What's in a Name?

Okay, a few months ago I promised that I wouldn't write any more blogs about our house in Cape May.

Technically, however, the house is no longer our house. So I'm really just writing about A house in Cape May. Not MY house.

This weekend, it became painfully obvious that it wasn't my house anymore.

When the hub and I first bought the house, it was occasionally called the Wedding Cake Cottage. Why? I guess because it was white and had a bunch of gingerbread, and someone thought the name was cute.

I'm so not into cute.

In fact, as we spent time in Cape May over the past nine years, we often joked about the "cuteness" of the Wedding Cake Cottage. As the Cape May trolley would drive past our home, you see, we would hear the tour guide tell people that that was the name of the house.

(Note: those same tour guides will tell you that whenever there are three or more houses that look alike, they were built by some generous father for his three/four/five daughters. I often wonder if tour guides 100 years from now will say that as they drive through the suburban neighborhoods that surround Baltimore. "And these 30 identical houses were built by a very fertile father for his 30 daughters." For the record, usually when houses look alike they were built by a hotel or railroad to house their employees. But that's not as romantic.)

Anyway, we called the house the Sayre House, after the first recorded owner.

And we joked about having one of our friends dress up in an old bridal gown and wave to the trolley as it drove by.

Did I mention that our first choice for this role was Birdman? (Yes, the same  Birdman that I explained had no renovation skills but did his part by making us laugh. You can see his fan page here.)

So, this weekend, before we went to Cape May, my husband called Bird and asked if he was still into dressing up like a bride.

Was he ever into it.

See for yourself:

The good natured groom is Big Guy. He drew the short stick (not that I'm saying Birdman has a short stick...I really wouldn't know one way or the other), but seemed to get into it himself after a little while and a lot of beer.

Kiddies, look at your Uncle Big Guy. This is why we don't want you to drink.

The wedding was well documented, as most weddings are.

The couple got happier as the day went on, as most couples do.

And ultimately, the pairing ended in divorce, as most pairings do. (Even though they looked so darn happy as they took the plunge):

I don't know whose idea it was to jump in the pool. But it was hot. And all that waving to the trolleys made it even hotter. Of course, nothing was hotter than Birdman himself. Even the pool couldn't cool that hotness down.

By the way, both the Birdman and the Big Guy are happily married men. They're married to (sometimes) happily married women.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Traveling with Friends (And living to tell about it)

Don't look for me at the Parkville Home Depot this weekend, because I'm taking a break from the home improvement/gardening/mrs-fix-it projects, and I'm heading out to Cape May.

I'm going with 11 of my closest friends and family members (not that family members can't be friends). We're renting a house--our house, in fact. Our old house. The one we sold in March. (You can see lots of self-pitying blogs in the archives if you're into that kind of thing).

I just realized that going to our house will probably be a little like hooking up with an ex. It's kind of like the good ol' days, but as soon as it's over you realize that someone else is in your baby's bed. And in this case, because we sold the house furnished, I mean literally.

So I'm not focusing on the house right now. I'm focusing on the house guests.

If you've read this blog for more than a day, you know that the hub and I love to rent old houses. And, because renting a whole house can get pricey, we often do it with a large group. In the last year, we've enjoyed/tolerated/attended group vacations in old houses in Cape May (duh), Galveston (natch), and St. Augustine. It's a great way to feel more like a local (yes, in St. Augustine we all sat in the living room with the windows open so that people walking by could envy us for our temporary zip code). It also is a good way to experience the history of a town first hand. And, of course, it's a free house tour. One where you can sit on the seats and touch the artwork.

There are no downsides.

Unless you go with the wrong people.

So, in an attempt to reassure the right people that they're good traveling companions, and in the hopes that the wrong people can be trained (and if you're not sure which group you fall into, simply ply me with a couple of chardonnays and I will tell you more bluntly than you would like), I offer the following list of things to do when traveling with a group:

1. Pay your way. This is non-negotiable, unless, of course, you're seventeen/unemployed/never interested in traveling with your friends again. I know this seems like a no-brainer...after all, if you agree to go on a vacation, you are also agreeing to contribute to the costs, right? You'd be surprised how often the answer is "Wrong!" This counts for the house rental itself, the alcohol, toilet paper, the orange juice, the alcohol, the dishwashing detergent, the alcohol, and anything else that might be necessary on the trip. This is all part of the cost, people...and just because your good friend Mike (some other Mike--not my husband Mike of course) planned the trip, and paid the deposit, and signed the contract...he* should NOT have to pay for all these other incidentals just for the small joy of being able to spend time with you. Trust me. (*Note: the personal pronoun used here does not under any circumstance refer to my husband Mike.)

2. Ask which bedroom is yours. Yes, we've all seen The Real World where things "start getting real" as soon as the housemate with the most emotional problem runs through all the rooms and picks the one with the cushiest digs. This isn't the real world; this is vacation. And you don't want to be that person with the most emotional problems, even for a weekend.

If you're traveling with someone elderly, they get first choice of a room. If everyone in your group is elderly, then the person who made the reservations gets first choice. (Same thing if no one in your group is elderly). After that, it's all up for grabs.

If you require special accommodations--a king-sized bed for your king-sized butt, a private bathroom because of your intestinal problems, a first-floor room because of your fear of second floor ghosts--please mention that *before* you arrive at the house. And you might want to pony up a little extra cash for the consideration.

3. Now that you've chosen your room, make sure that you don't walk into someone else's. That means you should knock before you go into every room. The hub and I have owned rental homes for about 13 years now...soon after we bought the second one, I realized that I needed to resign myself to the fact that everyone I invited to the house with us would eventually see me naked. (As you can imagine, that was a bit of a deterrent to some of our friends and probably cut down on the number of our guests considerably).

Staying in a house--particularly an old house--can be disconcerting at times. You can wake up in the middle of the night, and not remember where the bathroom is. You can walk down a hallway of closed doors, and *think* that the third door on the right is the linen closet. But it might not be. It might be your friend's bedroom, and you might see more of them than you ever wanted to.

Play it safe--for everyone's sake--and knock first. It's not a tough rule to remember, and--as you're clawing at your eyes trying to erase the picture of your mother-in-law pulling off her skirted bathing suit--you'll be glad you did.

3. No loud sex. Just because you're confident that no one will walk into your room as you're shaking your groove thang baby, doesn't mean that you should shake it till you break it. As much as we don't want to see you naked, we don't want to hear you doing naked things, either. Turn the television on, turn on the music, or just wait until you get home. Really, you'll live.

4. Keep your underwear to yourself. And your wet bathing suit. And your sex toys/vaginal creams/adult diapers. You were invited on this trip because the trip planner presumably likes you. Don't threaten that relationship with your dirty laundry. Keep your personal items...personal. And hidden in your suitcase.

5. Use the bathroom for peeing and pooping. I don't want to get graphic here (it occurs to me that I'm probably too late), but most old houses have more bedrooms than they do bathrooms. That means that there will inevitably be a line for the facilities in the morning. As you head to the bathroom, think about the functions that *really* need to be done there, and do them. And only them. I will never forget the summer of 2003, when I sustained permanent kidney damage one morning while listening to **** (name removed to protect the author) blow dry her hair (!!!) in the bathroom. By the time she was done, I was ready to pee out the second-floor window. The one facing the boardwalk.

6. Go with the flow. It's great to be easy to get along with (who doesn't love a traveling companion that shouts YES!! before you've even finished the question of "Would you like to..."??) Of course, that *doesn't* mean you have to go with the group all the time. Really. If your friends want to take a six-hour bike across the state line during an orange-level ozone day, and you would rather lay in bed watching HGTV with a bendy straw in your fruity drink, do it. It's your vacation, man. Don't make a big deal about it, and don't whine that no one wanted to go hunting for dead jellyfish on the beach so now you're not going to participate in the bike-a-thon. Just politely say no, mix yourself another margarita, and settle in.

7. Chow down with the chow hounds. At least once in a while. While I *always* advocate having the group split up periodically (after all, how can I miss you if you never freaking leave?), I also think it's nice sometimes to go to a restaurant together. If you're going to do this, make sure that it's not the most expensive restaurant in town (unless your friends all invested in Microsoft in the 70's), make sure that the eatery takes reservations (nothing ruins a group dynamic faster than standing outside a restaurant, swatting mosquitos off of each other, and talking about how hungry you are), and make sure that no one minds splitting the bill (note: if it's the waiter that doesn't mind splitting the bill, that makes the whole night more enjoyable for everyone). And take a camera--a group vacation is not a group vacation without at least one shot of everyone sitting around the table, leaning in so you can (almost) see everyone.


8. When you eat together, make sure you pay your fair share. Wait a second--are we back at the beginning of the to-do list already?

So that basically sums it up. Pay to play--keep it kid friendly--don't hog the bathroom--eat now and again. Oh, and one other thing--don't forget to drink. I'm not talking about hydration here. I'm talking about survival, people.

Wish me luck this weekend!!!

(And, just to entertain me, tell me your worst stories about traveling with other people!)

Gardening as a Competitive Sport

If one more person asks me if I garden because it’s relaxing, I am going to jump up off my cushioned knee protector (and by “jump up” I mean that I will hobble to a fairly-straight and upright position, groaning the whole way), ball up my little fist (little, of course, is relative, as presently my tiny hands are swollen to man-size with my latest outbreak of poison ivy), and stamp my left foot (because my right foot still hurts from when I stuck a shovel in it trying to remove a stump from the front yard).

Do gardeners look as if they’re relaxing? The sweat dripping down our faces, staining the inside of our cute gardening hats? The muddy knees, imprinted with grass stains and small pebbles? The sheepish trips to the emergency room, where we are forced to admit that the gouge in our shin/branch in our eye/infected poison ivy was self inflicted during a moment of relaxation!!???

Now, I have no doubt that there are *some* people who find gardening relaxing.

For instance, I don’t know a lot of inmates, but I would assume that if you asked someone who doesn’t see sunlight much of the day if they would like to pull ivy off the side of your house, they would probably say yes and even smile as they said it. (Watch your purse, of course).

And they look pretty relaxed when they're standing on the side of the road, picking up trash (which doesn't sound like gardening unless you live on a busy street in suburban Baltimore like I do).

But, honestly, what isn’t more relaxing than worrying about how to hold onto that slippery bar of soap? (Okay, maybe I’ve watched too much cable…but you see my point).

Another population that seems to like to garden is retired people.

Because I know more retirees than I know inmates, I’ve actually done some research on this. There are three hobbies among the “every day is Saturday” crowd: going to the grocery store, visiting the doctor, and putting on some decades-old dirty gloves and puttering around with a hose and some pruners.

Now that I think about it, old people do look like they enjoy the latter activity. It might even provide a relaxing break for them from the mentally tiring gymnastics of Sudoko, and trying to figure out why their Medicare co-pay went up last month.

Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them sweat while they’re puttering in the garden. So maybe they’re not doing it right.

Because I think I'm doing it right and I sweat like Tom Sizemore on Celebrity Rehab.

I’m thinking about adding a sign to my front yard. Right in the middle of the pink lilies of the valley: “This garden is maintained by just one woman…doing the work of ten…for the benefit of thousands.” (Okay, full disclosure: I stole the motto from my friend Jim Belfield of Virginia. He, however, says “man” instead of “woman” so I don’t think I owe him a licensing fee).

How did I become so crazy? Because I'm pretty sure that I seem laid back to my friends, who would never guess that I’m half insane on weekends trying to grow roses that are bigger than theirs, hedges that are denser and perennials that are more colorful.

As with most things (my bad knees, my upturned nose), I blame my family. My grandfather, on my dad’s side, kept a notebook of his plants and fields. After he died, we found it in his desk. A typical entry would be: April 29, 72 degrees. Sunny. Five flowers open on the purple gloxinia, 2 buds.

Later, in the summer, his entries included garden records. How many pounds of potatoes he harvested. How many pumpkins were on the vine. He recorded the current year’s numbers, then flipped to the front of the book to compare the results to last year.

Good grief, I realize now that Pappy was so competitive that he had to compete with himself. No wonder that I am the way I am.

I need to get a copy of that notebook. I bet I can beat his numbers.

At least I can try. While I’m relaxing.

Asking Me To Remember is Just.Plain.Mean.

It's not fun to have a memory deficiency. I don't know if it's a sleep deprivation thing, or a pre-menopausal thing, or if it's just...

Wait a minute. What was I talking about?

That's what it's like now around the Wieber Ranch. I'm constantly walking into a room, stopping short, and saying (usually out loud) "Why did I come in here again?" It's not fun.

That's why our recent trip to San Antonio was so....memorable.

First, we had planned on staying at the Historic Menger hotel, right across from the Alamo. Except that I forgot to make the reservations right away...and by the time I did remember to look at the list that I keep on my blackberry to avoid such minor catastrophes, the price of the rooms had almost doubled.

Had I remembered to make reservations in time, I would have been staying here:

I would have had a lobby that looked like this:

I could have been sipping mai tai's in a courtyard that looked like this:

As it was,we stayed at the Historic St. Anthony...whose lobby looked like this, so I'm sure that no one is going to feel too sorry for me. But get out your hankerchiefs: Our room smelled a little funny, and it had a doorbell (cool) but no trash can (totally uncool). I suppose someone could have taken all of the trash receptacles out of the Menger as well--I didn't look in any of the rooms.

Then, in my second bone-headed move of the trip, I forgot to check the San Antonio website to see if there were any festivals or events in town that might impact my stay.

That was a biggie, because it happened to be Fiesta...the biggest party in San Antonio all year. Hundreds of thousands of people were in town...and all of them seemed to want to do exactly what I was doing. Unless you count what I wanted to do at midnight, which was to take a siesta...a time when the fiesta-ness of it all was just hitting full swing.

Fiesta is a historic event, starting with a weird parade and event called the Battle of the Flowers in 1891. The San Antonia-ites had so much fun throwing blooms at each other, they began adding more parades, a carnival, balls, and coronations of "royalty", from King Selamat (tamales spelled backwards) to King Omala (Alamo, natch) and King Antonio, as well as lots of princesses with sashes around their chests and tiaras.

Today, Fiesta seems like Spanish Mardi Gras, complete with weird outfits and plenty of decorations. It also seemed a little like a May Day event, with girls of every age putting flowers in their hair. And it seemed a lot like Freshman Hazing Week at a big university...with lots of 3-foot long beers on the Riverwalk and margaritas that came in a 10-gallon fishbowl instead of a glass (which seems a lot like Mardi Gras, too).

One of the things I was really looking forward to in San Antone (I have to say that at least once because my husband sang the Monkeys song "What Am I Doing Hanging Round?" all weekend. Obviously, his memory of obscure derivative songs is working just fine) was visiting the King William neighborhood which--according to the photos I saw--looked like a great little Victorian enclave.

We took San Antonio trolley to the King William stop, and got out...only to see thousands of people crowding the quaint streets.

Yes, the King William neighborhood has a special festival as part of Festival. I won't forget to check the website for events around town next time.

I did get to see a couple of the houses over the throngs of face-painted children, tiny little dogs (I'm still trying to remember why people like these things so much--if you have any insight please post your thoughts!), and big sweaty grown ups. They were lovely. The houses, that is. Not the big sweaty grown-ups. Lovely enough that I might go back.

When I do go back, I don't plan on visiting the Alamo. It was, ironically, not memorable at all. And frustrating, because--although the phrase Remember the Alamo stuck in my head--I didn't remember anything about it except the chorus to Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. And the old mission/fort/t-shirt stand didn't have a lot of easily accessible information. It did have a bunch of memorials spread around the perimeter of the main room, and that part was appropriately somber and peaceful...but it would have been nice to have some general information right there at the beginning so that I wouldn't have felt so dumb as I walked through.

Luckily, the Daughters of the Republic of Texas put together a brochure with all the pertinent details of the 13-day siege and subsequent assault on the Alamo (I found it in the third building that I walked into, back by the gardens).

Before Davey Crockett (who is referred to everywhere as David, so I suspect Davey was a Disney makeover) told everyone to remember the Alamo, it was a mission, home to missionaries and their Indian converts. By the early 1800's, the Spanish military had stationed a calvary unit there (Alamo is the Spanish word for "cottonwood", and these Spaniards named the place after their hometown of Alamo de Parras, Coahuila. I'm glad they didn't name it Coahuila--I would have never remembered that).

Things started getting memorable in December 1835, when Ben Milam led Texian (not a typo) and Tejano volunteers against the Mexican troops that were quartered in the city (so don't you think for a minute that all of this border patrol stuff started with Mexicans coming north--we started it by going south, In fact, there's a whole display in one of the back buildings that lists quotes from Mexican officials about their concern over white settlers moving in. They all seemed worried that the whites would take over their country, and snap up all of the good jobs for themselves. But that's another story).

There were no immigration attorneys back in 1835, so the men just fought it out hand-to-hand (house to house, according to the Daughters of the Texas Republic). After five days of fighting, the volunteers won.

Then the victors moved in--sitting the shade of the Alamo's tall walls, enjoying the butterflies in the back garden, eating burritos on the steps. Until two months later, in February, when the Mexican soldiers came back.

And killed everyone.

That's the part you're supposed to remember.

The brochure from the Daughters has a list of the names of men who were known to have died in the defense of the Alamo. The list includes David Crockett and Jim Bowie, who was known for his knife fighting, although it kind of let him down in March 1936.

My favorite part of the Alamo was the gardens, and the third building that listed all of the information on the spot. It was quiet back there, and less crowded, and you could really reflect on all of the people who had died in the old mission--on both sides. It gave me time to think about the women and the children who weren't killed, but who had to live with the memory of 13 brutal days.

That's the part I'll remember about my trip to San Antonio. The quiet couple of minutes that I spent in the back gardens of the Alamo.

And the fact that next time, I'll check the website to see if there are any festivals going on (http://www.visitsanantonio.com/).

God Made the Universe, But the Navy Made This Island

When HTG was just a G, she spent a couple of weeks in the Netherlands. While she was there, she spent some of those weeks with a boy named Rolf, with whom she spent some of that time...talking about international politics.

HTG didn't know much about international politics then, but Rolf was older and a little more versed in....international politics.

Anyway, we all know that talk of international politics between two youngsters can not last forever. So HTG eventually came back to the states, and Rolf most likely began talking about international politics with some cute young thing with blonde hair and hand-rolled cigarettes and truly exceptional bone structure.

For several years, HTG received letters from Rolf. In them, he went on and on about the Dutch's superiority in...everything. (See, now you're starting to think we really did talk about international politics, aren't you?)

In one letter, he sent a hand drawn map of the world. The United States was the size of a nickel, while Holland was the size of a separate piece of paper.

In another, he ended his letter with the following declaration (his capitalization, not mine): GOD MADE THE UNIVERSE, BUT THE DUTCH MADE HOLLAND.

I soon found other nice young men stateside who liked to talk international politics as much as I did, and I eventually forgot about Rolf and his quite appealing accent and less than appealing ego. But I never did forget the above slogan, which would fit nicely on the bumper of a Dutch-made Carver.

I thought of this slogan again when I visited Sunset Key, a pretty place previously known as Tank Island. It's a tiny place...just 27 acres, which is probably the perfect size to dart around in a brightly colored Carver (although the pale 60-something millionaires and their tan 20-something girlfriends there make due with much less sporty golf carts).

Tank Island is located about 500 yards off the coast of Key West (far enough that you can get away from the constant racket of annoying Buffet tunes). It was originally just a sandbar, but the Navy wanted to dredge a nearly harbor (the "Mole",  at the southwestern point of KW) to a depth of 36 feet so that the diesel subs patrolling the Southern Atlantic could float on through.

In 1965, they began dredging, first pumping the sand onto Wisteria Island, and then moving the pipes a bit south to a submerged sandbar. Soon they started thinking that that sandbar would be a nice outpost to hold their fuel tanks.

They pumped 10 million cubic feet of fill onto that sandbar, then presumably they created a commission to come up with a name for the new place. Fifteen thousand memos and fourteen thousand department meetings later (I'm just guessing, of course), some genius came up with Tank Island, and the military heavy weights--who oftentimes do not even have the right lobe of their brain, using that space instead to store knowledge about firearms and the best way to increase your chest size--nodded and said it sounded good. They then presumably created a committee to figure out what they should order for lunch.

Tank Island sounded good until 1994 when the the island was sold. The new owners, and their right-brained marketing geniuses, decided that "Tank Island" might not draw the tourists in the way they hoped. So they presumable got together for 4,000 billable hours, created a couple dozen focus groups, and did a trademark search before settling on the infinitely more romantic sounding Sunset Key. They then created a survey and direct mail piece to determine what cocktails they should order.

To be honest, the sunsets you'll see there are pretty much the same ones you can see on Mallory Square. 

But you'll be watching them with about 10,000 less people. And none of the people on Sunset Key will be swallowing swords for money or asking you if you want to pose for a photo with their pet iguana for just five bucks.

Sunset Key is pretty exclusive. In fact, you can't even get there unless you take the Westin's private water shuttle (you catch it at the Westin Marina which is behind their main hotel). It feels very rat-pack to hop into a sleek little boat and feel the wind in your hair as you're going to your destination. And you dock in the cutest pier I've ever seen.

But don't think that you can just take the boat over and roam around among the millionaires. You can't.

You can go to the island if you're staying there--the Westin has a couple of private cottages that you can rent, or you can spend hours online trying to become friends with someone who owns one of the 40-some private homes there.

For those of you with shallow pockets and too many scruples to ingratiate yourself with owners, the Westin does have a public restaurant called Latitudes. It's a great place, with lots of tables on the beach, but it's the type of restaurant that most people go to for their anniversary (ca-ching!). If your anniversary (or your sales commission check) is months away, try Latitudes for lunch. They've got a great grouper sandwich with Key West sauce (a mayonnaise-based spread with a hint of lime), for about ten bucks. It comes with an interesting sweet potato salad (which seems so much more special than regular potato salad) and a pickle. The view is free. And, if you like that kind of thing, you can take your bathing suit and hit the Westin beach. Having a real beach in the Keys is one huge advantage to being on a man-made island.

How did I slip past the crack security team on the island? The hub and I were lucky enough to find a homeowner who would rent their slice of paradise to us for a month. I didn't have the money or the time to take off a month, but I did have enough friends who were interested in hanging out at the island to split the cost and make it doable.

During our time on Sunset Key, we did catch some pretty nice sunsets. They were a great backdrop to a quiet swim, a fruity drink, and some very interesting discussions of international politics.

Trees of Life: The Passing Nature of Art

HTG's mother was an artist. She painted porcelain, which is a very Victorian lady thing to do.

One of the things I loved about her art was that it was beautiful, but exceptionally fragile. One rambunctious two-year-old could wipe out years of work in about 4.7 seconds. (Yes, I'm talking about you, Lukey!)

Porcelain painting has a tough aspect, too. The artist paints the piece, and then fires it in a kiln to about 1500 degrees. The glaze on the porcelain actually melts, and the paint becomes a part of it. The artist then goes through the process again: a little more paint, another firing, another melting and cooling process.

Each of her pieces required a minimum of three firings. To get a really dark color, she could paint and fire a piece 5 or 6 times.

Of course, push the piece too far, and it would melt in the kiln like a three dimensional Dali painting. It was always a sad day when Mom opened the kiln's lid to find a mess like that in the bottom of it.

All of that is to say that my favorite artists are those artists who know that their art will be fleeting, and that it is somehow fragile in time. Paintings fade, sculptures erode, glass and porcelain breaks.

Maybe that's why I love the tree carvings that are sprouting (pun intended) up all over Galveston, Texas.

Or maybe I love them because they're just cool.

A little background: in 2008, Hurricane Ike roared through Galveston (verbiage on a t-shirt I saw there last month: Hurricane Ike: Category Two, My Ass!), creating a huge storm surge in the island's historic East End. During its visit, it displaced about nine feet of salty water, which sat in the neighborhood for a day or two.

The 100-year old live oaks (ahh, the irony) didn't like the salt, and many of them ended up dying.

Rather than keep these skeletal reminders of the storm around, most people cut them down and ground the stumps into sawdust.

But some people left about six feet of stump and had them carved into beautiful, transient pieces of art. Because wood, like porcelain, is ultimately fragile, especially when left in the elements.

But transience only makes these pieces more awesome, because you know that you have a limited time to enjoy them. I don't know how long--maybe 30 years, maybe 5.

So, given the fleeting nature of both art (and life), let's check 'em out:

I'm going to start with my favorite. This is my boyfriend, Tinny. He is all decked out for Mardi Gras. If you'd like to visit him (don't even try to date him, lest I have to get all Angry Lion on you), you can find him at 1702 Winnie.

Why a tin man? Because King Vidor, an uncredited director of the Wizard of Oz, was born in the house. King directed all the Kansas scenes in the Wizard, which are some of my favorite. According to Wikipedia (and they're never wrong, right?) he also did a film on the Storm of 1900. If any of you have more information on that, I'd be very interested to hear more!

In the meantime, I visit Tinny as much as I can. And I plan to name my next child and/or fish King. Because I don't think he'd be teased that much in second grade, do you?




King is a great name for a dog, of course, particularly given the kind of treatment that many household pets today seem to enjoy. Here are a couple of dogs that even I could own: they're cute and they never bark at six in the morning.

The Great Dane on the left is at 1228 Sealy (he looks like a "King", doesn't he?). Some ne'er do well has stolen his left paw since I took this shot...I hope that a dog attacks that person and karma-cly gnaws off his arm as soon as possible.

Spotty, on the right, is in front of the firehouse at 25th and Sealy. He was one of the first carvings that I saw in town, and I still want to pet him when I see him.

If you're wondering what Spotty is looking at, it's probably this beauty next to him on the other side of the firehouse's lawn:

Here's one more cutie.  He's so realistic (and so realistically sized, unlike the five and six foot tall nuclear versions above), I almost biked right past him. You can find him at 1820 Winnie, unless he has taken off after a cat, which he looks like he might do any minute.

Like art itself, the subject gives you great insight into the artist (or, more likely, into the guy or gal who paid the artist). Like these three angels on the 1700 block of Ball Street. The owner of the house has three little granddaughters...and she's always called them her "little angels."

Go ahead, you can say it: "Awwww."

Before I introduce you to Mermy here, I should share a story of shopping for garden art with my husband several years ago. As he walked through the statuary, he threatened to ask the salesperson if there wasn't anything sexier. This come-hither carving is at 1428 Church, right around the corner from our house, and right up my husband's alley, as they say.

Incidentally, I'm not sure why she's holding a catcher's mitt above her head. But she combines two of the hub's favorite springtime pursuits--boobs and baseball. I'm guessing the artist may have similar interests, because I know the owner of the house, and she's never mentioned either of those topics.

Here are some other chicks that have recently moved into the neighborhood. The Geisha girl on Ball Street isn't quite moved in yet, but I already know she'll be a great addition to the historic district. I'm not sure why the owner chose this topic; if I find out (or if you know), post it in the comments.

This angel is holding a bunny because the owner of the yard used to be a Playboy model. At least that's the story that I've heard. You can go to 17th and Post Office and decide for yourself.

Galveston is an island, so, as you would expect, there are plenty of people who commemorated the island wildlife in their front yards (there may be many who commemorated it in their back yards as well, but HTG is simply not that nosy. Or that brave). Here are some of the ones I spotted:

(Visit these guys yourself at 1609 Post Office, 1610 Sealy, 902 Ball [post a new photo if you'd like...these guys were in process when I saw them], 1618 Church and 12th and Sealy).

These are the ones that I've found so far...but I know that there are more out there! If you spot them, please pass them on...I want to admire them while I can! They are a true monument to the storm, to art, and to the

importance of living in the moment. Enjoy! (And see this final one at 1028 Winnie).