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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. 

Sometimes you just happen to be in the right spot at the right time. Last weekend, I was driving around out on the west end of the island, when I spotted a very fit-looking Angus cow eyeing the fresh grass on the road side of the barbed wire fence that contained her. A little Cattle Egret was watching her as she carefully poked her head between the barbed strands. I pulled my car over to the side, opened the window on the passenger side, pulled out my trusty point-and-shoot digital camera and quickly took a shot before the bird was spooked off. In the second or so between pushing the shutter button and the time the camera finishes its record, the cow swung her head around to return the egret’s gaze. There was only time for the one shot, no time to adjust for the contrast between the white egret and the blackness of the cow, no time to think about anything except speed. The result is not an excellent photograph, but I find it a very amusing one. And given the rapidity with which condominiums are taking over what little ranch land there is on the island, it may shortly become a record of the local extinction of both the cow and her winged friend.

About four or five years ago, I suddenly began seeing a new spider appearing around our yard. The spider itself was small, less than a half inch long, but the webs were large, geometrically precise, and marvelous. Marvelous, that is, unless you happen to walk through one or catch a long anchor line in your hair as you wandered around, minding your own business. The webs, perfect examples of an orb weaver’s artistry, are beautiful, decorated with little tufts of cotton-like balls at intervals. But the spiders themselves are also gorgeous, like little white, red, orange, or yellow jewels, speckled with black dots, adorned with little spikes that have give them the common name of “crab spider.”  

They are not, however, true crab spiders, those little yellow and white denizens of my rose bushes and wildflowers. These are Spinybacked Orbweavers, Gasteracantha cancriformis, a species that seems to have suddenly appeared all over the island within the last decade, mostly in the last three or four years. Other common names, according to bugguide.net, include: Crab Spider, Spiny Orbweaver Spider, Crab-like Orbweaver Spider, Crab-like Spiny Orbweaver Spider, Jewel Spider, Spiny-bellied Orbweaver, Jewel Box Spider, Smiley Face Spider, and Crablike Spiny Orbweaver. Quite a list for a half-inch spider.  

The Spinybacked Orbweaver is not just any spider, however. In 1999, she (most of the ones you see are female) even had her very own 33 cent U.S. postage stamp as part of an insect and spider stamp series, sharing the limelight with my other favorite arachnid, the Jumping Spider, and one of my least favorites (although, admittedly, rather well-dressed in her patent leather coat), the Black Widow.

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 temperature is still hovering in the 90s and it’s October and that’s too hot for October. Nature, however, seems to be ignoring the heat and proceeding with its settled schedule of activity. We still have hummingbirds in the yard, but I’m willing to bet that they will be gone within the next two weeks, just as they have disappeared in mid-October for the ten years I’ve been collecting yard data on their comings and goings. A new batch of White-winged Doves have appeared from somewhere to the north. I can tell they are new because they are not familiar with my feeding schedule. Unlike their summer cousins, they aren’t perching in our oak tree every morning at 7:00 waiting for me to come out and fill the feeder. They find the food, but mostly because they just happen to be in the territory and come down to check it out.  

Two years ago, my son sent me a couple of American beautyberry bushes from a wildflower farm in Missouri. I set them out in the back yard, one in the oak’s shade and the other with some afternoon sun. Last year they set a few berries, but this year they are both performing on cue. The literature says that mockingbirds love the berries, but so far nothing seems to have touched them, including the mocker that stations itself on the neighbor’s chimney and serenades us every morning.

I badly timed my arrival at work this morning. It was barely sprinkling at home, but by the time I had driven the two miles to work, it was raining water balloons. I had left my umbrella at home and the 100 yard dash to the building’s back door was out of the question. So I turned off the motor and sat there, knowing that morning storms are usually short lived.  

The rain was coming down so hard that everything outside was blurred. The employee parking lot is enclosed by a chain link fence that provides trellis support for coral and jasmine vines but it was impossible to differentiate between them through the windshield. The more I looked at the fence, the more convinced I became that I should take a photograph. So I did.

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.

Yesterday, the White-winged Doves that flock, sometimes in layers, to our platform feeder, disappeared. When I went out this morning to refill the feeder, yesterday’s seed was still there. The peanuts were gone, signifying that the Blue Jays and squirrels are still around, but other than that the feeder was full. Now I’m not a great fan of White-winged Doves. Since their arrival a few years ago the Mourning and Inca doves have largely disappeared from the feeder, unable to cope with the aggressive wing-swatting behavior of their larger cousin. They have even driven off the English sparrows. But the sudden silence of the backyard feeding area this morning was almost spooky. The little Rio Grande chirping frog’s song dominated the early morning, broken by the quick call of a visiting hummingbird and the buzzing of bees around the coral vine. Periodically, the cicadas let lose with their vibrating chorus, but it doesn’t last long and the silence once more descends.

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.

A couple of days ago, I observed a Black Swallowtail on our back porch whose wings were hanging limp and wrinkled, not folded or spread like I usually observe. A closer look revealed that the wings were new and very velvety. The colored spots and bands were magnificently bright, both on the wings and on the body. It took a few seconds, but I realized that this butterfly must be fresh from its chrysalis, its body plump with fluid that was being pumped into its wings, strengthening them for its first flight. I was concerned that it was so vulnerable, hanging on the white window frame in full view of the various birds and other predators that congregate in our yard during morning feeder-filling times. I left it unguarded as I hurried inside to get my camera and by the time I got back outside, its wings had started to spread, the crumpled folds smoothing out, the antenna straightening. The morning was extremely bright and I knew that it would be difficult to capture the blackness of its wings against the glaring white of the winder frame, so I hurried back in to get a better camera with a close-up lens, only to return and find the butterfly gone. I am sure, however, that the beautiful swallowtail now fluttering around our hummingbird bush must be the same one, all grown up now and on its own.