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I moved to Baltimore from Houston more than 20 years ago. Upon arriving, I was surprised how it reminded me of home. Houston is a new city - all steel and glass and modern architecture--nothing at all like Baltimore. But I'm BOI - Born On Island.

What Baltimore reminded me of was where I was born - Galveston. There are certainly differences - up here they sell crabs off the back of trucks, in Galveston, it was shrimp or tamales - but the old buildings and cobblestone streets, the seagulls... it reminded me of home. I am a happy and proud 18-year resident of Baltimore's historic Bolton Hill district.

Founded in 1836, 107 years after Baltimore, Galveston was once the home of pirate Jean Lafitte. At the end of the 19th century it was an important port city, one of the nation's leading cotton ports and in strong competition with New Orleans for the unofficial gateway to the South. It was a city of firsts in Texas - first post office, gas lights, opera house, orphanage, telephone, electric street lights, medical college. The devastating 1900 storm ended that, destroying much of the island.  The worst natural disaster in US history, it was reported to have killed nearly a quarter of the islands 37000 residents.

An assistant of Thomas Edison filmed damage of the storm, the earliest known filming of a natural disaster.  Immediately upon hearing of the storm, Clara Barton, founder and president of the The American Red Cross, traveled to Galveston to provide aid to its vicitms.  A plate obtained from eBay bearing her image hangs in my aunt's island home as a talisman.

With the tallest point on the island only nine feet above sea level, the city began construction of a 17 foot seawall to protect the island from future storms. Construction began in 1902, and was completed in two years. The grade of the city was raised to 17 feet, a tremedous undertaking that required raising all structures on the island individually. It took seven years to complete.

Much of the island's foilage was destroyed during the raising. This brought the formation of the Women's Health Protective Association (WHPA--and later the Women's Civic League), which aimed to beautify the city with its gardening efforts. Oleanders, which flourish in Galveston's subtropical climate, soon covered the city. Galveston, now home to the International Oleander Society, was soon known as The Oleander City. (My nieces and I are pictured enjoying the Oleander Festival at Ashton Villa in a 2004 article of Texas Highways Magazine.)

Today, Galveston boasts the largest historic foundation in Texas--and the second largest in the country, quite a feat for a city of only 57,000. The Galveston Historical Foundation manages but a few of the many historical structures on the island, including the Bishops Palace (1892), Ashton Villa (1859), the Menard House (1838), Samuel May Williams House (1839), Garten Verein (1880), 1860 US Custom House and the Elissa, the 1877 Tall Ship of Texas. Dozens of other equally beautiful and historically significant buildings under care of different trusts include the 1894 Opera House, the Rosenberg Library (1904), the Moody Mansion (1895) and the Sealy Mansion (1889).

When Baltimore's tall ship - the Pride of Baltimore was lost at sea in 1986, it was Galveston's Elissa that took her place leading the parade of tall ships into New York Harbor on July 4th to celebrate the unveiling of the newly renovated Statue of Liberty.

My mother and aunt (both BOI) were in Galveston for the 100-year anniversary of the 1900 storm on September 8th, 2000. We have ancestors who survived the storm and are mentioned in "Weekend In September," a book published in 1957. When I was born, my parents lived in a home built in 1899. The architect, George B. Stowe, designed many homes on the island, including the Galveston Orphans' Home built in 1902 to replace one destroyed in the storm.

My father served as an officer on the NS Savannah, the world's first nuclear- powered merchant ship. Her home port was Galveston, which had a specially designed pier in the 60's to service nuclear vehicles. The Savannah is currently docked in Baltimore while it is being decomissioned as20a nuclear facility. My father came to Baltimore for a Savannah reunion and rededication as a National Landmark on National Maritime Day in May. He is taping a documentary about the ship and I had the honor to be part of his crew, helping to schlep cameras, lights and tripods from one end of the ship to the other.

Former Congresswoman Helen Bentley was there, and I watched an interview she did on the Savannah for her 1960's series "Baltimore - The Port That Built a City." Later that day, as we were taping an interview, I was thrilled to see a vintage bumper sticker: "Galveston Island, Gulf of Mexico" on the wall outside of the nuclear control room. On the wall beneath the sticker, someone had scrawled "and Port Bolivar too!"

After my mother passed away four years ago, my stepfather sadly had to sell the 9th Street island home they owned--just two blocks from the beach. Her brother, a lifelong islander, resides on 55th Street. His sister returned to the island several years ago, purchasing the home across the street from his house for a mere $17,000. A simple cottage--unoccupied for years.  They believe that it had been a meth lab. Galveston, just like Baltimore, has its gritty parts.

They gutted it from inside out, replacing the electrical and plumbing systems. It stood until a week ago--a pristene little dollhouse, a perfect home for its BOI occupant.

Six weeks ago, Galveston was once again in the news when it received a direct hit from Hurricane Ike. Many homes in Bolivar and other beachfront communities were destroyed. Galveston lost the Balinese - a legendary gambling house cum gin joint during prohibition--later a nightclub located on a pier which extended over the gulf. It featured Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and George Burns. Some report that it was the birthplace of the Margarita--prepared by a bartender and named for Peggy Lee, who once performed there.

Murdoch's Bath House is also gone, a treasured souvenir ship on a pier adjacent to the Balinise. A Galveston landmark, it was the best place to go for a cheesey seashell souvenir, carved cocounut shell, starfish or sand dollar. I've been going there since I was a child and no trip to the beach or seawall was complete without a trip to Murdoch's.

Galveston was under a madatory evacuation order prior to the storm.  The island remained closed and residents were prohibited from returning for several weeks after the storm. The island had been under a news blackout, with few details available about the damage. While the damage is less severe than predicted; it was anticipated that the entire island would be submerged.

Reports are that the historic merchant district called The Strand took on 10 feet of water and the rest of the city behind the seawall took six feet of water. Some residents of the affluent West End have charted private helicopters to survey the damage to their homes. Severe damage has been reported to Seawall Boulevard and San Luis Pass, the two main roads that run the 37-mile length of the island.

After three days of waiting, the Galveston Historical Foundation announced that many of the buildings in its care, including the Elissa, sustained damage. While reported to be relatively minor, all public access to the sites was suspended. This means no resulting funds from the admissions normally received from tours of their homes.

A Texas State department will rebuild Galveston's roads and infrastucture.  FEMA, insurance, friends, relatives, loved ones and the tenacity of the islanders will repair their homes.  My sister-in-law and brother in Houston will adopt five pets orphaned from Ike. Coincidentally, my brother is named Ike, and has had to restort to using an alias--Dwight.  The Galveston Historical Foundation needs funds to repair its charges.

Some homes in Bolton Hill have plaques identifying noteworthy onetime residents. In Galveston, many of the homes of both noble and humble origin bear plaques identifying them proudly as 1900 storm survivors. While Ike's devastation was nothing like that caused by the 1900 storm, the island has suffered greatly and is in dire need of assistance.

To all residents of historic districts, I hope that whatever it is that drew you there allows you to appreciate the predicament Galveston is in. From one historic district to another, your donations will help repair and preserve some of Galveston's historic treasures.

http://www.galvestonhistory.org/
https://ghf.destinationnext.com/donation.aspx

I just returned from a trip to Galveston to help my family with their recovery efforts.

Murdoch's was lost in the storm, a treasured souvenier ship on a pier adjacent to the Balinise.  A Galveston landmark, it was the best place to go for a cheesey sea shell souvenier, carved cocounut shell, starfish or sand dollar.  I've been going there since I was a kid and no trip to the beach or seawall was complete without a trip to Murdoch's.  There was always an element of fear going to Murdoch's.  A crooked, rickety shop on top of pilings (though a recent makeover had it looking much sturdier), as you made your way to the back of the store, you could see the gulf between the cracks in the floorboards.  I was always amazed as a kid that it was standing, even without the company of a storm.

Posted is a before and after pic of Murdoch's.  It will be a long time before Galveston is the same again, but it won't ever be the same without Murdoch's.  It is our hope that they will be allowed to rebuild, riding on the tailcoats of a grandfather clause that prohibits new construction over the water. 

My mother was born in Galveston and I hold the distinction of being her only child that is also BOI - Born On Island.  We are proud of our island heritage and it was often cause for celebration.  Every trip home included a visit to the island.  My mom, aunt and I spent the weekend in Galveston for the 100 year anniversary of the 1900 storm.  We have ancestors who survived the storm and are mentioned in Weekend In September, a book about the island's devastating hurricane.

Even though we often spent the holidays separated by miles, we were always close at heart.  The gifts we exchanged were personal, tokens of affection or a nod to each other's quirky nature.  My sister, whom I love dearly and is neither BOI or even a Texan, works in retail has neither the time or affinity for such shenanigans.  She has confided in me time and again that she's envious of our ability to find the perfect gift in a thrift shop, junk store or, even better, from the side of the road.  She has resigned herself to giving professionally gift wrapped mall presents, which is good for us because we'd otherwise know nothing of that world.

In 2003, I received the most wonderful Christmas present from my Mom.  Hand knotted on to a thin leather cord were four pennies, the ends of the cord tied to form a long necklace.  The pennies were from souvenir penny machines, elongated at the modest cost of fifty cents a piece (and forfeit of the penny), embossed with a selection of images available from the particular machine from which it was obtained.

The pennies on the cord contained the following markings.  One reads The Great Storm, Pier 21, Galveston, Texas.  The Galveston Historical Foundation runs a small theater on Pier 21 featuring a short documentary about the 1900 storm.  My Mom, aunt and I saw it together on the 100 year anniversary of the storm.  Another denotes the Peanut Butter Warehouse, a large junque/antique emporium in Galveston's historic Strand district, which also sells as its namesake suggests, peanut butter -  in addition to fudge and ice cream.  It was a mandatory stop on a visit to the island and we have acquired many a treasure from its holds.  The third penny contains the Galveston logo of the Galveston  Island Visitors Center.  The fourth contains a message unrelated to Galveston but most certainly relevant to my relationship with my mother:  "You are very special to me."

Hanging from my neck, they jingle when I walk sounding like a wind chime in a warm gulf breeze.  I refer to them as my Galveston dog tags.  Created for the modest sum of two dollars and four cents (not including the cost of the leather cord), to me they are priceless. 

I've worn them daily in anticipation of my trip home to the island after Hurricane Ike.  While I'm certain they would have granted me admission during the ill-fated look and leave program, I am happy that they will be arriving in time for the much more crucial stay and help phase. 

To all on the gulf coast impacted by Ike, best wishes on your recovery efforts.

Living in a historical district in downtown Baltimore, I am surrounded by both the joys and pitfalls of city life.

Baltimore had a motto several years ago - "Baltimore - The City That Reads". Taggers quickly changed it to "Baltimore - The City That Breeds" and "Baltimore - The City That Bleeds", a testament to much of the urban blight that plagues us.

Recently, a new program began - BELIEVE. It is an anti-drug campaign. Believe your child won't become the innocent victim of a drive by shooting. Believe the grandchild you've raised won't be lost to a drug overdose before their 30th birthday. Believe you won't be held up by knife or gunpoint walking to your house from the car. Believe your vehicle won't be broken in to for the fourth time by addicts looking for a stereo to pawn. BELIEVE. They have a simple black bumper sticker with white lettering. BELIEVE.

Charm City. It can be. There is hope. Some of the Hon fans (it's a B'more thing) have altered the bumper sticker to read "B'lieve, Hon" Many in my neighborhood sport an "I City Life" bumper sticker on their car. There is also a "Visualize Whirled Peas" and "God bless the whole wide world. No exceptions!". And one that suggests we stock our schools with books and qualified teachers and let the state department hold a bake sale to purchase weapons.

A neighbor recently commented to me that the most common injury of residents in my neighborhood was the strained shoulder, acquired from reaching around to pat themselves on their back for being so liberal.

Apparently, someone made available city issued BELIEVE trash cans. Black sturdy plastic with the simple white BELIEVE on it's face. Several dozen can be seen when walking the alleys near my house.

A few weeks ago, Greta and I were walking to the hardware store. We took a shortcut through an alley to enjoy a glimpse of some of the beautiful courtyard gardens. I smiled at the whimsy of one neighbor who'd altered their trash can, which now simply stated "MAKE BELIEVE." I took their message as innocent, which I'm sure it was intended, rather than one of sarcasm which I am sometimes a fan of. It lightened my step as we continued with our errands.

From two weeks back...

I just returned from taking Greta to a fabulous park a few miles up the freeway from our house. Robert E. Lee Park has trails that wind around a lake, with picnic tables scattered through the woods and grassy areas. While not an official dog park, it's dog friendly and everyone has their dog off leash without anyone getting all anxious about it. It is frequented by dog friendly people and they chat happily with other dog parents much the same way I imagine parents of people children do at a playground. It is the most un-uptight place I know of in Baltimore.

The temps are in the low 70's. It is slightly overcast and sprinkling mildly, which I love.

On the way home, I listened to an interview on NPR with Les Paul. Now in his 90's, he's performed two sets each Monday night for the past two decades at a jazz club in New York. As I pulled off the freeway and made my way the few short blocks to my house, they closed the interview with Les plucking out Over The Rainbow.

Perfect.

Living on a second floor condo, I have no yard or outdoor space of my own. When I return home from work, I take my dog Greta, a 12 year old Airedale, out for a walk. Having spent the majority of her outdoor life on a leash in the city, she is very social and well mannered. Greta makes friends with everyone, from babies in their strollers to seniors, to any of the art students residing in our historic district. She is a Pets On Wheels volunteer. She once charmed a pizza delivery guy out of a pizza and many a toddler out of a cookie or cracker. If she hasn't gotten someone besides me to pet her during a walk before we return home, she starts dragging her feet in protest until I allow her to wait on the corner for someone to amble by and visit with her.

We are fortunate to have a dozen or so little parks and plazas in the neighborhood where I can take her off her leash and she can be a dog, sniffing the grass untethered to decipher it's invisible scents, finding the perfect spot to enjoy a roll on her back, exploring every shrub and bush. In the summer it's much cooler outdoors in the shade of a tree than in our un-air-conditioned home. I usually bring a book to read while Greta does her thing. One little plaza is two blocks from our house, with a WWI memorial and a nice patch of grass on a tree studded hill. It is right next to the private tennis courts, pool and playground and Greta is usually lucky to score a tennis ball that lobbed over the fence and became lost in the thick tangle of English Ivy bordering the courts. She carries it with her proudly until we reach our destination, where she can play with it.

Recently, a homeless person has set up camp on a bus stop bench just on the other side of a low brick wall that borders the square on one side, along a major street that leads to the freeway. He's been there for several weeks now. He's got a small mountain of stash piled up beside him. He's marked off his territory with orange traffic cones, a hub cap balanced on top of one. Recently an assortment of broken cinder blocks have further defined the perimeter of his space. Last week I noticed that they are now wrapped in foil.

A small break in the brick wall is positioned next to his bench providing one of several means of egress from the triangular plaza, this one being on the narrow end of the space. We spend our time on the wider opposite end of the space, further from the busy road. Greta does well off the leash, but I do not want her to venture in to the narrower end where she could slip out of the park and end up in heavy traffic.

This man is apparently threatened by Greta, though she displays absolutely no interest in him whatsoever and has never ventured beyond the brick wall into his domain. Occasionally she trots down to this lower portion of the plaza to retrieve her ball or in search of a stick that may have fallen from one of the trees. On the rare occurrence when she approaches the area near him, the tall and thin bearded man resembling Osama Bin Laden rises, pointing a long crooked finger at her and starts yelling at me to put her on a leash.

There is nearly a city block of distance between he and I. Greta, after retrieving her ball or selecting a stick, returns to me and lays down with her cherished yellow prize or to make work at devouring the stick. He continues his shouting, his arm outstretched and targeted on Greta like a scene from Invasion Of The Body Snatchers where one of the aliens realizes you haven't been snatched, she oblivious to her violation though she has never actually infringed upon his personal space.

Now I appreciate that some people don't like dogs or have an initial fear or apprehension before meeting one. We live next to the Symphony Hall and Opera House. Often our walks take us in front of those venues before or after an event, when people are en route to or from a performance, often dressed to the nines in formal evening wear. We yield on the sidewalk to these cultural attendees, many of whom stop and bend to greet Greta while telling me of an Airedale that once was part of their life.

I really should set things straight with this man (or bring him a batch of cookies or something), but life's got me itching for a fight as of late, so I haven't responded yet as gracefully as I probably should. Technically, Greta should not be off her leash. But then technically, camping overnight in downtown Baltimore certainly is in violation of vagrancy laws. I pay taxes to pay for the upkeep of the plaza. He contributes by sweeping the sidewalk in front of his space. I don't want to displace him. But then I don't want to be displaced. "Build a moat," I want to tell him. But my tendency to avoid confrontation trumps my itch for a fight, so we continue to struggle in our effort to co-exist.

This past weekend, I did something I haven't done in over 30 years. I went to a drive-in! 30 years ago, I saw Young Frankenstein in a yellow Roadrunner in Clarkston, Michigan. This past Saturday, it was a triple feature in Baltimore, MD: Surfs Up, Evan Almighty and Oceans 13. I'd known for years there was a drive-in in near where I lived, but it was on the other side of town. I always said "someday..." Well, someday came Saturday.

Bengie's has a great playground beneath the screen (which their web site boasts is the largest in the US) and a fabulous untouched-by-time concession stand. Best of all (for me) is that they allow dogs! We enjoyed a fabulous sunset while we waited for the show to begin, and after it did a full moon shined down on us from overhead. Didn't get home until the wee hours of the morning after three films, but Greta and I will definitely be going back again soon!

What a wonderful step back in time. If you have a drive-in near you, ENJOY IT!

There are two units below mine. One with...ahem...grown ups. The other with art students. There's a handful of girls (I couldn't tell you how many as there has been a slight rotation of occupants) but they are sweet and kind and pure and have a very nice well behaved yellow lab and they actually LIVE. They play music. They have Christmas lights on their deck which ALWAYS has people on it in the evenings, they sit of the front porch steps en mass. They inspire me to enrich my own life.

Well, it appears that most, if not all, of them have graduated and are moving on to bigger and better things. They've been cleaning house and packing for the past month. Some parents showed up with a UHaul trailer and took a lot of stuff away. They've been carting boxes and suitcases back and forth for weeks. Sunday they had a little yard sale. And yesterday, it appears that whatever they hadn't gotten rid of yet was hauled out to the street for the trash man.

Of course, this upset one of the grown up neighbors as this evening when I arrived, there was a Baltimore Public Works Trash Calendar taped to the mirror in the entry hall with the dates of the bulk trash pick up circled.

The heck with them. These girls were delightful neighbors.

Anyhow, Greta and I were returning from a walk when we came upon the (quite a huge) trash pile. (There actually was an issue to be raised - the neighbors just didn't have to be their usual uptight selves to make it.) It was quite an interesting lot, with picture frames and glass doors (presumably from some old cabinets), furniture, paint, LOTS of plywood and some no longer loved school assignments. Nestled in a box of debris was a 2x3' oil painting of a lovely green winged naked fairy. She had a less than runway model figure and must have been having a bad fairy day, though I can't imagine what that would be, because she looked, well, melancholy. Her shoulders are slouched in defeat and her face seems to say "What's so good about it" in response to a third party declaration that it's a great day. At one time after the painting was completed, someone had set a can of paint down on the canvas, so it is stained with a three inch ring of paint and splatters from another project. Greta and I adopted her. She now lives in the sun room where I hope that her *hrmph* expression will give me the inspiration to pick myself up out of the doldrums when I'm feeling blue as she should, for she is really quite lovely and I'm sure that with just the hint of a smile she would be beautiful.

In the early 80's, the hotel I worked at had a booth in two chili cookoff charity fundraisers in downtown Houston. I participated in both. Our breakfast cook Jesse tended the chili pot. The first year our booth had a M*A*S*H* theme, and was decked out in camo and all of us in fatigues. The next year Houston had gotten hit hard by the recession, so we did a rags-to-riches theme. We had folks dressed in sandwich boards and the maitre'd and I were outfitted in tuxedos and served chili to the spectators from silver chafing dishes. We participated in a good old-fashioned chili cookoff egg toss, after which we decided we should send the tuxes through the hotel dry cleaning service before returning them to the rental place.

It was here that I learned of the CASI event in Terlingua, held annually the first weekend in November. For those who don't know, CASI is the Chili Appreciation Society International and Terlingua (a ghost town in West Texas) is the home of their international chili cookoff championship. I had to go. I purchased Jerry Jeff Walker's Viva Terligua for the trip and lined up two Yankee guests from the hotel to take on the journey, circa November, 1984.

It was 752 miles from Houston to Terlingua. Our arrival was met by a two story inflatable Quervo Gold tequila bottle (had we arrived or what!) at the entrance where we were asked "Are you cookin' or lookin'?" Heck. I was there to do both! We didn't have CASI points to enter, but that didn't mean we couldn't turn up the heat!

Of course, I met up and shared a beer with Clay Henry, the beer drinking goat in Lajitas. He later became major. Unfortunately, he was allegedly castrated and later assassinated by a political rival, a sad end to my beer drinking buddy and great political figure.

We paid a Mexican a dollar to row us across the river, where we sat on a rock and ate tuna fish sandwiches we'd packed for the day. We paid another dollar to get back across. Lunch in Mexico. That was my first trip.

The cookoff was a blast and we enjoyed all of the booths and events. I've celebrated Terlingua every year since, with a pot on the stove of my own. It's difficult up here â€" all the damm Yankees want to put beans in it. When I was a kid, chili with beans in it was called goulash. I've held firm to a 'no beans' policy and continue to spread the chili gospel to this day.

I had the pleasure of meeting up with a local restaurant chain through work called Hard Times Café where I formed an instant kinship with the proprietors. It's a chili bar. Originally, they had three offerings: Texas style (meat and grease), Cincinnati (with cinnamon) and vegetarian (with a peanut base). They've since added a Terlingua version. Their restaurants are adorned in Texas kitsch, a welcome site for this homesick native.

My favorite line from London Homesick Blues:

"My mind keeps roamin', my heart keeps longin'
to be home in a Texas bar."

There's no place like home.

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