From what I've learned, in 1895, people called Galveston the Wall Street of the southwest. It was ordinary in the sense that it was like any other port city at the time. I personally find Stephen Crane's observations fascinating because he recorded his Galveston-inspired thoughts in 1895 and (hang with me here, we're getting morbid) he died in June of 1900. He was only 28 when he died of tuberculosis*. Shortly thereafter, in September of 1900, a hurricane hit Galveston. Known here as "The Great Storm", it killed around 8,000 people and completely devastated the island. So, nutshelling: Crane visits Galveston, a port city, and ironically, is most surprised at its normality ; after making himself famous for naturalism, Crane dies at 28 in June of 1900; the Great Storm takes place in September of 1900.
One can't discuss Stephen Crane without discussing his use of naturalism --his best works depict nature as glorious, even living:
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after
successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind
it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective
in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dingey one can get an idea of
the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the
average experience, which is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of
water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and
it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last
effort of the grim water.
There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in
silence, save for the snarling of the crests. -Excerpt from Crane's "The Open Boat"
Where man can be reasoned with and persuaded, nature is indifferent--most of the time tragically indifferent. In 1897, he published one of his most famous pieces, "The Open Boat". The short story is based on a shipwreck experienced by Crane himself. He shared a lifeboat with three others-- a cook, a captain, and an oiler. In Crane's portrayal of the wreck, the oiler, Billie, is the only one mentioned by name. Not coincidentally, he's also the only one who ends up dying.
Earlier I mentioned that the Great Storm killed around 8,000 people, as in approximately, as in the numbers range-- from 6,000 to 15,000. I can't help but think that if Crane had been around to write about Galveston in September of the year he died, he could have figured out how to name the 6,000 to 15,000 (approximately 8,000) people.
Galveston, Texas, in 2014
It's a tourist town--famous for hurricanes, pirates, and birds. After the Great Storm of 1900, the entire city was raised 17 feet. This included over 2,100 buildings. Some people just filled the first floor of buildings with sand. In 1895, Stephen Crane would have had to walk up a flight of stairs. I can just walk in the door.
In addition to raising Galveston's elevation, a seawall, also 17-feet high, was constructed for protection. The city began construction in 1903 and finished in 1911. Come 1915, a hurricane, similar in size to the "Great Storm of 1900," struck Galveston. 53 people died. Apart from protecting the city, the wall serves other purposes. This past weekend being Mardi Gras, the city hosted a few parades along it. High school marching bands and floats filled with extraordinarily happy people made their way along the wall. The float-mongers throw beads. People are supposed to dive for these beads. I'm more of a "ducker" or a "get hit in the facer." The city has also placed historical landmarks along the wall where one can learn about Balinese ballrooms and a hotel that used to be there but were turned into a not-so-amusing amusement park. As for me, well, I use the wall for running.
I often run on the eastern side of the island, which is composed of beaches, pelicans, oil tankers and condos. Wealthy people live in the condos. If these condos were in a Scott Fitzgerald novel they'd be comprised of women who marry men for money and men who wear white shorts and cheat on their wives. Sometimes the wind wafts the oil-tanker's sulfurous smells up to the beach, past where the pelicans gather. Binocular-clad birdwatchers explore the swampy areas of east beach, gathering around Roseate Spoonbills and American Wigeons.
I visited Galveston for the first time in June of 2011, 3 years after Hurricane Ike struck the city. Hurricane Ike didn't hit the seawall directly. If it had, the extent of the damage would have been limited. As it so happens, the hurricane wound itself into the bay side of the island, beating buildings with waves and covering the island with water. Then the storm receded, taking debris and people with it. Ike killed over 40,000 trees. Chainsaw artists have come to Galveston and crafted the tree skeletons into mermaids, birds, and turtles. Someone chiseled the Tin Man. Another chiseled a new tree from the old, filled with wooden birds, flowers, insects.
Today I drank coffee with a man named Rory. He made sound effects to describe 35-foot waves hitting the side of his home. When the roof flipped off his house, he jumped into it and rode the waves, floating 45 nautical miles before landing west of Houston. He said the insects were worse than the alligators: "The red ants were hell."
Rory is 56 but looks about 70. He's tall and skinny. His skin is weathered, feathery around the eyes. As I sat typing, he sat in the chair across from me with a, "What are you typing so fervently about, young lady?" After receiving a swoony, "Stephen Crane," he told me his own story. He grew up in Houston, an artist in a band. After a failed marriage and giving up the band lifestyle, he moved to Galveston for the last third of his life (ages 40-60...he's thinking he'll be "taking a long dirt nap" by 60). At one point, Rory tipped back his chair and closed his eyes, "We here in Galveston live in mañana time. If you want something done by Friday, tell us you want it done by Monday because we'll start tomorrow."
In a couple of days I'm headed back to the mainland, up to the snow-covered Michigan mitten. I'll return to work, attend business classes, and trade summer dresses for sweaters. In Michigan, I'll put away my Stephen Crane novels. I'll turn to Earnest Hemingway, Thoreau, Annie Dillard, and other writers of the northern states. I'll study their lives on my own time and try to figure out why Thoreau, who doesn't seem materialistic, spends so much time writing about clothing or why Annie Dillard uses an entire page to describe an inchworm-- only to end by saying that the darn thing should throw itself off the piece of grass to which it has been clinging.
But that's mañana.
Right now? Well, I'll study more Crane. I'll walk 17-feet above where he walked and try to figure out what it means to name a person.
*Fun fact: Sorry to jump on the vampire train, but way back when, people often mistook tuberculosis victims for vampire victims. To test the theory, they'd often exhume the consumption-ridden body a few days after burial. Then (because, honestly, why not?!) they'd drive a stake through the heart. The body, bloated with all sorts of accumulated gases would appear to spring to life and let out a gasp.
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