With no compensation other than the joy of experience I pumped gas, wiped windshields, aired tires, checked “under the hood,” swept the driveway — generally taking care of the customers.

Homework. Drudgery. Mere routine, valueless to me, but demonstrating to my teacher at Lovenberg Junior High School that her teaching was not in vain. Closing the books, I got the mower — the PUSH mower — out of the garage. Fifteen minutes of chasing it around the yard, and Pop would be satisfied when he got home. He liked his yard neat. Me, too.

I got my bugle — a Christmas gift from Mom — and went into the garage to practice. The music book that came with the instrument had all the bugle calls that anyone could want. With the musical knowledge and skill imparted by my band director at Lovenberg, I had no problem mastering the music of the bugle. I practiced “To the Colors”, so that I could play it at the flag presentation ceremony at the next Boy Scout meeting.

To The Colors. Used to render honors to the flag and the nation. The bugle is used when no band is available to render honors. To the Colors commands all the same courtesies as the National Anthem.

Mom called me, and sent me to the grocery store for a loaf of bread. For this I went to the neighborhood grocery, run by Mr. Bertolino. In the next block, at 3818 Avenue S, his was the preferred grocer for small orders.

His was the store I went to with the beer bottles I scavenged from the trash where workers were cleaning out the closed bar on 39^th street. He willingly paid me two cents apiece for the bottles — and I made several trips over the course of two days, redeeming the deposit for five or more bottles at a time. On the second day he said “Hey, this is found money for you — and I’m not getting anything for it. So from now on I’ll just give you one cent for each bottle. You’ll still make money, and I get something for my trouble.”

Seemed reasonable. So with the next batch of “found money” beer bottles I went to the other store, Rosenbaum's, around the corner on 39th.

For the family's weekly grocery shopping, I went to the Evan’s Supermarket, on 39^th Street  —  I think it was at about Avenue M.  How can I remember? It’s been a long time.

But I remember shopping there. I filled my cart with items on the list prepared by Mom. And supplemented the load with choice items from the damaged goods and marked-down assortment in the SALE baskets placed around the store. It was a challenge to deduce the contents of canned goods with the label missing. There were times when I bought canned dog food, thinking it to be vegetables for our table.

Outside the store, I loaded the groceries into the canvas newspaper bag draped on the upturned handlebars of my bicycle. If the load was not too heavy, I’d ride the bike home with the week’s groceries. If the load was so heavy that it interfered with control while riding the bike I pushed it home. Still easier than carrying a double arm full of groceries.

Along the way I passed Davy Crockett Elementary, where I had attended 4^th and 5^th grades while we lived over Klater’s drug Store at 42^nd Street. Memories remain of the horrible Texas City disaster of 1947, which jolted Mrs. Wade’s 5^th grade class out into the morning sunlight.

On one memorable occasion I bought a load of groceries, and lacking the services of my faithful steed — my bicycle was undergoing repair — I was faced with the prospect of a long walk home with two arms heavily loaded with groceries. Choosing what I thought would be the less painful alternative, I walked across the street and caught a city bus — which deposited me just two blocks from home.

I was smugly pleased with my resourcefulness — until Pop got home. He rebuked me, thoroughly, for wasting a dime for bus fare.

I quickly returned to the garage, and completed the repair on my bicycle.

The bike’s New Departure coaster brake was seizing, and needed cleaning, adjusting, and lubricating. Intimidating, as I initially regarded the problem. Simple enough, when I disassembled it and learned how it worked. The experience of maintaining and repairing my bicycle, there in the garage of our house on Avenue S, was the beginning of a lifelong effort — with notable success — of maintaining and repairing just about anything. I still have some of the tools I used in my early efforts.