Go Fish Galvez

There have been rumblings of revolution if I don’t finish this titillating tale so here goes. (But feel free to forgo the popcorn and Milk Duds—like a Stephen King novel, after a strong beginning, it finishes up rather weakly.)

Lovely tiled hearth

Okay, so here we were, my bro-in-law Ken and me, out back of this old tumble-down “mansion.”

We gained entry to the main house through a rear courtyard, in which we discovered, to our delight, a lovely blue-tiled hearth still in a pristine state. Tile holds up nicely to the onslaught of the elements; stucco not so much.

In the center of the courtyard, beneath a gnarly old live oak, was a two-tiered fountain in matching blue tile. While the tile itself was in surprisingly good shape, the scummy pond water it contained looked to be brewing interesting new life forms of the next epoch. Eek. Read the rest of this entry »

Pull in, I directed the driver, my long-suffering yet quasi-adventurous brother-in-law Ken, pull in! And drive around back!

It was a rapidly disintegrating, Spanish stucco affair, with low arched walls and a red-tiled roof. In the weeds, it was. Literally. And, therefore, right up my alley.

Through the gate—we're in!

We came to a full stop around back of the house, whereupon Kenny, happily game, and I (the others being put off by the potential for rattling vipers, biting mosquitoes, and stultifying humidity) waded through a thick stand of weeds (where, I realized later, there may well have been a rattling viper or two, the island having once been known as “Snake Island” and for very good reason) and made our way into a rear courtyard. What a sight we saw!

But first, an editorial comment: If this is, or was, a “mansion,” my name is Wallace Simpson. Read the rest of this entry »

But it doesn’t count as law-breaking (does it?) when one is on an historic mission of civic proportions. And we (as in I, the prime mover, with reluctant relatives in tow) were.

Arched gate to old Stewarts Mansion

Ever seen this house? I haven’t.

Ever heard of this house? I haven’t.

Of course, all us Galvestonians have heard the name Stewart, a name so important the city fathers named Galveston’s signature beach after it. And a road. And probably some other stuff that escapes me just now.

But this house? The family? What’s the story?

Not sure why I hadn’t pondered this question before, this mystery of the Stewarts. Read the rest of this entry »