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In 1817 the pirate Jean Lafitte settled on Galveston Island and, under the protection of the Mexican flag, continued his harassment of Spanish ships in the Gulf. He built a fort on the island that included his home, the Maison Rouge (red house). The windows in the upper story of the house were designed for cannon and the downstairs was furnished with treasures from captured ships. When he left the island in 1821, he burned the house and the surrounding fort and sailed to Mexico. In 1870, another residence was built over the foundation and cellars of Lafitte’s home. That residence is now also gone, leaving behind parts of walls, stone stairs, weeds, and vines.

Every day hundreds of cars go by the site without any idea of its history. Flanked by a biolab and a welding shop, the evidence of the lot’s past is fenced in by both wire and vegetation. In the right light, however, there is the sense that the pirate’s spirit is still hanging around his old home and there is a certain eeriness in the ruins.

Every year, Galveston has a Backyard Garden tour of selected well-maintained yards about town. I try not to miss the occasion, both because it is a good way to be introduced to plants that may not die in our humid summer air, but also because there are some excellent examples of garden art.  It is not difficult to have artistic touches in your yard. Gazing balls abound and bird baths and fountains turn what would have been a grassy corner into an oasis. But really good garden art is not just art “in” the garden; it is art that has become part of the garden.

Much of the knack of developing good garden art is placement. I’m attaching two examples here from this year’s tour. The brick wall makes the cat bird house come alive. The ceramic frog doesn’t even have to be seen as a frog because it is so much a part of the shady kaleidoscopic cranny dominated by the caladium.

There are buildings going up all over the island, especially on the west and east ends. The majority of the new construction is luxury homes and condominiums, most of them designed as second or retirement homes for those who have an extra million or two to put towards a residence on a storm-prone barrier island. At the far eastern end, however, there is a section of land now designated for the development of the East End Lagoon Park and Nature Preserve. Long a favorite spot for fishermen and birders, the constantly shifting lagoon looks out over the Bolivar Pass leading into the Houston Ship Channel. There a solitary pelican hovers on an updraft as two tankers sit just outside the Pass, waiting to be piloted into the heavy traffic lanes of the Channel.

St. Vincent’s House, which runs a free clinic, day care center, and other essential services, is located in a very depressed section of Galveston. The neighborhood is full of dilapidated houses, empty lots, corner hangouts, and broken fences. There are a few well-kept homes and a cheerful coffee house, but they are more the exception than the norm. But St. Vincent’s is one of my favorite places to visit. The children are laughing, the play yard is full of music (from hymns to opera), and almost every flat surface is covered with paintings. I have, on three or four occasions, taken my camera with me when I visit and have begun amassing quite a collection of St. Vincent’s art. The two photos here are only a sampler.

There are few things that so aptly describe the architecture and industry of the east end of Galveston Island as the scene from the windows of my office. From the southeast window, one can see the Strand area with its Victorian buildings, the old print shop (now a condominium), the American National Insurance Company building (previously the tallest building on the Island until it was dwarfed by the 32 story condominiums near East Beach), and – in the distance – the Gulf of Mexico. The British flag that flutters over the Strand flies every December as part of the Dickens Festival held the first weekend of the month. On the far left, the buildings on the horizon are part of the University of Texas Medical Branch, more commonly known as UTMB. In the early morning haze, it is difficult to clearly see the narrow strip of the Gulf lying just over the trees that mark a residential area. The four small rectangular images in this strip of water are ships waiting for a pilot to escort them through the Bolivar Pass and into Galveston Bay. From there they turn left into the intercontinental waterway towards Galveston or travel up the Bay into the Houston ship channel.

From the northeast window, I get a clear view of the Port of Galveston and a wide expanse of Galveston Bay. In the foreground, the masts of the 1877 Elissa, a three-masted iron-hulled barque registered as a National Historic Landmark, rise up into the sky. The Texas Seaport Museum is located next to the Elissa, telling the story of a rich legacy of seaborne commerce and immigration and containing a database of the names of more than 133,000 immigrants who entered the United States through Galveston, “The Ellis Island of the West.” Behind the Seaport Museum is another museum, the off-shore oil rig, the Ocean Star. The ominous-looking blue cranes behind the Ocean Star on the right are for hoisting containers from ship to shore and vice versa. The little red boat making its way towards the piers is the Seagull, which offers visitors a water-eye trip around the Gulf. On the far left, just out of view, is the ferry terminal that transports cars, trucks, and people from the Island to the Bolivar Peninsula portion of Galveston County.

And there is it: water-borne commerce, historic architecture, museums, festivals, retail establishments, the two major employers (ANICO and UTMB), the Gulf and the Bay, urban lofts, and residential neighborhoods…and all from my windows. It’s a wonder I get any work done at all.

Some of the sidewalks along the Strand date back to the 1800s. The streets in many intersections reveal red paving bricks; the old sidewalks that remain are brick or slate. In places they are uneven with the wear of thousands of feet that have traveled down that street and can be treacherous if you don’t watch where you’re going. But, unlike the concrete that is gradually replacing the old stone and brick, they have a charm all their own.

Early one morning I was heading east along Strand, just after the fog had lifted, and the slate sidewalk was absolutely shining with dew. Footprints from the morning’s pedestrian traffic were still visible, but would not be for long. 

I love old walls, especially those that were used as signage for businesses or to advertise products. There aren’t a lot of them left. Old buildings are torn down, or they are covered over by paint or new siding, or their colorful signs are hidden by newer structures. Periodically, however, those newer structures come down, revealing the art work that has been hidden for decades.  

A few weeks ago, I came across one of those walls next to a vacant lot surrounded by a chain link fence. Because I had to shoot my pictures through the fence, I could not find a location where I could capture the entire wall, resulting in the two overlapping photographs in this posting. The advertisement that spread across almost the entire structure was for “Triple X Ginger Ale, The Aristocrat of.…”  At that point the letters become difficult to read, leaving the product’s comparative aristocracy up in the air. At some point the wall was also used to advertise The Tremont, a hotel that burned down in 1865 (while occupied by Confederate troops), was rebuilt in 1872, and then razed in 1928. In 1985, the old hotel was recreated in a new location inside an 1879 warehouse that survived the 1900 Storm.  

There is also a ghostly remnant of what looks to me as “meat market” under the advertisement for The Tremont. The paint is so worn, however, that it is difficult to be sure. Which is one of the pleasures of old walls. There is probably an answer out there somewhere, but one has to go and look for it.

UPDATE, Oct. 18, 2008: When I went by this site today I found that the entire wall has been painted over. 

The Galveston port is a fascinating place. All sorts of things are going on there every day, including maritime commerce, tugs pushing barges, oil rig repair, shrimp boats raising their nets in a maelstrom of birds (especially gulls, pelicans, cormorants, and terns), pleasure boating, cruise ship arrival and departure, tourist excursion boats, and, when lucky, dolphin sightings. The port is part of the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway, which starts at Apalachee Bay, Florida and runs 1,100 miles to Brownsville on the Texas-Mexico border. From Galveston south, the waterway mostly runs a natural course between the mainland and Texas barrier islands. At Galveston, it skirts both sides of Pelican Island, which is situated between the mainland and the eastern end of Galveston Island. The Port of Galveston is located along the strip of the Intracoastal between the two islands. Pelican Island provides the background of both this photograph of the port and in the photo of the storm over the bay below.

When we first moved to Galveston, I was intrigued with the light blue ceilings that I frequently found over the front porches of older homes. When I inquired, the most frequent answer was that light baby blue ceilings deterred mosquitoes from hanging around. I decided to dig into the Internet and search this tradition a little further.

I found out that light blue porch ceilings are primarily a Southern detail, one not frequently found in other parts of the United States. And it’s not only mosquitoes that people believe are deterred by the color. Other common theories are that light blue discourages bees from building their nests in the corner or that it repels flies or wasps. In some parts of the south, folklore has it that the color has been referred to as “haint blue” or “spirit blue” because it keeps spirits (haunts, or haints) away from the front door.  

There are aesthetic explanations as well. The color, for example, is very restful and gives an illusion of height, coolness, and open air. The blue also provides a transitional bridge between the often dark interior of Victorian-age houses and the bright daylight of the outdoor environment. One referenced study (I was unable to find the original for verification) found that students did 10% better on tests when they were in a room painted light blue. But people don’t usually sit around on their porch cogitating or feel the need to change the color of their ceiling because it makes them think better.

Another unreferenced source says that blue is an appetite suppressor. That may explain why mosquitoes don’t feel like have dinner under a blue ceiling, but little else. In fact, none of my Internet excursions scientifically explained anything. The blue ceilings are lovely, however, so I will leave it at that, for now.

I’ve been away from these postings for too long, either because of the demands of home and work or because I’ve deserted Galveston for the green, green hills of Wisconsin as a respite from the summer heat. However, I’ve discovered that when I’m away, I miss the quirky nature of my island home and its residents. A short drive always turns up something worth recording if I only could remember to take my camera with me. I shamefully admit that I can be counted among those jaded individuals who admire our country’s official high camp bird: the pink flamingo. Obviously, some resident of the island’s west end also admires this Florida-inspired bird, enough so that it has acquired a place of prominence in the front yard.