They were like pieces of some Galveston puzzle. How did they fit together?

There she sat. She gazed out in a wistful stare — dogs, birds and wind rustling around her. Her old, leathery, wrinkled hands were clasped tightly around the armrests of her wheelchair. Her white-gray hair, which was once held tightly in a bun, now flew around her face in pale waves, twisting and curling in the breeze. Two younger people hovered around this lady, clearly nearing the end of her long life, offering help with this and that and making sure this scene was exactly as she’d always pictured it. What went through her mind? Were there enough minutes, hours, or days to relive the many years of memories? Her stare never wavered as she looked out thoughtfully for what may have been the last time.

There he was. The warm arms of his mother were wrapped tightly around him, his blue knit cap snug on his head. The same wind whipped around his tiny frame, and while he had the same wistful stare as the lady a hundred yards away in a wheelchair, his entire life was ahead of him. His mind was a blank slate, free of worry, mistakes or loves lost. The little eyes of this newborn squinted to see, not quite understanding what was before him, and not quite caring, as mommy’s warmth was all he needed in the world. The world was his oyster.

There he stood. In his arms he carried an American Flag so large it belonged at a car dealership. His beard, blond from long days in the sun, made him look as though he were a character in a children’s fishing story. The only thing missing from this character was a yellow rain slicker and a pair of red suspenders. He held his flag high and when I beeped my horn at him, he waved back proudly, as though his mission was complete. He had nowhere to go and no special place to be but right there, spreading patriotic cheer, smiles and waves. His enthusiasm was contagious.

There he went. He rode by me in a green flash and I had to do a double take to see what it was. For just a moment I was sure the Green Hornet was on our Island. Most bikes you see day to day are fairly normal, with regular handlebars and baskets and wheels. This bike was a show stopper. On the back were bright green streamers, flowing behind the bike’s rider as though they were a chorus of cheerleaders. As the ribbons shimmered and flapped, he rode toward his destination, unmoved by the people around him, focused on the journey.

These people were living their lives so differently — but so similarly. Each person had a different reason to be where they were, but all ended up in the same place at the same time. Each had a story, some old, some unwritten. In this one afternoon, these strangers, these puzzle pieces, were put together by the common draw of our beautiful Gulf, making one whimsical picture.

What is it about high fructose corn syrup and sugar laden shaved ice that is so appealing? All of the above.

For two summers in a row, I’ve driven by the Hawaiian shaved ice stand on the Seawall and never stopped. Believe me, I wanted to stop. It always seemed my destination was past the little stand.

Not being able to quench the craving for cold sugary goodness only made it stronger, of course. At one of the Summer Band concerts at the Sealy Pavilion, I made my way over to the ice cream truck excitedly. The folks at the stand had smoothie lemonade treats, orange push-up pops, Mickey Mouse ice cream ears, and snow cones… all the kiddo favorites. I settled for a snow cone, and while it was refreshing that hot summer night, the big frozen chunks of ice all stuck together, the flavors all ran together — it just didn’t do the trick.

Worried that the stand would only be around a few more days, I set my mind to it and made a special trip. Since this past weekend was the anniversary of Hurricane Ike, it was the perfect time to grab my treat and walk around the memorial on the Seawall. Sunday afternoon, with all the rain long gone and my little partner in crime at my hip, we loaded up and drove our way through the lingering weekend traffic.

As we pulled up, I realized we weren’t the only ones with this grand idea. There was a long line at the shaved ice stand. One couple even made it a drive through by pulling up on a rented surrey. Each of the passengers got a monstrous, cantaloupe-sized shaved ice, all red, white and blue. Glancing at my baby boy’s sweet face, I could just picture his chubby cheeks, teeth, shirt, hair and hands all turning that deep shade of purple that happens when all those colors mix together. Surely they must have a smaller size.

They did not. All the shaved ice cups were enormous, so we made the most of it. The cotton candy flavor I had been craving all summer was not available, so we settled for blue bubble gum and strawberry. Hey, we might as well make a good mess or no mess at all!

Armed with two spoons and a healthy appetite, we walked around the Ike Memorial eating our treat, sloshing it here, there and everywhere. In what was left of the bright light of a summer afternoon, we reflected on where we had been a year earlier, and thanked God for being where we were right then. In silence, we walked around all the memorabilia, taking in all of it, wondering who left each piece, knowing we were seeing something special. As it turns out, my shaved ice was well worth the wait.

Labor Day has a tough job. It comes around every September and puts an end to many fun things. As it pounds its chest, shouting, “Summer is ending!” it looks down its nose at us proclaiming: “No more white pants! Put away your seersucker! Save your linen for next year!”

Labor Day sends the teachers back to work, the bus drivers honking and the kids pouting to bed early. Palm Beach at Moody Gardens is no longer open on the weekdays, and the happy surfers during the day get fewer and farther between.

There is one thing to look forward to, and it is the only thing that gets us through the mourning of summer lost: college football. Whether you’re an Aggie, a Red Raider, a Longhorn, a Tiger or a Bulldog (I had to throw some Southeast flavor in for good measure), it is an exciting time of year.

If you grow up in the Southeast, college football is a religion. If the game starts at 6 p.m., one must get to the tailgate no later than 8 a.m. to set up. While the men flip hamburgers, pork barbecue and any other scrumptious meat they’ve had marinating for eight days, the ladies get to work on the arrangements. Under a big tent, matching tablecloths, floral centerpieces in game-day colors, ham delight biscuits, homemade chicken salad, pimento cheese spread, sausage balls and ice cold beverages are all laid out skillfully, just as our ancestors did before us. The fact that these women are all dressed to the nines, in game day colors and — more often than not — heels, is worth mentioning as well.

I have had the pleasure since moving to Galveston to make the trip to College Station and take in Aggie football games. While I know the die-hard fans of Texas will no doubt bellow their complaints on this fact, I must say, I love the spirit of Aggieland. Nobody leaves at half time when the Aggies are getting their faces buried in mud, which, bless their hearts, happens frequently. They stay and fight until the bitter end, and while the tail gates I’ve seen haven’t quite been the spectacle they are in the Southeast, their spirit is mighty, and their following is a force.

Each season starts with the hope that your team will win every game, sweeping its opponents and leaving nothing but tears in its wake. Here in Galveston the bars and restaurants are boasting which games are showing. The beer trucks, with their ice-cold bottles of brew, unload box after box of game-worthy drinks. The cooks in the back fire up the grills, and the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers on game day cannot be resisted.

While Labor Day takes many of our summer thrills away, it marches in with the bands of college football, making our loss much more bearable. For that, oh dearest Labor Day, we thank you.

Fishing, like golf, is an obsession for a lot of people. I don’t know what it is about casting that line, or throwing that net that keeps them coming back for more. Maybe it’s the thrill of the chase, not knowing whether or not “the big one” is right around the corner. Maybe it’s the quiet time between man and nature. Or, it could be the tale that’s spun after tangled lines, lost hooks and smelly bait.

In Galveston we are lucky to have fishing right at our fingertips. We can go to the seawall and walk down the jetties any time we have a free afternoon. I see people in their waders, skillfully weaving their lines through poles, holding nets and tackle boxes, looking into the gulf for dinner. There must be something so serene about standing there, waist deep in salt water, the smell surrounding your nose. Hearing those waves slap the seawall behind you, it may be one of those moments where you realize there’s not much difference between you and the pelicans scouting the water from above.

Where fishing is good, bait shops are plenty. Driving around the island, signs that read “live bait” are all around, luring hopeful anglers in to stock up on supplies. A little red store called Smitty’s comes to mind. Just the other day I noticed a bumper sticker that said “we kicked Ike’s derrière,” but in other words. It seems fisherman are loyal to their bait and tackle.

We have plenty of live bait swimming around behind our house. At night from our deck as the sun goes down and the bay turns a shade of pink, we can see the baitfish jumping. It amazes me how high the little fish get out of the water. Birds of all kinds tip toe around the shallow parts, looking for after-dinner treats. Watching two crab traps bob up and down beside our dock, I got curious, and when some friends from South Carolina were in town, we decided to test our traps.

I opened our refrigerator to see what leftovers I could scavenge for the crabs. Having just cleaned it out, the only thing worth a shot were fat-free hot dogs. Perhaps the crabs in our neighborhood would be on a health kick. We grabbed the dogs and headed to the dock. After a few hours in the water, and much anticipation, only a minnow had taken a nibble.

Not to be discouraged, we packed up and headed to Academy for reinforcements. Since Ike took our fishing poles and tackle, we stocked up, the contagious feeling of getting a catch too strong to resist. My fishing-crazed friend helped us get all the necessities like rods and reels, line, weights, bobbers and brightly colored worms.

He spent the afternoon casting and recasting, to no avail, but came in smiling nonetheless. It seems “the big one” wasn’t found, but that feeling of jubilation just at getting a nibble was good enough. The waters of Galveston had left him wanting to come back for more.

Anchors are nautical symbols of holding something down. When you throw out an anchor, it uses its muscles, its grit, and its sharp edges to hold down even the biggest boats. They are forever attached to heavy chains, married to the boats they hold at bay, firmly planted in sand and mud.

Occasionally, one of these salty dogs escapes the ball and chain of its mistress, and ends up washed ashore, or tumbling across the ocean floor. It is almost as if anchors work their whole lives being tied down and lonely, their only company the intermittent boats in the harbor. Their strength is immense, but after years of using all that muscle day in and day out, one must get tired, as you can imagine.

That brings me to the rusty anchor. When I look at it, I see the scars of barnacles, the years of corrosion, and hear the echoes of sea stories only it can tell. It sits on its side, arms outstretched as if it wants to give you a big hug. If sat upright, it would stand 8- to 10-feet high with the arms unfolding nearly as wide. The feet resemble paddles with points on the tips, while at the top sits a hollow circle where a chain was once attached.

The anchor, which now rests at Evia, was once part of the crew of a 1900 combination steam and sail vessel. Years ago, the anchor was dredged up in the Galveston ship channel, and since it needed a place to rest, it now sits in the neighborhood inspired by maritime names and stories.

To look at the old anchor conjures up images of pirates for some reason. To gaze upon the wide arms and pointy toes is to feel the wind in your hair, smell the salty air, and feel your stomach being taken by big waves on the ocean. How many songs has the old anchor heard? How many oysters have gotten a free ride? How many different sands of different lands have been tasted by its massive feet?

Rusty, as I call him, could not have picked a better place to retire. He keeps watch over the lakes, birds, ducks, and residents, lazily soaking up the Texas sunshine. Some evenings there are little league soccer teams, T-ball players or nightly walkers who come by and pay a visit. After years of being submerged in murky waters, I am positive this could now be called “the good life.”

Next time you are in the neighborhood, stop by, have a coffee, and take the time to go visit Rusty. Let your imagination take you to a time when planks were walked, rum-filled nights led to outbursts of song, and eye patches and peg legs were high fashion.

Recently I asked a group of friends “what do you crave?” I was shocked to see how many answers were similar. One after another, they replied “ice cream,” some even insisting they could “subsist” on the frozen treat, replacing all other food and drink. I suppose my next survey should be “what’s your favorite flavor?”

Ice cream is just a natural part of summertime, though oddly enough, I love to eat it when it is cold outside. After moving to Texas I learned quickly that Blue Bell ice cream is indeed one of the best there is…if not its own little religion. The company founders opened the doors to the creamery (and our hearts) in 1907 in Brenham, just up the road from us. Thank goodness they did. What would we do without it?

After moving here, I wanted to surprise my husband with hot brownies and ice cream. Well aware of Blue Bell by that point, I headed to the store to pick up a gallon. Keep in mind, I was a novice, and did not realize that there are two types of vanilla: Regular Vanilla and Homemade Vanilla. Sadly, I returned with the regular, much to the horror and shock of my new family. The ultimate sin. Since then, we only buy the Homemade Vanilla, and thus, the peace of dessert is kept. Apparently Blue Bell flavors conjure up as much loyalty as college football.

I also found another favorite among frozen treats. La King’s Confectionery on The Strand has been serving candies and delights since the 1970s. It is a true, old-fashioned confectionery, making candies and ice cream. The store is complete with iron, heart-shaped chairs, a soda fountain, peanut brittle and saltwater taffy made right there while you watch. If you’re lucky, as we were on Saturday, the candy maker may throw you a piece to nibble while you wait. Various other indulgences like fudge and sugar sticks can be found there as well.

There is a real feeling of stepping back in time, and you almost feel like you are in a Coca-Cola commercial. The employees are all happy, wearing their crisp paper La King’s hats and bowties, proudly mixing malts and scooping cones. Hurricane Ike came through and destroyed La King’s, melting our ice cream and hearts alike. The store is open once again, to the elation of Strand goers everywhere.

Next time you have a hankering for ice cream, I suggest you take a stroll and have a scoop or two. It is the perfect way to end a night out or to spend the afternoon. My favorite flavor? The caramel number with fudge and Rolo-type candies mixed in. Yum.

The term “colonel” brings many images to mind. One is a military rank and evokes a sense of leadership when you hear it. You may think of staunch men in tightly pressed uniforms, smoking cigars and leading armies to victory. Another colonel is one from a game — and a farce type movie. Colonel Mustard, with his mustache combed just so, and his murky yellow suit, was always a suspect in Clue, the game as well as the silly charade of a movie.

It may come as a surprise that the Colonel I most recently met was a “she.” We live in a tourist town — this is no secret. At the end of a weekend, 61st Street is lined all the way to the Seawall with taillights of visitors trying to get back to the mainland. They come to eat at our restaurants, visit our attractions, of which are many, and smell our wonderful salt air. Some of us avoid what could be called “tourist traps,” seeking refuge in spots only locals know about. We thank them for keeping our Island afloat, but we avoid them at all costs.

Writing about discovering things, places, and people in Galveston allows me a certain freedom from the chains of what may be called “touristy.” I love attending the street fairs, the crowded theme restaurants, and the line-filled attractions because they allow me to experience things in Galveston and learn more about what it has to offer.

This brings me back to the Colonel that is a “she.” Last weekend I had the opportunity to experience a dinner cruise aboard the Colonel Paddlewheeler. My husband trudged along, unenthusiastic because growing up here, he has no interest in tourist attractions. While he loves enjoying everything Galveston has to offer, and is immensely proud of this city, standing in line at Schlitterbahn or riding a Duck Tour bus just isn’t his cup of tea.

After assuring him we would be seated alone, as we were celebrating our anniversary, we walked up the long dock that leads to the Colonel and stepped aboard. A storm was approaching, and we took in the beautiful clouds and thanked heaven for the breeze that kept us cool. One look at the table setup revealed we were not seated alone. Instead we were with six other people we did not know, in the middle of the room, with a DJ and a dance floor in front of us.

It was time to make the best of it. We took a self-guided tour around the boat, admiring the big engines, the giant red paddlewheel, and the feeling that we were a part of something from long ago, when these boats ruled the Mississippi River. We enjoyed a nice buffet dinner, peach cobbler, and ice cream sandwiches from the bar. We snapped pictures, made friends, and were entertained by the fearless dancing of the guests. Though I could not get my husband to line dance, I enjoyed partaking in the “Cupid Shuffle” with my newfound friends.

As we disembarked, the rain clouds opened up, soaking us to the bone and completing our adventure perfectly. I ran barefoot through the parking lot, all the while grateful our city has such unique activities for us to enjoy. Sometimes when you are in the realm of locals, the touristy things are the road less traveled.