The Island {part one}

I mentioned a while back that sometime I would tell the story of Matagorda Island and how it likely shaped my view on politics from a very young age. I grew up in a small coastal fishing village. My dad worked as a groundskeeper/do-it-all-guy for a wealthy oil man from Houston. In his time off from that job, he supplemented his income as a shrimper. (Not to leave my mom out of this post, she stayed at home with us until we were in school and then she worked part time at the post office.)

Some of my fondest memories as a child are traveling early in the morning on my dad's shrimp boat to Matagorda Island. On a shrimp boat it would take a looong time. My brother and I usually fell asleep in our blankets on the cabin floor to the hum of the engine. It was so very exciting. I still remember the routine. Once we were on the dock, mom would hand me Baby Beans, my precious cargo. Then they would unload the boat: bags of clothes, food, fishing gear, the kitchen sink. Dad would get the jeep, we would travel across the abandoned Air Force landing strips to the gravel road that led to the ranch house.

The pink asbestos-shingled ranch house. It was not large. Just one main room with a corner made into a kitchen. Rows and rows of bunks. An old butane refrigerator. The floor was rough concrete. It tickled your feet. When they poured it they used a rough broom to spread the concrete and that accounted for the texture. There was a little back room for a couple more bunks--really no bigger than a hall way that led out the back door. Which led to the outhouse. Yes you read that correctly. An actual outhouse. {A real (yet detached) bathroom was not added until later.} Didn't bother me as a child. I mean pee or poop in a hole, who cares? We were on the island!

On the front porch, there was an old bench car seat to serve as seating, and a working water pump. The kind you pump the handle to get water from the well. We used to play with that constantly!

I just remember that I have some old photos up here. I'm going to see if I can scan them so you can get a better visual. I feel like my words don't do it justice... {yeah! it worked}

Here is my brother and I playing. I think I am using crowbar as a microphone. You might just be able to see the rough floors.





Here's that pump. My legs and feet remind me so much of Little m in this pic. Did you notice I used to have white blonde hair?


This is the front porch. Complete with car seat bench. Do you see my trusty Baby Beans companion on the seat beside me?

And here's one because I love you, my readers. And I really will do any humiliating thing to make you laugh! My Memaw helping me 'go potty'. Although looking at it now...she could have held me a little farther out of the potty! (this is not the outhouse, this is a little 'nighttime' potty that was in that back hall I spoke of.)

Me performing, I'm sure, on one of the bunks. You can see the butane fridge in the back.

The outhouse. And yes I am bathing in a bucket.

The ranch house was fun-as you can tell from the pictures, but we also spent a good deal of time at the beach. Mom tells me I used to hate to feel the sand moving under my feet in the surf so she let me wear tennis shoes to play in. I remember finding all sorts of goodies from Aunt Jemima bottles to shells that had washed up on the Gulf beach.

This ranch was in my family for 150 years. In the next post I will tell you how the federal government took this property from my family.