Hidden in Plain Sight: The Building We Thought We Knew
There are buildings you grow up with.
You pass them a thousand times.
You see them in old photographs.
You remember the store that was there when you were young.
And you never once suspect they’ve been quietly wearing someone else’s face.
The corner of Elizabeth and 13th is one of those places.
Most people remember it as Edelstein’s — the big modern-looking furniture store with the vertical metal fins and the bold script sign wrapping the corner. In the 1950s photographs, it looks confident and up-to-date. Clean lines. Mid-century optimism. Buicks parked at the curb.
But go back further.
Look at the 1956 image.
The metal is gone. The building is brick. The proportions feel older. The windows are tall and regular. Something about it feels less “modern department store” and more “early commercial block.”
Go back even further.
Suddenly the façade opens into a row of tall arches. A second-story iron balcony wraps the corner. Mule carts line the street. Crates are stacked high along the arcade. The sign reads McDavitt’s Commission House. Later it would be associated with Henrietta King. Later still, with Geronimo Fernandez. Then Putegnat Hardware.
Different names.
Different businesses.
Different eras.
Same building.
The Bones Don’t Lie
Once you place the photographs side by side, the truth becomes obvious.
The footprint never changes.
The height remains constant.
The rhythm of the bays stays the same.
The corner emphasis never moves.
What changed was the skin.
In the late 19th century, the building wore arches and ironwork — practical for shade, airflow, and commission trade. Brownsville was still operating at mule-and-wagon speed. The arcade made sense.
By the early 20th century, the arches were enclosed. Retail demanded display windows. Airflow mattered less than glass frontage.
By the mid-20th century, ornament was out. Progress meant smooth surfaces, bold signage, and vertical metal fins. Across Texas, historic buildings were wrapped in aluminum and steel to signal modernity.
And so the old commission house disappeared — not by demolition, but by disguise.
Under the sheet metal of Edelstein’s, the 19th-century masonry almost certainly still stood.
Hidden.
Unrecognized.
Right in front of us.
A Downtown Habit
This wasn’t unusual.
Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, older commercial buildings across the Valley were “updated.” Decorative cornices were removed. Brick was covered. Arches were squared off. Balconies were taken down or concealed.
Progress had a particular look.
And older architecture was often treated like something slightly embarrassing — something to streamline.
But buildings have memory.
And photographs, when studied carefully, let us peel back the layers.
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Why This Matters
This isn’t just a fun identification.
It changes how we see downtown.
It reminds us that Brownsville did not rebuild itself every generation. It adapted. It repurposed. It re-skinned.
What we thought were different buildings were often the same structure evolving with taste and economy.
That corner at Elizabeth and 13th isn’t just an Edelstein building.
It isn’t just the Henrietta King building.
It isn’t just McDavitt’s Commission House.
It’s all of them.
One building.
Many lives.
Quietly standing through mule teams, Model Ts, neon, and mid-century modern.
Hidden in plain sight.
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