Is the Pandemic Turning Cities into Ghost Towns?

 By Diego Garcia III | Editor of The Brownsville Beacon

When I was in 7th grade, my Texas History teacher, Michael Lopez, made all his students send off to receive The Handbook of Texas. It was a small encyclopedia that talked about all the different regions and cities of Texas. It had blurbs on different places and historical information on them.

I was fascinated with the book. You can now look up the Handbook of Texas online. It is maintained and published by the Texas State Historical Association, but the internet and an online database wasn't something that was available in 1988. I spent hours reading through the handbook. It was definitely one of the things that influenced me and encouraged me to study local and Texas history.

I have always been interested in ghost towns and abandoned things. Among my library is a book called "Ghost Towns of Texas." The book mentions a place that I first learned about when I was flipping through the Handbook of Texas; a town named Indianola.

Indianola was a port town that was established on Matagorda Bay in 1846. It was first called Indian Point. It would become an important deep-water port during the Mexican War and would eventually grow to become the county seat of Calhoun County. It would come close to rivaling the importance of Galveston and would rank as Texas' second most important port city until a hurricane in September of 1875 leveled the city. The people of Indianola rebuilt the town and were on the comeback trail when a second devastating hurricane nearly wiped the entire town out in August 1886. There isn't much left of the town today. During low tide, the ruins of the second Calhoun County courthouse can be seen, on the beach. Waves gently lap at the old marble foundation; a memory of a once great port city leveled by mother nature.

During the pandemic, and during the several "lockdowns" we've had around town, I have tried to adhere to a couple of rules. I rarely leave home, or what I affectionately refer to as the Brownsville Beacon home office. If I am not going somewhere to get something to eat, or if I'm not going to HEB to pick up some curbside groceries, I stay home. Other than the journey to a doctor's appointment or work, I am home. Rule number two is I try very hard to avoid going out after the sun has gone down, and rule number three is I try to stay within a certain radius from the home office — if I've ventured north of Boca Chica, west past Central Boulevard, or east past Four Corners, I've gone too far.

Two days ago, I completely ignored my rules when I went on the hunt for dinner. I left the house. Strike one. I left the house after the sun went down. Strike two. I had a craving for something that was close to Sunrise Mall. Strike three. 

By the time I had reached the outskirts of the mall, I realized the place I wanted to get dinner from was closed. Not closed for the evening, completely shuttered and closed. I figured I'd try something even further, and I drove out to the shopping plaza near Academy. That restaurant was closed, too. I ended up going on a tour around North Brownsville as I kept seeing restaurant after restaurant closed. When I finally got on Paredes Line Road to turn south and head back home, entire areas were pitch black. It looked as if the area was suffering from a blackout. 

As I kept passing businesses and restaurants, I noticed so man of them were closed. Even convenience stores and gas stations had gone dark as I made my way back to familiar territory.

It was a surreal and disappointing site to see Brownsville in the state it was in. The city really looked sad and abandoned. 

I definitely learned my lesson. Stick to the rules, and don't stay out after dark. It is strange how things have reverted back to how they were when I was a kid playing outside. 

I've got to make it back inside before the street lights come on.