If you grew up on the Northside of LaPorte, TX

Attention! I'm still looking for stories about Chitlin' Circuit and the nightclubs on the Northside. Please check your family photos and diaries. Also, if you heard the stories, please share those too.
I'm attaching a Google Form you can fill out. It covers firsthand and second-hand observations of the events.

I want to include LaPorte in this story, but I need your help in doing so. Thanks again!

Chitlin' Circuit Memories This survey seeks to capture the memorable experiences of people who attended performances at Chitlin' Circuit venues in Texas (primarily the southeast portion of the state). First-hand accounts and shared memories are being documented through this survey. 'Shared memories' are the retelling of othe...

Dear Black Communities of Texas,
We’re gathering firsthand stories, memories, and artifacts from the Chitlin’ Circuit nightclubs and juke joints in southeastern Texas—the iconic Black music venues where legends were born, and communities gathered. Texas was a vital stop on the circuit as acts geared up to make the push west to California. It was part of the Great Migration (early 1920s-late 1970s), when more Black people moved out of the southern Black Belt to places like Chicago, New York, St. Louis, Baltimore, and Los Angeles, changing the demographic of those cities. The music moved with the people, creating a network of entertainment venues, hotels, and restaurants that was owned by and catered to the Black community. Come share with us the excitement and energy of those times.
Were you there?
🖤 Did you catch live blues, funk, jazz, or soul shows in Houston, Dallas, Austin, and/or the small towns around them?
📸 Do you have old photos, flyers, clothing items, or vivid memories of those nights?
🎶 Did you witness performers before they became stars?
We’re creating a documentary and archive to honor this history, and we want your voice to be part of it. Come and share your stories of seeing James Brown, Johnny Taylor, Ike and Tina Turner, and many others. If you have stories that a relative told you, please share those as well.
👉 If you—or someone you know—has a story to tell, reach out:
📬 [email protected]| 💻Take our survey! Highlight the QR code on the flyer with your phone’s camera. It will take you to it. Thanks for your time and attention!
Best,
Ardencie Hall-Karambé, Ph. D.

We make history through the way we live our lives. We are the history told in the future. What is your story, your family’s story, our community’s story? I’ve observed that, as African Americans, many of us don’t see ourselves or our families as being part of the broader American history. That’s simply because no one has told your story yet. I am weaving together a story about the Chitlin’ Circuit and its effects on places like the Northside of La Porte. I want to hear your stories, see your pictures, and document our shared history. If you have stories of partying at the Portofino and other nightclubs along Broadway (circa 1955-1980), any information on the Baha’i House that was on 1st Street, and the colored beach that was located at Barber’s Cut, I would appreciate the opportunity to speak and record your tales. Please join me on June 20, 2025, from 4 PM to 7 PM at the Colored School Museum on the corner of MLK and Taylor in La Porte.

Dear Walker Kith and Kin,

It is with deep sadness that I must inform you of Aunt Angela’s passing. This picture is from Uncle Bill’s funeral and the last time she was with his siblings. They had come up to bury their youngest brother and to support his wife and family during that rough time. We cousins joined them on that trip to say so long…for now. Although sometimes somber, we laughed and reconnected. I don’t think the Walker siblings had traveled across the country together like that since they migrated to Texas in the 1940s. Those siblings were close literally and figuratively all their lives.

Uncle Bill and Aunt Angela’s visits to La Porte from faraway places were always highlights for me as a kid, and their encouragement to see the world spurred my love of travel. Upon moving to the northeast, I would travel from NYC or Philly to visit them in D.C. Their home was always welcoming. Knickknacks littered their home mapping out the places they had explored during his 30-plus years of military service. I would talk politics with him and cook with her. They had traveled the world together after meeting in Egypt when my uncle was stationed there. She had been a civilian cook on base. He was a young Air Force officer.

I’m glad they are all together. R.I.P Aunt Angela. I know you were welcomed with open arms. ASE!

DM me if you want more information. Stay Blessed!

Greetings Family and friends! It’s me Dencie Hall.

Some of you know I have moved back to the area; for those that didn’t I back and happy to be home.

I’m curgently look for information on The Port-o-fino night club owned by my grand father Arthur Walker and later my uncles. It was the only place that Blacks in the area could go to hear and see the hip stars of the 50-60s (blues and soul groups). It was part of the chittering circuit.

Im working on a documentary about the club. I’m look for pictures and elders to interview. Please search your family albums to see if you have any old pictures I could borrow. Let me know if any elder might want to be interviewed. Let me know if any of stars stayed at your homes.

Thank you so much for help on this project.

Peace and blessings.

Greetings Everyone!
I've been away for a bit. I've been taken care of my peace and making transitions in my life. Things have settled down, and I'm preparing to move back to TX. I can't wait to be back in the area and to write more about the Black folks that live in the area around Houston. New family and community stories coming your way. Love ya!

How We Learned to Read Lips
LaPorte has never been a big city. The founders saw it a sleepy summer time getaway for those people who had the means. It was also meant to be more residential than commercial. When I was growing up, the population was less than 30,000. We weren’t even on the map. You must have 30,000 citizens to be included on maps, you know. The city hung at 29,900 for a long time. It was sleepy southern sundown town. Let’s just say there wasn’t always a lot to do, so you had to use your imagination. However, LaPorte had something many cities in the area didn’t. It was located at the end of 8th Street, and, on warm summer nights, it was the brightest thing in the sky. Cedar Point Drive-in movie theater was a magical beacon. It had all first run movies. We literally could sit on the corner of 8th Street and Tyler Street and watch them all. On summer evenings after the mosquito spray truck had pass, some of us would simply bring out their lawn chairs to watch the movies while someone or a couple of some ones would read the actors’ lip out loud.

Does anyone else remember this place?

*I had hoped to find a picture online, but alas it was not to be.

Daddy Arthur

My grandfather, Arthur Walker, is pictured here.* Daddy Arthur, as he was called, was a well-liked and trust person to many in LaPorte. His family was large, and he worked hard to care for them. My memories of him are filled with warm hugs that he would give upon seeing me, of shared meals eaten at my mother’s table because she could cook, and of being driven around in his old Chevy pickup truck. Daddy Arthur and his rusty truck could be seen putt-putting through the streets all times of the day when he should have been working. Unbeknownst to most of us, however, Daddy Arthur was undercover.

Daddy Arthur worked as the custodian at LaPorte State Bank (located on Main and Broadway), but he was also the LP bank's armored truck and bank transfer system. As my mother told the story, and my brother Henry was a witness, the banks in the area needed a safe way to transfer funds between each other without potential robbers suspecting. They came up with the scheme to get Daddy Arthur to move money from one bank to other figuring no one would suspect a colored man driving a rusted out Chevy of carrying thousands of dollars. For years, Daddy Arthur moved money between banks in the area.

*I'm not sure who the others are in the photo. If you know share with us.

Summer Memory #2:

We had fun! During summers on the Northside, we had fun! Riding bikes, fishing, playing with friends, catching crawdads in the ditches when it rained, picking the blackberries and pecans that grew around the neighborhood, all fun times, and now fond memories. I remember one particularly hot summer. I was young, maybe 2nd grade, but always trying to hang with my older siblings. They were as understanding as older siblings are to younger sisters and brothers. Now, I wasn’t in on the details, too young, but the activity involved all the kids in the neighborhood. I was excited; we were even given jobs to do. It was going to be great. Families from 9th street to Broadway were taking part and, since it would begin at twilight and end later in the evening after darkness fell, parents had to be informed and aware of the event. My brothers said it was going to be the biggest of all time. It may not have been the biggest, but it was definitely one of my favorites.

The neighborhood was divided into teams. Streets Broadway to 3rd, 4th-6th, and 7th-9th were the three teams. The divisions were based on households with kids and their ages. Our house was located on the corner of 7th and Polk, we had garage with a door, so our house because the base for our team which had members from the families on 7th, 8th, and 9th streets. The teams met, planned, and prepared for the most epic balloon fight ever!

The energy when we went to buy the balloons was serious. You had to get the right type of balloon for throwing. You didn’t one too thin that would burst when you were put water in it, or one too thick that wouldn’t burst on contact. You didn’t want odd-shaped ones either; however, some could be used as projectiles. We were selective; we had to hunt to get the best ammo and plenty of it for a better chance to win. There was a supermarket (Minimax, I think) that sat between of 8th Street and 9th Street on Broadway, so we went in several times that week leading up to the Saturday event to gather balloons. We exhausted any allowance and other funding we had in order to buy the flat, wrinkled pieces of elastic plastic that would become beautiful jeweled orbs filled with liquid laughter flying through the air aimed at the head of the kid from another street. There were so many balloons. Part of our jobs, as the youngest kids, was to fill each balloon up with water, pass it to an older kid who would then check the weight, and then tie it off. Yeah, they had to have just the right amount of water in order to fly right and burst on contact. There is a science to a good water balloon.

We were filling up balloon for days; folks later grumbled about water bills but really didn’t. Our garage had boxes of balloons ready for game day. We were all in this, now! This was our Nintendo Switch, our Game Boy. Tensions were high, nerves were shot, people were on edge. The teams had spies trying to find out how many boxes and/or balloons the other teams had. It was crazy; folks trying to bride little kids for information. The anticipation was high.

Finally, Saturday arrives. The games began at twilight with younger kids going out first. We still had to be in before dark. It was glorious. We ran with our rusted red wagons and paper bags filled with water balloon throwing them at anyone we could. It didn’t matter. It was hot. From 9th street to Broadway, we ran the streets and through the trails of the Northside. Some folks laying down in ditches waiting for someone to walk past trying to be strategic. When the sun officially set, the older kids came out to play in force. They had been there earlier to make sure we were cool, but at darkness we had better get home. You see, they didn’t care anymore that you were younger. You were just a target. After dark, they began to throw harder. Water balloons can sting.

Upon returning to the home base, the our job became to guard the balloons. It was my sister Bonita, my brother Clayton, and myself. Let’s just say it got to be way passed our bedtimes, and we woke up tied up, and some of the balloons were gone. When my brothers got back and discovered us, they were mad but not too mad. The day’s battle was long. The event was being called by 10pm anyway.

For the next couple of day when walking through the neighborhood, it look like bags of plastic confetti had exploded on the streets. Glorious!

Summer Memories: Learning to Swim
One of things I remember about growing up on the Northside, we were always outside. We were rarely encouraged or allowed to stay in the house all day, especially during the summers. As a kid growing up we learn to swim at Sylvan beach in the Galveston Bay. Swimming pools in LaPorte were not integrated at that time, so we learn to swim at the beach. My first swim instructors were my older siblings.

Sylvan Beach was beautiful back then. The water was blue and clear. The sand was white. You could walk along the bench from Morgan’s Point to Shore Acres uninterrupted. Although some were private beaches, you could do it in theory. There were no riptides because it is inland, and the Houston Port Authority hadn’t taken the beauty away yet by enlarging the ship channel. It was not the aqua blue of the Caribbean, but a sky blue like on a clear summer day without a cloud in the sky. Yes, that blue! I remember one summer day, we were all at the beach, and my brother, Larry, decided it was time for me test my swimming skills; he had been my instructor. We had been practicing in the shallow water for weeks, and, now he felt I was ready. He asked mama if he could take me further out. She said, “Yes, but not too far.” And I remember he took my hand and led me to the water. He picked me up held onto me as we got deeper and deeper. I could see Mama at the shore watching making sure that he wasn't going out too far. Once we had gotten to a respectable distance he said, “You ready?” The next thing I knew, I went flying through the air. I could hear my Mama screaming before I even hit the water, “Get my ba--!” Splash! As I came up for air, I could hear him say, “Sink or swim? You know what to do.” Chile, I swam! I did! Like nobody’s business! I swam for dear life! My brother’s toss and words became a life lesson for me. Still to this day, I like to defy gravity (and other expectations), and, if it gets too deep, I know how to float.

Peace and Blessing Northside!

(The image is of my dad's shrimp boat out on the bay during the construction of Bay Port.)

I lived on the corner of 7th and Polk, and much of my time was spent on the corner 4th and Tyler at the Northside Civic Center (now the Jennie Riley Recreation Center). It was the hangout of the kids in the neighborhood. It was there that I got my first taste of ballet, classical music, and theatre. It was the late 1960s, and JFK’s question, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what can you do for your country?” still lingered in the air. It was Freedom Riders and freedom summers that brought young eager college students from across the country south to work in rural communities like mine where they shared they budding knowledge of various subjects particularly the arts and sports.

The Center was run by Mrs. Jennie Riley, and she took advantage of every opportunity to bring more to us. She was a maven, a trailblazer who understood what was at stake for the neighborhood and nation. She shared that knowledge with us. The country was just as fragile then; MLK, JFK, Malcolm, and Robert all slain by assassins’ bullets. We were still appalled at gun violence back then; we couldn’t imagine. Most of us wanted to live in Camelot and dreamed as Martin did. Mrs. Riley empowered us to do better, be better. All the children in the neighborhood were her kids; even though, she had a family of her own. The Riley children were older than me but were in the age range of my older siblings. I knew of them but didn’t really know them except for Mary. Still older than me, Mary was one of the youngest of Rileys. She was friend with my brothers.

Mary just passed recently, and I’m saddened by the news. It has been years since we spoke; nevertheless, my niece and nephews kept me up-to-date on her. For the past few weeks, however, I’ve been out of touch for some much needed R&R. As I am reemerging, this news greets me. Mary was my sister-in-law at one point being married to my brother Larry Curtis. She was also a support system for me at times in my life when I needed the boost. Mary was like her mother in that regard to me. I appreciate the pearls of wisdom she bestowed to me that linger in my memory.