"Debunked: The 'First Photo' of Bagdad is Actually Brownsville"

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1867 flooding photo downtown shared on social media (Photoshopped by blogger)

While the sentiment behind displaying a newly attributed photo of the Port of Bagdad is exciting for local history, the photograph you provided is definitively an iconic image of downtown Brownsville, Texas, during the 1867 hurricane and subsequent flood. It cannot be the Port of Bagdad.

Evidence Why the Photo Is Brownsville (Not Bagdad)

Explicit Signage: The most direct evidence is the large sign on the building to the right, which clearly reads "HOTEL MAZ". This building is historically identified as the Hotel Mazatlán in Brownsville, Texas. Historical archives and local historians consistently link this building and this specific flood scene to the Brownsville side of the border.

Architecture: The wooden, multi-story buildings with balconies and American-style gabled roofs are typical of mid-19th century American frontier architecture found in Brownsville and nearby Clarksville. The Port of Bagdad was largely described as a rough, temporary "shanty town" of small, one-story wooden structures on stilts, built quickly to service the Civil War cotton trade, a description that does not match the more permanent, developed architecture seen in the photo.

Historical Attributions: The image is a well-known, verified photograph taken by Louis de Planque (François A. L. La Planque), an imperial photographer who documented the aftermath of the storm primarily in Brownsville and Matamoros. The image is part of established historical collections with clear provenance linking it to the Brownsville side.

The Fate of Bagdad: Historical records confirm that the 1867 hurricane and a subsequent storm in 1874 literally "erased both towns" of Bagdad and Clarksville, leaving "nothing but scoured sand" and a few scattered bricks. The buildings pictured are clearly standing in the aftermath of a flood, not in a location that had been completely scoured away.

Facebook Descriptions: Social media attributions can be incorrect. While only artistic renditions of the Port of Bagdad are generally known to exist, the visual evidence within the image itself points squarely to Brownsville.

This photograph remains an important artifact, even if its identification by the museum or social media page as the Port of Bagdad is a common historical misattribution.

Desmentido: La 'primera foto' de Bagdad es en realidad Brownsville

Investigación impulsada por la IA de Google

Si bien el entusiasmo por exhibir una fotografía recién atribuida del Puerto de Bagdad es comprensible para la historia local, la imagen que proporcionó es definitivamente una toma icónica del centro de Brownsville, Texas, durante el huracán de 1867 y la inundación posterior. No puede ser el Puerto de Bagdad.

Evidencia de por qué la foto es Brownsville (y no Bagdad)

• Señalización explícita: La prueba más directa es el gran letrero en el edificio a la derecha, donde se lee claramente "HOTEL MAZ". Este edificio está identificado históricamente como el Hotel Mazatlán en Brownsville, Texas. Los archivos históricos y los historiadores locales vinculan consistentemente este edificio y esta escena específica de inundación con el lado estadounidense de la frontera.
• Arquitectura: Los edificios de madera de varios pisos con balcones y techos a dos aguas de estilo estadounidense son típicos de la arquitectura fronteriza de mediados del siglo XIX que se encontraba en Brownsville y la cercana Clarksville. El Puerto de Bagdad fue descrito mayoritariamente como un "pueblo de chozas" rudimentario y temporal, con estructuras de madera de un solo piso sobre pilotes, construidas rápidamente para el comercio de algodón de la Guerra Civil; una descripción que no coincide con la arquitectura más permanente y desarrollada que se ve en la foto.
• Atribuciones históricas: La imagen es una fotografía conocida y verificada tomada por Louis de Planque (François A. L. La Planque), un fotógrafo imperial que documentó las secuelas de la tormenta principalmente en Brownsville y Matamoros. La imagen forma parte de colecciones históricas establecidas con una procedencia clara que la vincula con Brownsville.
• El destino de Bagdad: Los registros históricos confirman que el huracán de 1867 y una tormenta posterior en 1874 literalmente "borraron ambos pueblos" (Bagdad y Clarksville), dejando "nada más que arena limpia" y algunos ladrillos dispersos. Los edificios que aparecen en la foto están claramente en pie tras una inundación, no en un lugar que hubiera sido completamente arrasado.
• Descripciones en Facebook: Las atribuciones en redes sociales pueden ser incorrectas. Si bien generalmente solo se conoce la existencia de representaciones artísticas del Puerto de Bagdad, la evidencia visual dentro de la propia imagen apunta directamente a Brownsville.

Esta fotografía sigue siendo un artefacto importante, incluso si su identificación por parte del museo o de la página de Facebook como el Puerto de Bagdad es un error de atribución histórica común.

Blogger’s Note:

The absence of photographs of Bagdad remains a profound loss, and the desire to visually reconnect with that vanished port is completely understandable. When images are shared and celebrated, they reflect not misinformation, but a collective hope to see what was lost and to keep Bagdad present in our shared history.

Nota del autor:

La ausencia de fotografías de Bagdad sigue siendo una pérdida profunda, y el deseo de reconectar visualmente con ese puerto desaparecido es completamente comprensible. Cuando se comparten y celebran imágenes, no reflejan desinformación, sino una esperanza colectiva de ver lo que se perdió y de mantener a Bagdad presente en nuestra historia compartida.

A Quiet Pioneer of Early Flight: Verna Mauldin Rohr

A Once Hidden Story from South Texas Aviation

by J.P. Sillwater

Long before flying became routine, aviation in South Texas was risky, experimental, and deeply personal. Planes were built, repaired, and tested by hand, and the people around them lived with real danger every day. In that world lived Verna E. Mauldin Rohr—a woman whose aviation story survives not through headlines, but through photographs, family memory, and context.

Verna was born into the Mauldin family, a name that once carried real weight in Brownsville aviation. Her brother, Les Mauldin, was a pioneering pilot, aerial photographer, airport builder, and flight instructor who helped establish aviation in South Texas. Modest to a fault, Les never sought attention, but during his lifetime he was widely respected for his skill, judgment, and steadiness. He helped build Brownsville’s airport, trained pilots, maintained aircraft, and documented the region from the air—quietly shaping local aviation history even if many today have never heard his name.

Verna grew up inside that world. Aviation was not a novelty in the Mauldin household—it was daily work. Engines were taken apart. Experimental aircraft were tested. Flights were planned without the safety nets that exist today.

Images preserved in the Les Mauldin Historic Aviation Collection place Verna repeatedly at airfields and beside aircraft, including what family records identify as the first Temple monoplane. She appears confident and comfortable around planes, positioned near machines rather than posed as a spectator. While no surviving documentation confirms she held a formal pilot’s license or flew solo, the visual evidence strongly suggests active participation in aviation life—not casual association.

That distinction matters.

In the 1920s, especially outside major cities, many women flew, trained, assisted, or worked around aircraft without ever appearing in newspapers or official registries. Records favored spectacle and celebrity, not steady involvement. As with many women of her generation, Verna’s visible aviation presence fades after marriage and a surname change to Rohr—a pattern seen again and again in early flight history.

There are many reasons women aviators of the era stepped back or vanished from the record: starting families, social pressure to avoid risk, health concerns voiced by doctors, financial barriers, lack of institutional support, or simply the decision to leave danger behind after years of exposure. Even famous women pilots of the time struggled to remain airborne in a world not built for them.

Seen in that light, Verna Mauldin Rohr should be understood as a quiet pioneer—one of many women who lived within early aviation rather than performing it for the public. Her story represents the countless contributors whose hands were on the work, whose courage matched their male counterparts, and whose names were rarely preserved.

What remains are the photographs, the family notes, and the unmistakable sense that she belonged to aviation when it was still raw, uncertain, and brave.

And sometimes, that’s the most honest history of all.

You know you're from Brownsvill if.... Southmost / Downtown Edition

 

You know you’re from Brownsville if…

Southmost / Downtown Edition

• You still say Southmost tacos taste better because “that’s where the recipes stayed real.”

• You’ve given directions that include “where the street floods first.”

• You know which taquería opens early for construction crews and which one is for after-midnight hunger.

• You’ve heard someone say, “Downtown used to be alive, mijo,” at least 100 times.

• You don’t trust a taco spot unless the parking lot looks a little chaotic.

• You grew up thinking walking to Mexico for lunch was normal.

• You know Southmost dogs don’t bark — they announce territory.

• You’ve seen three generations of the same family running the same little store.

• You’ve been told not to judge a place by how it looks because the food will prove you wrong.

• You know the best tacos come from places with hand-written menus.

• You’ve heard, “Before the city got big, everybody knew everybody.”

• You know which streets your parents still call by their old names.

• You’ve had a relative who refuses to eat “fancy tacos” because tacos aren’t supposed to be fancy.

• You’ve seen someone run into five people they know in one quick downtown errand.

• You know some houses look small outside but host 30 people on a Sunday.

• You’ve been warned which blocks to avoid during heavy rain and you listened.

• You know Southmost pride is quiet but strong — nobody brags, they just know.

• You’ve heard stories about when downtown shopping meant getting dressed up.

• You know that if a taco stand survives 10+ years there, it’s legendary.

• You secretly agree Southmost tacos still beat the “new city” spots.

• You’ve heard older folks say Brownsville grew, but Southmost kept its soul.

You know you're fromBrownsville, Texas if....

 

You know you’re from Brownsville if… (deep-cut edition)

• You still call it Price Road even if the name changes three more times.

• You’ve given someone directions using landmarks that don’t exist anymore:
“Turn where the old Whataburger used to be.”

• You know exactly which family owns that fireworks stand every December.

• Your parents still compare today’s traffic to “how it was before the expressway.”

• Someone in your family insists Matamoros bread tastes better and refuses to explain why.

• You’ve gone to Mexico for one thing and came back with a trunk full of stuff you didn’t plan on buying.

• You know at least one person with a SENTRI pass who treats it like a VIP badge.

• You’ve had a relative say, “Es más barato en el otro lado,” at least once a week.

• You grew up thinking everyone crossed the border like it was normal life.

• You’ve been to at least one quinceañera where half the guests showed up after crossing the bridge late.

• You can tell who’s from Brownsville vs. Harlingen vs. McAllen just by the accent.

• You’ve heard someone brag about knowing the “fast lane” to South Padre on a busy weekend.

• You’ve had a teacher in school who also taught your parents.

• You know which taquería is good at 2 PM vs. which is good at midnight.

• Someone you know has a cousin in CBP, a cousin in Mexico customs, and a cousin who “knows someone.”

• You’ve watched a storm report and thought, “If it hits Boca Chica, we’re fine.”

• You’ve had a family member bring back pan dulce and announce it like it’s a major achievement.

• You know that when someone says “the island,” there’s only one island they mean.

• You’ve been warned your whole life not to swim after a rain because “el agua está sucia.”

• You’ve heard stories about how cheap land used to be and how someone regrets not buying.

When the Fish Were Best Reached by Air: Charles Hardin, Les Mauldin, and the Gulf Coast Flights

When the Fish Were Best Reached by Air: Charles Hardin, Les Mauldin, and the Gulf Coast Flights

J.P. Stillwateer

Before highways reached the island and before marinas dotted the coast, the fastest way to the best fishing on the Texas Gulf wasn’t by boat.

It was by airplane.

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Charles Hardin and his longtime friend Les Mauldin were part of a short, remarkable chapter in coastal history—when aviation, fishing, and curiosity all met in Brownsville.

From barnstorming to building something real

Hardin and Mauldin had known each other since the barnstorming days. Back then, flying was part show, part gamble. Hardin was the extrovert—promoter, parachute man, always looking for the next angle. Mauldin was the steady one—the mechanic, the pilot who cared deeply about how things worked.

When aviation began to settle down, Mauldin came to Brownsville to build something permanent. He helped develop the airport, ran aircraft operations, and opened a flying school. He turned open ground into a working airfield.

Hardin followed the opportunity—but also the lifestyle.

Why Brownsville felt right

Brownsville offered what both men wanted: year-round flying weather, open coastal land, and a natural gateway to Mexico and the Gulf. Spanish was spoken everywhere, and neither man resisted it. Like many people who moved here for work and adventure, they embraced the culture, the language, and the rhythm of life along the border.

Flying wasn’t just business here—it fit the place.

Fishing trips by Ford Tri-Motor

Hardin saw something others didn’t: airplanes could carry people not just over the coast, but to it.

Newspaper stories from the period describe fishing excursion flights organized out of Brownsville and the Valley. Wealthy sportsmen could board large Ford Tri-Motor airplanes, fly down the coast, and be dropped close to fishing grounds near the mouth of the Rio Grande or Padre Island.

Photographs from the Junie Mauldin aviation collection show these Tri-Motor aircraft operating along the coast—big, three-engine planes that looked solid and dependable. They weren’t stunts. They were working flights.

What once took days by rough road or shallow boat could suddenly be done in hours.

For fishermen, it sounded almost impossible.
For Hardin, it was the future.

Padre Island and the Lost City

The flights didn’t stop with fishing.

Newspaper accounts from the early 1930s describe growing excitement around a rumored “Lost City” buried somewhere on Padre Island. Planes carried explorers, reporters, and curious onlookers to the island. Articles speculated about old walls, artifacts, and Spanish history hidden under the sand.

Whether the Lost City was real, exaggerated, or somewhere in between mattered less than one simple fact: aviation made the mystery reachable.

Photos from the Mauldin collection place aircraft, people, and equipment on the coast during this period, backing up what the newspapers were reporting. These weren’t just stories written from afar. Planes were landing, people were walking the sand, and the island was suddenly part of everyday conversation.

A partnership that worked

Throughout it all, Les Mauldin stayed in his role. He kept the aircraft running, managed the airfield, and trained pilots. He made sure the flying could be trusted.

Hardin gave aviation reasons to go somewhere.

Family memory adds one more detail. Junie Mauldin, Les and Etelka’s daughter, remembered being told that before Charles Lindbergh was famous, Hardin once showed him how to properly fold a parachute. Whether written down at the time or not, it fits the world they lived in—where knowledge passed hand to hand long before headlines followed.

Why it still matters

This wasn’t just about airplanes.

It was about how the Gulf Coast opened up—how fishing, exploration, and aviation blended for a few brief years. Hardin brought imagination and energy. Mauldin brought skill and stability. Together, they helped make Brownsville a place where aviation wasn’t just passing through.

For a time, the quickest way to the fish wasn’t a boat cutting through the surf.

It was a Ford Tri-Motor lifting off from a dusty field, heading south along the water.

And that’s a story worth remembering.

A Merchant Letter from 1851: New York to the Texas Frontier

📜 A Merchant Letter from 1851: New York to the Texas Frontier

1851 0111 John Jewitt letter to CharlesStillman

New York, Jan. 11, 1851

Mr. Chas. Stillman Esq.
Gentlemen,

We herewith have the pleasure of handing you invoice & B. Lading of sundries shipped to you addressed for Feby. All drawn agreeable to your last order.

Amount of invoice to your debit $1,245.34 gold as cash
Apl. 11, 1851.

The invoice matures some owing to the English goods being due in Oct. last as well as [illegible] the invoices.

Consigns some other articles being purchased for cash to get them at the lowest prices. We have filled all your order excepting the sport cotton & alpacas which are not to be had here at present.

The sport cotton is only imported by one house & if you want more for the next trip of the Alderman you had better advise us by return mail that we may secure it as soon as it has advanced as the other parties will probably cost 2 or 3% more.

For more particular information respecting the articles we beg leave to refer you to our remarks accompanying this.

The goods are insured to Brownsville via Brasos Santiago from this to take place per steamer Frankfurt only, excepting the Debenture goods which are insured to [illegible] liable.

We pay 3% to Point Isabel in one of our city offices & 3% to Brownsville in some good out of town offices. There is no city office that will take risks to Brownsville for less than 2½% & some ask more.

They ask the same to Point Isabel as to Brasos Santiago. These are some goods on board the [illegible].

[Letter incomplete]

In January 1851, a New York merchant sat down to write a routine business letter to a rising trader on the Rio Grande frontier — Charles Stillman. At the time, Stillman was building what would become one of the most important commercial networks in South Texas. The letter itself is incomplete, but what survives offers a vivid window into how trade worked between the eastern United States and the Gulf borderlands.

Dated New York, January 11, 1851, the correspondence concerns a shipment of goods headed to the lower Rio Grande via the Gulf Coast port of Brazos Santiago Pass, destined for Brownsville, Texas and nearby Point Isabel, Texas. The writer encloses invoices and bills of lading and confirms that the shipment follows Stillman’s prior order.

The total value of the shipment is listed as $1,245.34 in gold — a striking figure for the time. In modern terms, that equals roughly $45,000–$50,000 today, giving us a sense of the scale of frontier commerce. This was not a small local delivery; it was a serious mercantile transaction.

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📦 What Was Being Shipped?

The goods included assorted textiles and “sundries,” typical of what a frontier merchant would need to supply a growing town. Two items — cotton and alpaca cloth — could not be filled due to limited availability. The writer notes that one variety of cotton was controlled by a single importer, meaning prices could rise quickly. He urges Stillman to reply by return mail if more is desired.

This highlights an early version of global supply-chain dynamics: even in 1851, remote Texas markets were affected by importer monopolies and overseas textile flows.

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🚢 Shipping and Risk on the Gulf

All goods traveled by steamer to Brazos Santiago and then inland to Brownsville. The letter discusses marine insurance in unusual detail. Rates of about 3% were charged to insure shipments to Point Isabel and Brownsville. New York insurers were reluctant to cover Brownsville-bound cargo for less.

Why?

Because Brownsville was still considered a risky frontier port. Hazards included:

• Gulf storms and shipwrecks

• Shallow coastal bars

• Long transit routes

• Regional instability in the borderlands

Insurance costs were a built-in part of doing business.

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💰 Gold as Payment

The phrase “gold as cash” is historically important. This was a pre–Civil War economy that relied on specie-backed currency. Merchants preferred payments backed by precious metal rather than paper promises, especially in long-distance trade.

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🌎 The Bigger Picture

This letter captures a moment when South Texas was integrating into national and international trade networks. Brownsville had only recently been founded (1848), and merchants like Stillman were turning it into a commercial gateway between the United States and Mexico.

Routine letters like this one helped build the economic foundations of the region. They record the realities of pricing, shipping delays, supply shortages, and insurance headaches — the nuts and bolts of frontier capitalism.

What may look like a simple invoice note is actually evidence of how a border town became a trade hub.

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✍️ Final Thought

Historical archives often preserve the dramatic moments — wars, treaties, political speeches. But documents like this remind us that history is also built quietly, through ledgers, cargo manifests, and business letters. They show how everyday commerce shaped the growth of communities and connected distant places long before modern logistics existed.

And in this case, a single 1851 letter lets us watch the early commercial life of Brownsville unfold in real time.

1949 Opening of the Majestic Theater

 A Big Night for Brownsville

 

On the warm evening of August 17, 1949, downtown Brownsville felt different. Elizabeth Street was roped off between Ninth and Eleventh Streets, searchlights swept the night sky, and crowds filled the sidewalks. People dressed in their best clothes arrived early, not wanting to miss a moment. Music played, lights flashed, and the city gathered for something new.

That night, Brownsville opened the doors to what newspapers proudly called “Southwest’s Finest Theater.” It was the Majestic Theatre, and for many years to come it would stand as the crown jewel of moviegoing in the Rio Grande Valley.

Years in the Making

The Majestic did not appear overnight. Planning for the theater stretched back nearly thirteen years. The land where it would rise had been purchased in the 1930s, during the Great Depression, at the corner of Tenth and Elizabeth Streets—across from the Cameron County Courthouse. The location itself carried history. It had once been the home of political boss Jim Wells, a powerful figure whose name still marks a Texas county.

World War II delayed construction. During the war, new buildings were only allowed if they directly helped the war effort. Even after the war ended in 1945, shortages of steel, concrete, and other materials slowed progress. Finally, Interstate Circuit Theatres was able to move forward, determined to give Brownsville a modern movie palace unlike any it had seen before.

A City That Loved Movies

By 1949, Brownsville was already a busy entertainment town. People enjoyed boating, fishing, dancing, baseball, roller skating, bowling, and trips across the river to Matamoros. But movie theaters were the heart of downtown life.

The city had several theaters: the Grande, the Capitol, and the Queen showed English-language films, while others such as the Victoria, Iris, and Mexico served audiences on both sides of the border. Drive-in theaters were also becoming popular, with the Charro Drive-In nearly complete and the Star Drive-In opening a few years later.

Interstate Circuit Theatres already owned the Capitol and the Queen. What they wanted next was something bigger and more advanced—a theater built specifically for movies, with the latest technology and comfort. That vision became the Majestic.

Designed to Impress

From the start, the Majestic was meant to feel special. It was designed by architects from Dallas who had created dozens of theaters across Texas. The building featured clean lines, modern materials, and a tall vertical sign that could be seen from blocks away. At one time, the sign was even taller than it is today, later shortened and topped with a four-pointed crown sometime in the early 1960s.

Inside, nearly every detail focused on comfort. The theater was fully air-conditioned, a major attraction in the South Texas heat. Powerful cooling units kept the temperature between 70 and 75 degrees, giving moviegoers a cool escape from summer evenings.

The Majestic also included thoughtful features that were ahead of their time. A soundproof crying room allowed mothers to care for infants while still watching the movie through a large glass window. Certain seats were equipped with special connections for earphones, helping patrons with hearing difficulties enjoy the show.

Sound, Sight, and Style

Movies were no longer silent experiences, and the Majestic was built with sound in mind. Special wall surfaces helped absorb echoes, creating clearer audio throughout the auditorium. Speakers were placed behind a perforated screen so sound seemed to come directly from the action on screen.

The screen itself was large and made of modern plastic material designed to give images more depth. Seats were angled toward the screen, and the floor was gently sloped so every seat had a clear view. Push-back seats made it easier for people to move through the aisles without disturbing others.

Even the floors told a story. The terrazzo flooring, made to last for generations, included subtle patterns that many visitors never noticed at first glance. From the mezzanine above, some swore they could see the shape of a large flower pot hidden in the design.

Opening Night Magic

The opening celebration on August 17, 1949 was unforgettable. Bands marched and played, including the Brownsville High School band and the American Legion Drum and Bugle Corps. Street performers entertained the crowd while searchlights painted the sky. Inside, music filled the air as a Hammond electric organ was played live before the film.

The evening was broadcast on the radio so even those at home could feel part of the event. The first movie shown was The Stratton Story, starring James Stewart and June Allyson. Tickets sold quickly, with early show tickets available at the Capitol Theatre and later tickets sold directly at the Majestic box office.

A Morning for Children

The celebration did not end that night. Early the next morning, the Majestic hosted a special children’s matinee. Families lined up as early as 9:30 a.m. Children paid just a few cents for admission and were treated to ice cream, popcorn, bubble gum, and giant balloons.

Onstage entertainment included music and singing, followed by a lively program of cartoons. Favorites like Tom and Jerry, Porky Pig, Daffy Duck, Popeye, and comedy shorts brought laughter to a packed house. For many children, it was their first experience inside the Majestic—and one they would remember for a lifetime.

The People Behind the Curtain

A theater is more than a building, and the Majestic was run by a dedicated local staff. The first manager was Jimmy McNeill, supported by assistant manager and treasurer Joe Treviño, who had already worked at other Brownsville theaters. Projectionists, engineers, usherettes, doormen, candy attendants, and cashiers all played a role in keeping the theater running smoothly.

Their photographs appeared in a special newspaper section celebrating the opening, putting familiar faces to the new landmark downtown.

A Crown on Elizabeth Street

For decades, the Majestic reigned as one of the most important theaters in the Rio Grande Valley. It was not just a place to watch movies—it was where families gathered, teenagers met friends, and the city came together under glowing lights.

Long after the opening night crowds had gone home, the Majestic remained part of Brownsville’s shared memory. Its lights, its crown, and its stories still remind the city of a time when going to the movies was an event—and downtown was the place to be.

When the Lights Came On Downtown

 A Short Memory from a Long Downtown History

J.P. Stillwater

I remember when going to the movies wasn’t a big decision.

You didn’t check showtimes or trailers. You just said, “Let’s go downtown,” and everybody knew what that meant. The lights would already be on, the street still warm from the day, people stopping to talk like they always did.

When I was little, my folks took me to the Majestic. That was the big one. You felt it before you even went inside—the lights, the size of it, the feeling that something important was about to happen. I wasn’t old enough to roam the streets yet, so I stayed close to my parents, holding a hand, looking up at everything.

After the movie, we’d cross the street to Fisher’s Café. That was part of the night, same as the movie itself. Fisher’s smelled like coffee and food that had been cooking all day. I still remember the biscuits and gravy—hot, heavy, the kind that made you feel full and safe. The waitresses were friendly. They always talked to me, asked my name, told me how cute I was. I’d sit there swinging my legs under the table, listening to grown-ups talk, feeling like I belonged downtown.

The theaters weren’t fancy. Floors creaked. Seats snapped back if you stood up too fast. Sometimes the picture jumped. Ay, when the film broke, the whole place groaned—then clapped when it came back on. Nobody minded. Movies were new. We were together. That’s what mattered.

Once I was old enough to roam the streets on my own, all I needed was a quarter. A quarter could get you in, and maybe a soda or some candy if you were careful. You learned how to stretch it. That was part of growing up—knowing how far a little money could take you downtown.

By the time I was a teenager, downtown meant something else too. I’d take a girl to the movies. Sit close. Hold hands. Sometimes make out a little when the lights went down. I had a car—nothing much, but it ran. That mattered. That’s how you got lucky in those days—at least, that’s what we thought.

Downtown had choices by then—some already old, some still going strong. Dreamland, Dittmann, the Queen, El Tiro, the Grande—names I heard growing up, the way old-timers talked about them like old friends. By my time, in the ’50s, you still felt their presence, even if some had already changed or moved on. By then, Spanish movies weren’t something new—they were just ours. You picked a theater the way you picked a café, whichever felt right that night.

And speaking of food, I still remember Rutledge’s, squeezed into that narrow little space between buildings next to the Grande. It wasn’t a café—it was a burger joint. You ordered, you waited, and they handed you your food by the sack. A small brown paper bag, already turning dark from the grease. You could feel it soaking through before you even opened it. That smell stayed with you. Rutledge’s was always there, and somehow it still is. You ate fast, usually standing, because you didn’t want to miss the previews.

I also remember hearing stories from the projectionists. One of them told me how hot it got up in the booth—no air conditioning, just heat from the machines. They’d bring cold beers and watch the movie through the little window, listening to the crowd below. He said you could tell if a movie was good without even seeing it. You heard the laughter first. Sometimes applause. Sometimes nothing at all.

Later on, Spanish-language films became even more important. Those theaters depended on the neighborhood—especially women. One owner of the Victoria Theatre said it straight: the community kept the doors open. Ladies came regularly. They followed the stories. They knew the actors.

And for a while, that was enough.

Then television came into the house. Novelas came on every night, and those stories came in chapters. Miss one, and you were lost. Your abuela didn’t want to miss a chapter. I understood.

Brownsville grew. People moved farther out. Cars replaced walking. What used to be a short stroll became a drive. Then the malls came—shiny theaters, cold air, easy parking. People didn’t stop loving movies. They just started watching them somewhere else.

The old theaters aged. Some closed quietly. Some became something else. Even the Majestic moved on.

The Victoria held on the longest, into the 1990s. People remember that with pride. But when the neighborhood stopped gathering downtown the way it once did, even the Victoria couldn’t keep the lights on forever.

It didn’t end all at once. It faded—one theater at a time.

The downtown theaters didn’t fail. They lived a full life. They rose when the city needed them, and they faded when life moved on. But if you listen close enough, you can still hear the projector, still smell the popcorn and biscuits and gravy, still remember how downtown at night felt like the whole city was awake.

That’s why I keep telling the story.

Muscovy Ducks, a Tortoiseshell Cat, and No One in Charge

Muscovy Ducks, a Tortoiseshell Cat, and No One in Charge

Before the cat, there was already a flock.

Somewhere between seventeen and twenty-two Muscovy ducks, depending on the day. Sometimes they all arrived. Sometimes fewer. Ducks don’t announce absences, and they don’t apologize for them either.

They had a rhythm. Feeding happened around the same hour. Space mattered. Timing mattered. Disagreements followed rules that looked strange to outsiders but worked well enough for the birds. Most conflicts ended before they became physical, resolved through posture, circling, and long pauses.

Over time, certain ducks became unmistakable.

Blondie

Blondie was named after the character in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, because somehow he managed to be all three.

He was familiar and constant, showing up season after season. He was aggressive at feeding time, shoving through other ducks as if the food had always been his idea. And he had a jokester’s streak — stirring small amounts of chaos without ever quite tipping things over.

Blondie didn’t wait his turn. He took it.
The flock adjusted around him.

Flaco

Flaco arrived later.

When he first appeared, he was thinner, his feathers unsettled, like a bird who’d come through a rough patch elsewhere. He didn’t rush to challenge anyone. He watched first. Learned the order. Chose when to step in.

Flaco would take on any challenger if pressed, but he avoided unnecessary conflict. He preferred timing over spectacle. Over time, he filled out, his feathers smoothed, but the restraint remained.

Where Blondie pushed, Flaco measured. Together, they held a balance the flock seemed to understand.

The System Holds

Seasons shifted. Drakes grew more assertive. Hens nested. Predators took their share. Most chicks didn’t survive.

One season, almost none did.

Only one duckling made it through — the last, smaller at first, pushed aside more than once, but persistent. When the adults moved off and the food was gone, he stepped forward quietly with his mother, the way survival sometimes requires.

He grew stronger. Steadier. Unafraid.

He became known as 17.

As he matured, he found his place without forcing it. He wasn’t loud or dominant. He was calm around people, observant around other ducks, and fully present in the life of the flock.

The Cat Arrives Late

Only after all of this did a tortoiseshell cat begin appearing at the edge of things.

She didn’t rush in. She watched.

The ducks noticed her immediately and adjusted their spacing. The cat behaved like a cat — curious, still, far too interested in everyone else’s business. Occasionally she startled a hen into flight, more mischief than threat, never following through.

Her nosiness earned her a name: Mrs. Kravitz, after the famously watchful neighbor from Bewitched — always convinced something was happening next door.

17 and Mrs. Kravitz

Of all the ducks, 17 was the least concerned by the cat.

One day, he approached her deliberately, passing the human presence as if to include him in the moment. His beak opened and closed lightly, silently — a small performance, offered not to the cat but to the human, as if to say watch this.

Then he pecked her.

Not hard. Just enough.

The cat startled — a quick, surprised recoil — but she didn’t run, didn’t strike, didn’t escalate. And that’s when 17 did something unmistakable: he jerked his head back, beak open, body loose, the motion so perfectly timed and expressive it could only be read one way.

He looked like he was laughing.

No sound. Just satisfaction.

Then he stepped back into the flock as if nothing at all had happened.

An understanding had been reached.

The Quiet Thinning

As the season turned, attendance shifted. Some days fewer ducks arrived. Then fewer still.

17 was there through most of it. Fully grown now. Still calm. Still counted.

And then one day, he wasn’t there.

No sign. No disturbance. Just absence.

The flock adjusted. Blondie pushed through as usual. Flaco took his vantage when needed. The rhythm continued.

Mrs. Kravitz noticed.

She watched the younger ducks more closely after that. She startled less. Observed more. Blondie ignored her completely — his version of acceptance. Flaco kept one eye on her when things tightened, out of habit rather than concern.

She never joined the flock.
But she became part of the hour.

Did Brownsville Ever Have a Theater Called “El Tiro”?

 Did Brownsville Ever Have a Theater Called “El Tiro”?

A downtown name remembered, disputed, and finally placed.

Bronsbil Estación – Reborn

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The corner of Eleventh and Washington Streets, across from the Stegman building, has carried more history than it shows today.

Most longtime residents remember the México Theater, which screened Spanish-language films and hosted Noche de Aficionados, an amateur program that drew steady crowds. Fewer recall that the same corner was once occupied by the Dreamland Theatre, built in 1913 and later adapted to changing audiences and times. The Victoria Theatre on East Fourteenth and Harrison offered a similar amateur program, while the México was managed by the David J. Young family.

When Young reopened the Dreamland as the México in 1939, Spanish-language cinema was firmly established along the border. The theater prospered quietly, becoming part of the ordinary downtown rhythm.

Yet another name has lingered in local memory.

Some residents have referred to the México Theater as “El Tiro.” Extensive searches of surviving newspaper archives and public photographic collections have never produced a marquee or advertisement bearing that name.

The absence of such material, however, does not settle the matter.

Rogelio Agrasánchez of Harlingen, Texas, a local historian who holds the world’s largest private collection of Mexican motion-picture memorabilia, confirmed the name’s use and produced a Spanish-language advertisement identifying the theater as El Tiro. The advertisement has not yet resurfaced in public collections.

In a town where records are incomplete and memory often fills the gaps, that confirmation is sufficient. The name existed.

Another explanation survives in local memory.

Eugene Fernandez, a local historian from a pioneer family and the current Cameron County Historical Commissioner, recalled a separate incident associated with the Dreamland Theatre during its early years. According to Fernandez, the name El Tiro was not taken from the screen but from gunfire heard outside the building itself.

In his account, a husband confronted a man leaving the Dreamland with his wife. A scuffle followed, and the man fled east along Eleventh Street toward Elizabeth. The husband drew a pistol and fired as the man ran, emptying his weapon without striking him. Several bullets struck the exterior wall of the theater and were later marked by police as evidence.

Patrons inside the theater heard the shots. From that incident, Fernandez said, the building acquired the nickname El Tiro.

Incidents like this were not uncommon in downtown Brownsville during the period, and the sound of gunfire—whether striking a wall or echoing down the street—was not easily forgotten. What mattered was not always the number of shots fired, but where they were heard.

The Dreamland would hear them again.

William Crafts was a former policeman whose service record had drawn unfavorable attention. He had struck men with the butt of his revolver and discharged his weapon while on duty, incidents that led to complaints and his dismissal from the force. He was later reinstated.

By 1917, saloons across Texas were steadily disappearing as local option laws, tightening ordinances, and a growing reform movement reshaped public life. Crafts was operating a saloon of his own, a business already facing uncertain prospects.

He had also made an enemy.

Juan Sánchez, known in Brownsville and Matamoros as El Marrano, was a gambler with an established reputation on both sides of the river. Bonifacio González, another former lawman and an associate of Crafts, completed a triangle that would soon close.

The encounter occurred at approximately 9:30 p.m. on Sunday, June 4, 1917, on the north sidewalk of the Dreamland Theatre.

Sánchez was walking west on Eleventh Street wearing a light-colored Palm Beach suit. His pistol was drawn and pointed downward. When he turned and saw Crafts and González approaching from the northwest corner of Eleventh and Washington, he spoke first.

“No me tires, amigo.”

He then raised his weapon and fired.

Crafts was struck once through the heart. Sánchez fired three additional shots, striking González before he could return fire. Crafts, mortally wounded, managed to draw his revolver and fire four shots before collapsing six feet from the gutter. One bullet grazed González’s hip, passed through the rear of David Young’s automobile, and lodged in the back seat.

Despite his injuries, González walked halfway to the police station at City Hall, one block away, before being assisted by officers. He was placed on a cot and died ten minutes later from a wound that severed an artery in his neck.

Inside the theater, men, women, and children heard the gunfire. Panic did not follow. Several composed patrons urged calm and prevented a rush toward the exits. Jim McDavitt, moving from the front entrance toward the rear, witnessed the shooting as it occurred.

Little was said publicly about the cause of the feud. It was reported only that Crafts and Sánchez had narrowly avoided a duel two weeks earlier and had quarreled again that afternoon. A woman standing near Sánchez suffered powder burns when the shooting began and escaped injury only by moving clear as Crafts fired his final shots.

Other dramas have played out on the streets and inside the buildings of downtown Brownsville. Some were recorded. Others were remembered only in passing. In cases like this, the past does not disappear. It remains where it happened, waiting to be noticed again.

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Editor’s note:

This essay is presented as a narrative history grounded in archival research and firsthand recollection rather than as a comprehensive scholarly survey.

A Marriage Made in the Sky

A Wedding in the Clouds

J.P. Stilwater

They did not walk an aisle.
They climbed into it.

Morning still clung to the grass
when the engine turned over—
a rough prayer of metal and faith—
and the earth loosened its hold.

She wore no train,
only courage stitched into silk.
He wore no uniform,
only the calm of a man
who had already trusted his life
to the sky.

Below them,
people became gestures.
Streets became lines.
The world simplified
the way it does
when truth is near.

At a thousand feet
the minister raised his voice
against the wind,
words scattering,
yet somehow finding their place
between heartbeats.

“Do you—”

The plane dipped,
then steadied.

“I do,” she said,
and meant the air,
the waiting,
the long absences,
the sound of engines
returning late.

“I do,” he said,
and meant the risk,
the weather,
the promise to come back
when he could.

Another plane flew beside them,
witnesses close enough
to wave,
far enough
to let the moment belong.

No bells rang.
No doors closed.
Only clouds opened—
white, drifting,
indifferent and eternal.

They were married
where gravity loosens,
where fear has nowhere to hide,
where love must hold
or fall.

And when they descended,
nothing looked the same—
not the ground,
not the sky,
not the rest of their lives.

Some weddings bind hands.
Theirs bound horizons.

Shadows and Truth: The Story of the Brownsville Affray

A Night That Changed Lives and Still Echoes Today

By J.P. Stillwater

On a warm August night in 1906, Brownsville was a small but growing border town, shaped by river trade, military presence, and the complex racial realities of the early twentieth century. Fort Brown stood as both a symbol of federal authority and a daily reminder that Brownsville sat at the crossroads of nations, cultures, and power. Stationed there at the time was the U.S. Army’s 25th Infantry Regiment — African American soldiers known with pride and respect as Buffalo Soldiers.

 

Tensions in town had been building for weeks. The soldiers were disciplined, professional men, many with years of service. Yet they lived in a time when racial prejudice shaped everyday life across much of the United States, including along the border. Accounts from the period describe arguments, accusations, and a growing sense of mistrust between some townspeople and the Black soldiers stationed nearby.

 

Then, just after midnight on August 13–14, gunfire broke the quiet of the town. When the shooting stopped, a local bartender, Frank Natus, lay dead, and a Brownsville police lieutenant had been wounded. Fear spread quickly. In the confusion and shock of the moment, blame turned almost immediately toward the soldiers of the 25th Infantry.

 

Witnesses claimed they had seen Black soldiers firing weapons in the streets. Shell casings were later presented as evidence. Yet from the beginning, the story was complicated. Army officers reported that soldiers were confined to barracks under curfew. Inspections of their rifles reportedly showed no signs of recent firing. No individual soldier was ever identified as a shooter. Still, the weight of public pressure grew.

 

In Washington, the case reached President Theodore Roosevelt. Faced with conflicting reports and rising national attention, Roosevelt made a decision that would end the military careers of 167 soldiers. They were discharged without honor, not for proven crimes, but under the claim that they must have known who was responsible and refused to speak — what officials called a “conspiracy of silence.”

 

For the soldiers, the punishment was devastating. Many had served faithfully, some in combat overseas. Overnight, they lost careers, pensions, and reputations they had spent years building. For decades, their story lived in the shadow of official decisions few had the power to challenge.

 

But history has a way of revisiting unfinished business. In the 1970s, new research and renewed attention led the U.S. Army to review the case. The conclusion was clear: the evidence used in 1906 was deeply flawed. The soldiers were formally exonerated, and honorable discharges were restored. Though it came too late for many of the men who had lived with the consequences, it marked an important acknowledgment of injustice.

 

Today, the Brownsville Affray is more than a historical incident. It is a window into the realities of its time — a period when race, power, fear, and politics could shape justice as much as facts. It is also a reminder of the complicated role African American soldiers played in American history: defending a nation that did not always defend them.

 

For Brownsville, this story is part of the city’s larger history — one that includes military service, border identity, and the constant meeting of cultures and communities. Remembering the events of 1906 is not about assigning modern judgment to the past. It is about understanding how decisions were made, who was affected, and how the search for truth sometimes takes generations.

 

The Brownsville of today is built on many stories — of ranching families, merchants, soldiers, immigrants, and citizens who shaped the community over time. The story of the Brownsville Affray stands among them, reminding us that history is not only about events, but about people, and about the responsibility each generation carries to learn from what came before.