The Island

 

Galveston — late 40's, early 50's.  We — my parents, sisters and I — lived at 4201 (upstairs over Klater's drug store on avenue S). I attended Davy Crockett Elementary in the 4^th and 5^th grades.

My playground was the beach — specifically at 39^th street.  

I traveled by any of a variety of routes — along Avenue S to 39th,  or on 42nd Street to Avenue T — or by some variation thereof, to the end of 39th Street and the beach.

From our residence at 3912 Avenue S it was a straight shot to the seawall, and I traveled it often. There I could descend the concrete stairs to the beach, where I could enjoy a variety of entertaining activities. 

Often I had the beach to myself.  But I was not always alone.  Don Gernand often joined me. There's a picture of him at the 39th street groin in my album. 

Or I could swim in the surf, in defiance of  Mom's admonition to “stay out of the water.”   After all, I needed to learn to swim.  And I did.

 Occasionally I might fish, using a hand line, as I had learned from Pop.

I might search for shells in the abundant distribution of molluscs,  on the beach from a profusion that is today unbelievable. 

I would sometimes play the dangerous game of running across the granite boulders piled randomly at the base of the sea wall, jumping from one to another  In retrospect I realize that was dangerous — and foolish.  And expensive.  For one day I fell, landing on my butt — and crushing the eyeglasses in their case in my back pocket. I showed the glasses to Mom, fully expecting severe rebuke — even punishment —  but she lovingly replaced them, with nary an angry word.

I enjoyed running along the concrete base of the groin toward the sea wall and running up the curved surface, as far as I could. For a long time I could not get past the nearly straight up upper reaches of the wall.  Years of trying and I finally reached the top and pulled myself up to the sidewalk. That was a significant accomplishment.

It was while we lived at 3912 that I got a bicycle.  It became my transportation, to and from the beach —  and over much of the island.  I remember riding it to the ferry landing, and riding the ferry across to Bolivar Point. 

Look at the map, and see how far it was from 39th, along Seawall Boulevard, to the road to the ferry, and to the ferry landing.

On the ferry my bike was beside me while I stood in the bow of the vessel watching the porpoise playfully swimming, diving and racing just ahead of the boat.

On the other side I went ashore, and went as far as the rusty old lighthouse.

There were two ferries, alternating their trips across and back.  I would board the second ferry to return to the island, and today it seems impressive that I rode my bike from 3912 to the ferry, across and back home again along the seawall.

My travel along Seawall Boulevard was limited to that area northeast from 39th Street.  For there was a barricade across Seawall Boulevard at 39th.   A barbed wire embellished row of rip-rap — broken scraps of concrete, perhaps from demolished walls — lay piled across the roadway and the sidewalk to a depth of perhaps 3 feet —  to block travel from 39th onward along the fort. A barbed wire fence crawled down the seawall, and out into the surf for a distance of perhaps 50 yards. 

“The fort” refers of course to Fort Crockett, an active military installation during WWII. Adjacent to 39th Street was one of the artillery installations — a location of big guns arrayed to be able to engage any enemy craft that may appear in the adjacent Gulf waters.  The guns were no longer in place, and the large mound that had contained them remained as a fascinating remnant that demanded exploration.  And I did.

One day as I rode my bike to the beach I encountered a crew removing the barrier across the roadway.

I leaned on my bicycle, next to the stairs to the beach, and watched while the final remains of the barrier were loaded and hauled away.

What would you have done?  Well, I did.  I got on my bike and rode along the now accessible stretch of Seawall Boulevard heretofore denied to me. At 45th Street I turned around and rode homeward. The newfound freedom seems now insignificant, but at that time I relished the ability to extend my range.

Me, and my bike loved the Island.  Thomas Wolfe notwithstanding, I frequently have fantasies of returning to Galveston — permanently.

Death of a Singer

“A certain tenor, of impressive reputation, died of an apparent pulmonary embolism at age 38. No autopsy was performed.”

Rumors suggest that the actual cause of death was an Italian pillow.

It is said that he was singing at a gathering for a group of powerful Italians — (read Mafioso)

The Don was so impressed that he asked the tenor to sing at his daughter's wedding.

The singer casually acceded.

Unfortunately he was so inebriated that his “contract” did not register in his foggy mind.

The wedding came. The singer did not. The Don, who had been bragging to his associates of the star's pending performance at his daughter's nuptials, was embarrassed. He ordered a hit.

End of story …

Anybody familiar with this narrative?

A Lot of BULL!

  Network News is reporting that a bull at an Oregon Rodeo jumped the fence from the arena into the stands . . .There was a report of multiple injuries to spectators.

'Twarn't the first time . . .

In 1951 - 52 I lived with my parents in Corpus Christi. I attended tenth grade at Ray High School — where I played French Horn in the band.

In March 1952 the band attended the Houston Fat Stock Show, and marched in the celebratory parade.

(God, how I hated marching with the horn. The French horn mouthpiece is small, and while marching it seemed to spend more time migrating between my nose and my chin than on my lips.

In my senior year of high school — in Angleton — the sympathetic band director provided a cornet for me to play while marching. Bless you, Frank Stiles!)

In free time, between marches in Houston in 1972, I attended the rodeo. Attendance was sparse and I had no problem finding a seat close to the arena. In a bull riding event the bull performed its predictable feat of throwing the rider. The cowboy clowns flocked to the downed rider, and the bull was free to approach the stands.

The agitated Brahma¹ bull took out its frustration by jumping up from the arena floor into the stands. Fans scattered, and the bull exited through the pedestrian entrance. There were no reported injuries — but the bull declined comment.

I remained a fascinated observer, and I can still recall the image of the bull majestically entering the stands.

1The Brahma is an American breed of hybrid beef cattle that was bred in the United States from 1885 from cattle originating in India