Slidell Magazine - 66th Edition by Slidell Magazine

Vol. 66 January 2016

WE KEEP IT FRESH

SAY KEEP IT POSITIVE

marcia ball lynn drury chubby carrier & the bayou swamp band bag of donuts molly ringwalds honey island swamp band

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I N PA R T N E R S H I P W I T H :

Editor’s Letter

Kendra Maness, Editor/Publisher, Slidell Magazine

In November 2015, Slidell Magazine hosted our Business After Hours with Pinewood Ballroom and drew record attendance and amazing support from our fellow Chamber members. The Chamber is a big part of every year for our company, and we are humbled to be nominated for 2015 Small Business of the Year. (I hope to be writing REALLY good things about this after the awards ceremony in January!) As I settled in to write my Editor’s Letter for January 2016, I couldn’t help but reflect on the past year and the adventures I’ve experienced because of this magazine and the amazing community it represents. The picture above is one of my favorites because of the moment it captures. In 2015, I was president of Business Women’s Network, and had the honor to present a young female future business-leader with a scholarship award. I also served on a judging panel with other business leaders for Young Entrepreneurs Academy. Both of these experience made me hopeful for the future of Slidell’s students.

PO Box 4147 • Slidell, LA 70459

www.SlidellMag.com • 985-789-0687 Kendra Maness - Editor/Publisher Editor@SlidellMag.com

Also in November, the long-awaited book from our “Storyteller” was published. It was a big personal and professional accomplishment for John Case and myself which, thankfully, has met with great success. The magazine met with great success also; increasing our size, our distribution, and our staff. We’ve improved our design and made a commitment to only carry local artwork on our covers. Again, we have been blessed with great success. My review of the past year would not be complete without mentioning the honor I had last June, when I dedicated the former Twin Spans, now named “The Frank Davis ‘Naturally N’Awlins’ Bridge, in memory of our friend and writer. The year 2015 brought so many events, stories, unforgettable moments and people into my life. I’m trying hard not to be overlysentimental, but it needs to be said - the year 2015, for me, will go down in history as the year I’ve felt the most loved. Thank you all for your gifts to my life. I know 2016 will be a great year because of YOU.

Devin Reeson - Graphic Designer Graphics@SlidellMag.com

Illustrations by: Zac McGovern www.HalMundane.com Contributing Writers EFOP, Charlotte Lowry Collins The Storyteller, John Case Jockularity, Corey Hogue Pet Points, Jeff Perret, DVM Crimmi-Mommly Insane, Leslie Gates Nauti People, John Felsher www.JohnNFelsher.com Once Upon A Time...In Slidell, Ronnie Dunaway Ronnie@WhoDatShoppe.org Making Cents of Your Money, Mike Rich MikeRich@MyPontchartrain.com Go Beyond, Rose Marie Sand Rose@RoseMarieSand.com Donna Bush Donna.Bush@yahoo.com OUR THANKS TO AUTHOR BONNIE VANNEY FOR ALLOWING US TO REPRINT “TRAVELING TO THE NORTHSHORE” (PAGES 36-41) FROM HER BOOK, IMAGES OF SLIDELL

COVER ART: “ROCKING DOPSIE, JR., ZYDECO” BY MATT LITCHLITER

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Cover Artist Slidell Magazine is proud to highlight artist Matt Litchliter again, with his “Rockin’ Dopsie, Jr., Zydeco” painting on our January 2016 cover. Many of you will recognize his vibrant style from one of our most popular covers, “Morgus”, from October 2015. Capturing the vibrant essence and movement of a sleepless city is the personal challenge of emerging artist Matt Litchliter. “My intention is to go beyond what you would typically see in a painting about the city of New Orleans and its culture. I want to show the feeling one would get walking down the streets, communing with the ghosts, listening to the music. I want to capture the city’s vibrant music with paint, as it moves through the skin of the performer and onto the instrument and into the surrounding air.” A Slidell resident, Matt’s creative talents were recognized and encouraged early in his life. While attending Southeastern Louisiana University under the Fine Arts program, Matt expanded his notions of creative design and worked to challenge his conceptual processes by experimenting with mixed media, assemblage and found object wall sculpture. “I love working with different textural mediums that alter the experience of my work… plywood, fabric, paper and canvas, each conveys its own set of principles and adds flavor to my creative process.” This month’s cover is a perfect example of that - the original piece is a found object, multi-staged, wooden wall design. He is currently the Creative Director for eMerge where he focuses on his graphic & web design. Matt enjoys spending time with his growing family (welcome to the world baby Elise!) and will continue to push himself as an artist. To Matt, his art is his passion and his purpose, and it will always be a part of him. You can find Matt’s art in Olde Towne at Artists’ Galleries de Juneau or visit his facebook page:

Litchliter Art

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January 2016

Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” People

Alice Doucette Twillie by Charlotte Lowry Collins

Sponsored by

“In every conceivable manner, the family is a link to our past, bridge to our future.” ~ Alex Haley

This month’s EFOP is a fifth generation native to Slidell. Alice Doucette Twillie is passionate about education, reading and family traditions. I think traditions and honoring families is a great way to start my 2016 column! She is also a fabulous oral historian and storyteller. I encountered Alice’s storytelling when I started my first job after college. As an itinerate art teacher, I didn’t stay in any one school for very long. Alice was one of the first to “adopt” me. After you finish this article, you will see why she was so generous and collaborative. Besides it being her nature, she was also new once, and wanted to pass on the welcome she had experienced.

Alice, the librarian, generously allowed me to come to the Florida Avenue Elementary Library between classes, and use a table as a makeshift office space. Once I watched her with the kids, I knew she would be a passionate mentor. She read eloquently, and watched every face expectantly, knowing she could instill a passion for reading in most children who crossed her door. But she did more than teach them to love books. Her slender hands moved gracefully and expressively, transporting the students off to places where hope and confidence were instilled in their young souls. We became close friends, and I found that my favorite stories were those about Alice and her heritage. Throughout the

years, she has agreed to share these tales for me with various lucky audiences. Hers is the tale of history seen through the unique eyes of the Creoles raised on the bayou. Before we ever sat down, Alice invited me to view her “gallery”. All over the shelves and on the tables were framed photographs of her family, generation after generation. On the table where we would sit were notebooks full of documents, and copies of important photos. I came to learn each relative by name, after picking them out from childhood through adulthood in the pictures. Centered in the great room was a large painting, looking very nostalgic and bewitching. Alice saw my interest and came over to point out why she

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loved this painting. “I had to have it, because it reminds me of Daddy’s place like it was when I was a child.” Her smile was contagious, and like a young girl, she pointed at the creole cottage, the hidden wildlife, various wildflowers, an old rusted fence, and outbuildings one by one. “I love this painting because it reminds me how blessed I am to be so rich with family,” she summed up and moved to the couch so we could get down to details. The coffee table had several books, and Alice showed me the one she and her sister, Margaret, were reading together. Even though separated by geography, they talk by phone almost daily about the latest insights they’ve gleaned. “You know I love my books, and so does Margaret. It’s impossible for me to talk about myself without explaining my family. I am who I am because of them. I was one of three siblings born to Albert ‘Snooks’ Doucette and Albertine ‘Teen’ Atlow Doucette. They were angels, and then there was that middle child, which was me. Margaret was the oldest and Albert Jr. was the youngest. We were taught how important knowledge was by our parents. Momma and Daddy didn’t have much formal education. They had to help their families and went to work at a young age, but they vowed to send their children to college.” Now, to understand where that came from, you need to know about their upbringing.

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“Daddy’s great-grandfather, Capitaine Edgar Doucette, ‘Papére’, was captain of three schooners. His son Joseph, ‘Pop Joe’, and Pop Joe’s two sons also worked on and captained the schooners. Edward is my Grandfather. Anyway, Edgar had land on Bayou Paquet that was once part of a Zenon Mellon Land Grant. Across the bayou from Pop Joe’s house was a large sawmill,” as she pointed to the ship in an old photograph, which I recognized from the Madisonville Maritime Museum. “My brother, Albert Jr., spoke about the schooners at the opening of the Museum.” “There was also a vinegar factory and a general store down the road. Papére transported goods back and forth across the lake through the New Basin Canal, and to Madisonville. My Daddy told me how they would bring back ice cream packed in hot ice, all the way from New Orleans. Papére donated land to the St. Tammany Parish School Board to establish a school for the Creole children on Bayou Paquet. They named it Doucette School, and it offered 1st - 8th grades.” All the neighbors sent their children, plus all of Edgar’s extended family. He had ten children himself. The Doucette family expanded as the daughters married into the Carriere, Ferrier, Ducre, Pichon, Cousin, Dixon, Vander, and Lawrence families. And they all attended Doucette School. So, you can see that the family tried to continue their education as far as life would allow back then. Alice explained, “Edgar’s son, Joseph Doucette, ‘Pop Joe’ was my Daddy’s grandpa. He kept this piece of the Paquet property and built the house back in 1906.” I remember helping with the clean-up at this family home after Katrina. “He proudly brought his new bride Elvidge De Armas, there. Little Snooks, my daddy, was raised by his grandma in that house. They didn’t get electricity until the 1950’s. After it was available, Daddy wired all of the Creole houses in the area.” Alice handed me a picture of her great-grandmother,

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two daughters and two sons, and a cousin. Daddy went to work for that family at age 14, and stayed with the same family until he was in his 70’s. He loved gardening, and made some of the most beautiful rose and zinnia beds around the ‘big house’. He had a God-given talent for learning, and he learned to do everything that family needed.” Alice pointed at a picture of herself as an infant with their employer’s young girls, who loved Snooks (her daddy). She smiled, A schooner docked at the sawmill directly and remembered, “When across from Alice’s father’s home on the he chauffeured them into bayou. Three generations of men in her family Olde Towne to get sweets, worked on or captained schooners, dating he wasn’t allowed in, but the back over a century in Slidell. girls always snuck out and brought out a glass of soda Elvidge, at the property. “This is the home and whatever he wanted, then brought the they lived in that now belongs to us. In the glass back after he finished. At the Arcade center of their compound on Bayou Paquet Theatre, he had to sit upstairs, but he still is their Creole Cottage. To the left there is a managed to watch over them. They wouldn’t kitchen, which was separate due to the risk let anyone else drive those girls.” of fires. Off to the right there was ‘la cave’, “My Daddy bought the piece of the land where they stored food and materials. I loved with the house his grandfather built. As time the picket fence, which you had to have to to pay college tuition came around, there keep the livestock and chickens out.” was a round-up of cattle, and one or two “My momma’s name was Albertine Atlow, and were sold to pay the tuition for me and my her side of the family was from Lacombe. brother. Coincidentally, all of us worked in Her parents, Celestine and Ramie Atlow had education. Margaret was a music teacher, twelve children.” I suddenly remembered when and Dr. Albert Jr. was a biology professor at we helped her gut the family home seeing Southeastern Louisiana University.” the weavings of pine needle placemats that I remember that Albert Jr. was Assistant her mother created. She even saved her Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at washboard and a jug of wine her mother Southeastern just before I was hired. We all learned to make. Alice grew thoughtful, know what a small world it can be. and reminisced, “The Indians were their neighbors, and sometimes came to eat and visit. My momma told me about the Indians coming to eat, Celestine was such a good cook. The men always wore hats, which they took off only to eat. After the last bite, they slipped that hat right back on, which signaled it was time to go. See, there were so many children, plus the guests, that they had to eat in shifts. She must have fed them all well, because they kept coming back.” “At some point they had to sell most of the property, all except the patch with my Grandfather’s house on it. When hard times fell, the family started fighting. They put the land up for bid in the city when property taxes went up, and it sold for $5.15 an acre. A private family bought most of it, and made sure each of Pop Joe’s children had a place to live. They called it the ‘quarters’ and there were five houses for Pop Joe’s 8

Now Alice picked up a binder, and fanned through several pages. “I tried to save all my photographs, but you can see the Katrina damage. I am telling this history now for my kids and grandkids. I want them to know where they came from, and who their ancestors were. The world has changed so much, and I want them to remember the local history of our area.” She showed me a photo of herself and Snooks speaking on stage to local children about the history of the area. Finally, Alice was ready to tell us about her life. “I was what Daddy called his ‘good luck charm’, as he was reprieved from World War II because of the hardship of two children to feed. I was born during hard times, but we were never hungry. Momma learned from her mother how to stretch stews using potatoes, rice and anything we had available, seafood, meat, vegetables, even boiled egg stew with tomato gravy, which I loved. She put in everything but the kitchen sink, and sometimes I think she threw that in there too! She made a mean filet gumbo, seafood gumbo, sausage gumbo, you name it. Early in the evenings after work, the neighborhood kids would gather to play, and Dad would toss his hat in the air and birds would dive at it. He would get his gun and shoot into the bunch of birds known as ‘bull bats’, killing several each time. Then we would put them on long handled forks and roast them in the fireplace. I was a real good feather plucker. Daddy’s truck didn’t move without me in it!” Now she laughed out loud. “I remember the year Daddy went to get his new shotgun out of layaway in New Orleans. The hunting season started at noon, and Daddy was in a big hurry,” her eyes shone like they probably did when she was a little girl, relaying the event. “My butt

Alice’s family’s Creole cottage on Bayou Paquet, built in 1906. To the left is the kitchen, center is the house, and to the right is “la cave”, the pantry and storage area. Seen here are Alice’s great-grandmother, mother, and Alice’s sister, Margaret.

could, and if that didn’t change their opinion of me then so be it. Everybody welcomed us, and I tried to do the same for all new teachers in my 30 years at Florida Avenue. “ “I had known I was going to teach since second grade. My second grade teacher at St. Tammany High School, Josephine Marks, had been a big influence on that decision. She eventually joined me at Florida Avenue.”

Alice’s great-grandfather, circa 1906, and her great-grandmother never sat on that seat, Daddy was flying so fast! I bounced around the seat like a cork on choppy water! Those were great days, and I had a good childhood.” “I feel so fortunate to still have that 1906 house. I still call the bayou house ‘Daddy’s house’ to this day, and try to keep it as close to the way I remembered it. When I married Nathaniel Twillie from Shubuta, Mississippi, we bought the house we live in now to raise our family. We married in 1968. He went in the Navy and served on the U.S.S. Enterprise, which was the first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier. And I took a job with the school board as a librarian. We had a few scares during those first few years. My husband was stationed on the USS Enterprise when it caught fire in 1969. During a training exercise, bombs were set off causing a fire, and mayhem ensued. The ship was off the coast of Pearl Harbor at the time. That was a traumatic event, and I barely slept until I heard from him. When he finally got a call through to me, I couldn’t speak I was so choked up.” “I was also nervous about my first job. Did you know I was one of the first three black teachers hired to work at Florida Avenue Elementary? It worked out just fine for me. I decided to just go in and do the best job I

St. Tammany High School, now St. Tammany Jr. High, was the school for black children previous to 1965, when Slidell High School became integrated. “As juniors and seniors at St. Tammany High School, we were allowed to teach elementary classes in lieu of substitute teachers. I loved it, and even got the chance to take over a class for two weeks when their teacher was out. I graduated Valedictorian of my high school class,” and she raised her finger as accent. “As Head Librarian at Florida Avenue, I learned that it was important to let the children pick the stories. I had a straw hat and I dangled objects from the brim on strings, an old African custom. The objects correlated to the theme of the books. I invited the quietest child to select an object and we all settled in for the tale. I could tell some children didn’t have this kind of closeness at home, so it was important. After my first year, Mr. Delos Smith, the Principal then, said I did a fine job, and that he would not have believed it was my first year if he didn’t know better. That was rewarding, but the most rewarding is when grownups come up to tell me how much I meant and introduce me to their spouses as ‘the best librarian ever.’” Her smile went tight for a moment and she paused. “I remember one boy that didn’t like coming to school. I told him to come to the library whenever it got tough. His momma thanked me and told me I had changed that boy’s life before they moved to Texas. On his

eighteenth birthday, he called me to thank me himself. I was in tears. I tell you what, no matter how many electronic devices we have, there’s just nothing like the feeling of a good book in one hand, and a child in the other.” What an amazing thing to say! “Along the way, Nathaniel and I had two children, Tony and Cara. Cara teaches at Florida Avenue to this day, and Tony is an entertainer in New Orleans. By the time Nathaniel came out of the Navy, we had the house paid for. Then Nathaniel went to work at the Post Office. Eventually, I even got to buy an additional six acres across the bayou from Daddy’s house. It is special land, and so beautiful, not like anywhere else on Earth.” “2004 was a hard year for me. Daddy died in March, and Albert Jr. in September. When Daddy went, he took a deep breath and said ‘I love ya’ll’, and just dropped his head to his chest. Margaret and I cracked the window, the way the old folks always did, to let the soul out. Most of my family is buried at the Dubuisson Cemetery. Every October, we clean and whitewash the graves, and put new rocks and sand around them. Then on November 1, I put flowers and candles out before Father blesses the graves. After that, we visit with family and tell stories about the good old ways.” For those of you who have never visited Dubuisson Cemetary, located across from St. Genevieve’s Church on Bayou Liberty, it is a true Slidell landmark. The graves there are some of the oldest in our city, with many of them from Alice’s family and extended family. Keeping with their Creole heritage, most of the gaves are inscribed in French. Alice smiled and said, “Now my grandchildren are my life.” Of course she still loves to tell her stories. “The Man’s been good to me. Mine is a small life, but it’s part of a long family lineage, and a big part of Slidell history. Most folks just don’t know it. I sleep real good at night because I did what I was supposed to do.” There are those that have forgotten gentle ways, but not for those fortunate enough to spend time with Alice. We walked around her yard to look at the giant angel trumpet flowers, and I passed exactly what you may have guessed, zinnia and rose beds! Through Alice, my busy day slowed until I came to fully appreciate what matters most in life, family.

Alice, in her many years as a storyteller. Left and center, at Florida Avenue Elementary, as Head Librarian. Right, on stage at the Slidell Auditorium with her father, recalling Slidell history.

Make sure this year centers on what really matters for you. Happy New Year everyone.

Zac MCGovern and

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Education Committee Chamber Boardroom 8:30am

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Chamber Luncheon Senator Bill Cassidy Pinewood • 11:30am

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Artists' Galleries de Juneau

Intro to Computer and the Internet Slidell Library 10am - Noon

SBSC Meeting Boardroom • 8:30am

Business After Hours Location: mARTketplace 5-7PM

Comm. Committee Olde Towne Soda Shop • Noon

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Storyteller The Book

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Writing for me is not a profession. I like the fact that it is not. I have been told that I would never find a job that I would like as much as I like fishing. That statement has proven to be true. Since writing is my hobby, that still holds true, and telling stories and occasionally drifting into history, is exciting. Yes, to me, it rivals the sight of a big trout pulling down a popping cork.

For over four years, I have contributed a monthly story, article or biography to Slidell Magazine. During that time, I have written a few pieces published in other magazines and newspapers. I, sadly, have written too many eulogies. This, I suppose, is a duty that goes with the territory. I do it with honor, because if they requested me prior to their death, it means that I have contributed something to their life that they enjoyed.

I have yet to truly satisfy my own desire to the fullest. That desire is to write something profound; to write something that would positively change a life; but for the time being, I must be content with what comes to mind. Over the last two years, I have been asked many times to compile the stories I have written into a book. I could see no reason to do so. Why would someone pay to read the stories they could have picked up in Slidell Magazine at no cost?

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For whatever reason, the requests grew; and finally, my high school graduating class, the class of 1965, decided to have a silent auction. The proceeds would subsidize the cost of the reunion and possibly allow us to leave something to the school or the community, something memorable. Well, maybe in some small way I could contribute something of value through my writing. I had nothing to give that anyone would want, so I decided to bind a few of my stories and give them to the auction. The original intent was to offer about twelve stories, nicely bound, and I would pay to have about twenty copies made. The copies would be given to my family and closest friends. Surprisingly, interest in the project grew, and with the insistence of the owner of Slidell Magazine, Kendra Maness, my wife Brenda, and several close friends, I was encouraged to expand the project and offer it to the public. I had to come to terms with the fact that this would not be a profitable venture. That was ok, but I had to be realistic and know that I could not put too much money into it. My first battle was mental, vanity over practicality. With help from others, I would compromise.

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Thank goodness, I did not know then what I know now. If I had, I would not be writing this story. The hidden costs began to mount. Legal fees, ISBN fees, website fees, and so far I had not even gotten to the proofing, layout, or printing of a single page. It did not take long to realize that the dream book I had in mind was not going to be. It would not be chocked-full of color photos. It would not have a nice hard back with an attractive dust cover, and the publisher would not be Harper and Row. Reality: Paperback, self-published, with a few black and white pictures. Oh, but where would the pictures come from? I learned that there is such a thing as a copyrighted photograph. I did not want to step on any toes, so it was decision time. An elderly uncle had taken pictures of various subject matter over the years. Some of the photos were quite good and he made them available to me. A classmate, who has been my test reader, knew the kind of stories I wrote. She is also good with a camera, so she went looking for appropriate material. Her name is Ann Sasser and she provided the book’s cover photo. Leslie Gates, a fellow magazine writer, Kendra Maness, myself, and Vernon Gagliano went in search of appropriate photo ops.

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The pictures we took can be found in the book in the stories of “Saving Angela”, “Soaring”, and yes, that is Kendra being baptized in “The Salvation of Jenny Lynn”. I had an agreement with Kendra on the production of the book. I had written, or would write, the stories. She would apply the photos, graphic artwork, layout, and negotiation with the printer. We would both proof the work to improve the final product as to punctuation, spelling and sentence structure. Another surprise, we continued to find too many errors. It was decided to bring in a pro. Our friend and former popular Times Picayune columnist, Carol Wolfram, joined the team. At this point, the job seemed monumental. As the three of us read aloud and the errors and poor sentence structure became evident, Kendra and I, for the first time, felt maybe this was not a good idea. Was it time to pull the plug? Probably. But then, as we read the story of “The Tales of Wags” about my childhood pet, we saw a tear running down Carol’s face. It is my belief that a story that evokes emotion is a story worth telling. We continued. You might say a tear saved the book.

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Due to this project, there was not a day for at least four months, that I, or we, would not discuss, work on, rewrite or restructure this book, named Bogue Chitto Flats. At least seven proofed and reproofed copies were passed between us. Then came the night I gave the final copy to Kendra for her review and delivery to the printer. October 28, 2015 was the first day I had not had something to do on the book project in a long time. I missed it. It was a sad feeling. This book had taken a place in my life. It had a personality of its own by the time it was sent to print. I felt like I did when my sons, Alan and Chris, left for college. I felt like an empty nester. I found myself wanting to proof that book one more time, but it was too late. Like my sons, what they had not received from me by then could not be added at such a late date. I got comfort in knowing that it was in the hands of someone that loved this project as much as I. Kendra gave it its final nurturing. It was then sent out into the cruel world. We wished Godspeed to Bogue Chitto Flats. ---------All of that was a few months ago. We now have copies in the hands of readers. People have actually paid their hard-earned cash to have our Bogue Chitto Flats. Yesterday, December 4, 2015, I had a different and very rewarding experience. In addition to providing the cover photo, my friend Ann had sold a rather large number of books for me. I decided to deliver them to her, and sign those who had requested personalized copies. She lives in McComb, Mississippi. Since my mom passed away, I don’t get up that way very often; so while in the vicinity, I decided to head north toward home, Bogue Chitto. My first stop was at my childhood friend’s home, Tommy Busby. Tommy was not home, but his wife Louise was aware of the book and seemed eager to get a copy. Tommy appears directly or indirectly in several of my stories. Always a positive character. After leaving there, I drove north an eighth of a mile to the home where I was raised. The place was sold when I was a sophomore in college, but the present owners, Stan and Rita Long, have over the years been most gracious to open the home to my family.

This allowed my wife and children to get some peek into my childhood. The Longs were not home either. I started to leave, but then I stopped. I admired how well the house had been maintained. I took a seat on the patio. Many of my stories were within eyesight. First, the old garden spot where Wags killed the snakes in “The Tales of Wags”, could be seen. The clothesline poles Mr. Tom gave Mother,

the same Mr. Tom that gave Joe mechanical work in the story “Joe” were still there. The clothesline where the dog squirted blood on Mom’s sheets due to his missing tail, was still there. (That story is not in the book but was graciously printed in The Slidell Independent newspaper.) The very patio I was sitting on is where I heard so many of the stories that inspired me to write.

My next stop was at the home of my high school English teacher. Her name is Diana “Dee Dee” Wilkins. She likes my stories. In true teacher fashion, she doesn’t like my punctuation and sentence structure, but she likes the stories.

It is no longer there, but I could see where the old log home stood, the one that housed Zeke and his brother in the story “Diggers”. The same house where Eli lived in “Just for Fun”, and the same house where Baby June was taken away by social workers in “Praying for Baby June”.

I had planned to drop off the book, say hello and be gone. I ended up reading at least three stories to her, her grandson and a fellow schoolmate who dropped by. I had not visited, for any length of time, with Dee Dee since 1965. What a great way to refresh some memories and charge my brain with new material.

With my imagination, I could see over the hill to my grandparents’ house, where we made “Homemade Ice Cream”. I could also see where Brother Wayne first stopped his truck in “The Salvation of Jenny Lynn”. I became emotional. I realized I was a trespasser, and I knew that the physical property was no longer mine, but the memories could not be taken away. It was time to move on.

She was one of those teachers that students had a great relationship with. You felt like she was not just your teacher, but your buddy and friend. We all loved her and she has made it a point to keep up with us and in return we have kept up with her. I should not leave out - she was a great teacher.

I have an idea that you may see something, someplace, or someone I have mentioned above, again, in a story in the months to come.

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January 2016

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Do you ever have something that you wish you LOVED but you just can’t seem to take an interest in it? It could be a “superhuman” food, a TV show that your coworker won’t shut up about, or even a sport that looks rough, exciting, and high-adrenaline. For me, that list looks like sweet potatoes and hockey. Hockey is a harsh sport. No other time have I seen people who lose teeth or break bones and act like nothing’s wrong. Grit is probably the best adjective to describe hockey. There are even fights allowed on the ice during the game! And I haven’t given it a chance, because I just can’t get interested in it. Hockey has a long and storied history, one with fierce rivalries, passionate fans, and legendary players. Not to mention some of the most intense stories of players playing through pain. Without a doubt, hockey is an interesting sport. Hockey gets its origins from stick and ball games abroad. The first indoor hockey game

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was played in 1875 and the first Stanley Cup was awarded in 1893. While there are many different leagues, both domestic and international, the main league in the US, and the one that most non-fans are familiar with, is the NHL. This league spans from the US to Canada, with 23 teams in the US and 7 teams in Canada. Now, I could wax poetic about where the term puck comes from, the reason there are six players, the length of the ice rink, etc...or, I could tell you when fighting began on the ice...Show of hands for the history of fighting? One, two, seven, thirteen...ok, I think the aye’s have it.

There’s a five minute penalty for fighting for both combatants, but that penalty is only the start. Ejections, suspensions, and fines can occur for players who join in fights from the bench, join in multiple fights, or begin the fights. There are even fines and suspensions for the coaches if they are deemed to allow or condone starting fights on a consistent basis. Neither player can use weapons (an additional fine and ejection occurs) and both must lose their gloves, face shields, and masks (to keep additional injury from occurring). And when a referee says that’s it, the players MUST stop.

Fighting started around the same time hockey became more popular in the 19th century. It was a method of intimidation and control, and the lack of rules encouraged it. Currently, most other leagues harshly punish fighting, but the NHL has made rules to allow it, to an extent. In 1922, the first official rule for fighting was created. That’s not to say fighting is free.

Additionally, there’s an unspoken and unwritten “code” that players, coaches, and officials understand about fighting. The players fight with a certain honor, reminiscent of a samurai’s code of honor. I mean, their pads make them look as big as a samurai, so why not copy their code? Sounds legit. To start with, most fights occur between enforcers

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(players that are specifically on the ice for fighting and protection). The rest of the “code” involves that both combatants must agree to the fight (so that a penalty for starting a fight can be avoided), injured players should decline an invitation to fight, and the players agree to fight fairly and cleanly. Considering all of this, why is fighting even allowed? For something that’s clearly not the main goal of the sport, it sure does have strict rules and an incredibly complex culture. But, basically, the reasons that players fight is the same as it’s always been. To intimidate the other team, protect other players, or to retaliate against another player or team. Thankfully, fighting is only a small aspect to the game, one that is controversial and highly lucrative. Moving on from fighting, because it’s not called “ice boxing,” let’s consider the many legends on the ice. Legendary players like Wayne Gretzky, legendary moments like the Miracle on Ice (look it up if you don’t know what that is because it’s a magical moment in Olympic Sports history), and legendary rivalries like the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs are the things of great stories. But nothing is more legendary than the way these players tough through being hurt. Hockey players are the biggest, baddest athletes I can think of. Sure, they will fake being “hurt” by an opponent to get a penalty, but when it comes to playing through an injury, no one is tougher. There are plenty of stories where players sustained major injuries, one even where a player had his throat exposed by an ice skate (he got to paramedics before it was too late, narrowly). But, to me, these examples stand out: First up is Charlie Gardiner. For the first several years after the Chicago Blackhawks joined the NHL, they set up camp at the bottom of the league standings. Things began to look up for the Hawks in the early 30’s, though, thanks to their star goaltender, Charlie Gardiner. In the 1933-’34 season, the Hawks made the playoffs, thanks largely to Charlie’s stellar play. As the season wore on, however, those close to Charlie noticed bazaar changes in his mood and behavior. He was suffering from a chronic tonsil infection, though he successfully hid it from everyone, including his teammates and family. The Blackhawks advanced through the playoffs and into the Stanley Cup finals, where they faced the Detroit Red Wings. The longer the playoff run lasted, however, the sicker and more fatigued Gardiner got. The pain Gardiner was in began to show, but he became more and more obsessed with winning the Cup, and would not be told to sit out. After losing Game 3 in the finals by a score of 5-2, Gardiner told his

teammates in the locker room, “Look, all I want is one goal next game. Just one goal and I’ll take care of the other guys.” And he kept his promise, holding off every Red Wing attack. He continued to battle and keep the game scoreless through the first overtime, and into the second. After 90 minutes of courageous play by the ailing goalie, his team finally pulled through for him and scored the game winner. The Chicago Blackhawks had won their first Stanley Cup. Charlie Gardner died in a Winnipeg hospital less than two months later. Next we have Bobby Baun. In 1964, the Toronto Maple Leafs faced the Detroit Red Wings in the Stanley Cup Finals. The Leafs entered Game 6 of the series down three games to two, and needed a hero to keep their Cup

dreams alive. They got that hero in the form of defenseman Bobby Baun. Late in the third period, Bobby blocked a shot with his ankle and immediately crumbled to the ice. He tried to get up, but could not put any weight on the leg. He eventually was carried off the ice on a stretcher, and everyone assumed he was out for the remainder of the series. In the locker room, Bobby refused to go to the hospital for x-rays, and insisted the doctor simply freeze his ankle, tape it tightly, and let him back out on the ice. The game ended in a tie, and as the teams skated out for the overtime period, Bobby came out of the locker room ready to play. Two minutes into overtime, Bobby took the puck and ripped a shot past his opponent to win the game and tie the series. Afterwards, Bobby would not allow his ankle to be x-rayed. He knew from the excruciating pain that the x-ray results could very well force him to sit out the final game. So he taped it up tightly again, took some painkillers, and laced up his skates

for the deciding game. He didn’t miss a shift in the last game, and the Leafs coasted to a 4-0 victory. After the series was over, Bobby finally reported to a hospital, where x-rays revealed his ankle had been badly broken. Finally we have Maurice Richard, who defines what it means to be “Hockey Tough”. It was the final game of the Stanley Cup Semifinals between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins. Maurice’s days were before players wore helmets, and this led to a very scary moment for the Canadiens. As Maurice drove hard towards the net, he was upended by a Bruins defenseman, and fell to the ice head-first. Blood pooled around his head as the crowd let out a collective gasp, and he laid motionless on the ice. He soon regained a state of semi-consciousness and was helped by teammates off the ice and into the locker room where doctors stitched up the large gash on his forehead. Late in the third period, with the game tied at one apiece, Maurice shocked the fans and his team mates when he came out on the Canadiens’ bench, a bandage covering his forehead and his sweater stained with blood. Concussed and dazed, he then hopped over the boards and chased down the puck. With blood still trickling down his face, Maurice skated coast-to-coast, skating through the entire Bruins team and then beat the Bruins goaltender to score the series-deciding goal. Many have called it “the greatest goal in the history of the game.” A picture was snapped after the game was finished, epitomizing the harsh grit of hockey, with Maurice’s head bleeding and a black-eyed Jim Henry, the Bruin’s goaltender, shaking hands. Some say, considering the harsh rivalry between these two teams, this picture also epitomizes great sportsmanship. Like I said, hockey is an interesting sport. It’s a sport where fighting, slamming into each other, and playing through injury, while skating on hard ice and avoiding hockey sticks and pucks flying at breakneck speeds, are just a part of the job description. It’s a surprise that the sport has lasted for so long. Despite all of this, hockey players thrive on this grittiness. In many ways, it’s this appreciation of grit, I think, that players continue to play. They seek out this intensity for similar reasons that athletes in many other sports aspire to push the boundaries of human physical ability. Because the glory of the game is beyond what any limitation can prohibit. That is why fans love to watch this crazy sport. I may have never appreciated it like I should, but I certainly respect it. Next time you watch a game, remember what kind of person it takes to play a game like this. And be glad it isn’t you. 19

Of Your Money By Mike Rich, CFP® Pontchartrain Investment Management

Five secret weapons that could make 2016 the best year ever for your money. When I began work on this article, I started thinking about my most successful clients and what they did to get to where they are now – financially secure and enjoying life without having to worry much about money. I realized that most of them did not come into their money quickly. For the most part, they earned and saved and invested over a long time. No magic there. No lottery winners. No money trees growing in the back yard. I met with two of my younger clients last month. To protect their privacy, let’s call them Molly and Matt. They are recently married, but we’ve been working together for more than a year. They are well on their way to working to achieve financial security. If most of what we’re doing together goes according to plan, there’s a pretty good chance they’ll have a level of financial security that most Americans can only dream about. Will they be rich? Maybe not. But they could very well be in the same position my most successful clients are right now, if they stick with their plan.

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Fortunately, Molly and Matt have some secret weapons to help them in their quest. Actually, their weapons are not secret, it’s just that most people choose to not use them for any number of reasons, most of which are bunk, in my opinion. Here’s what makes my young friends different:

1. They are getting organized. Pretty basic, but very important. Why? “We’re getting our financial life organized and, to us, that’s a good feeling,” my young clients said during our recent meeting. “Just the fact that we’ve started and are sitting here talking with you makes us feel good about the future.” My clients are not yet 30 years old folks, but they are already light years beyond the average American when it comes to financial planning. You could be, too. Call me and we’ll get started.

2. They have set specific goals for their money. And their goals aren’t limp-wristed, “I hope” drivel. Molly and Matt are specific. “We want to retire completely from work no later than age 65,” they said, “with an annual income of $85,000 that keeps up with inflation. If one of us dies too soon, we want a $500,000 death benefit to replace what we’ve spent. And, we want to leave $250,000 to each of our children.” Wow! If you want to set goals like that – in other words, if you want a specific target that we can actually make a plan for – call me, and I’ll sit with you to get some things down on paper.

3. They are spending less than they earn and saving and investing the remainder. Molly and Dan know that time is their friend and that getting rich quick – in the stock market or anywhere else – is a fairlytale. They know that saving means paying themselves first. They know how compound interest works, because we’ve crunched the numbers. They know that small amounts of money can eventually grow to big sums. They know that $5,500 a year – the amount of money

each of them can contribute to a Roth IRA – invested for 40 years at 8% per year, will grow to $1,424,810.85.1 They know that nothing is guaranteed and, if they don’t save and invest money for themselves, no one is going to do it for them. Do you know a young couple – or even an older one – who would like to do this, too? Tell them to call me for an appointment.

4. They are protecting their assets by letting someone else take the risk. Before they got married, Molly and Matt purchased life insurance to protect each other. They know that a single, unplanned, nasty event, like a disability that stops their income, a premature death that deprives their family of its breadwinner, a car accident that ends up in a losing lawsuit, or a long term care need that goes on for years can cause irreparable damage to the best of financial plans. They know that “stuff happens” and that the benefits and confidence that come from planning far outweigh the cost of insurance.

5. They have established a partnership with a trusted financial advisor. That’s me, by the way. Would you like to know what I’m going to do for Molly and Matt over the years as we work together? I’m going to keep them on track. I’m going to do my best to keep them from jumping off a ledge when the stock market goes down. I’m going to help them deal with the inevitable financial bumps in the road that we all experience. When they are ready to buy a house, I’ll help them with their mortgage choices. When they have children, I’ll help Molly and Matt figure out how to pay for college. In short, I’m going to be their Chief Financial Officer, and they’re going to know that anything with a dollar sign in front of it is fair game for us to work on together and figure out the best path. So, there you have it. The five secret weapons Molly and Matt are using to work toward their goal of financial security. I love working with Molly and Matt. My core belief is that anyone can achieve financial security. The relative scale in terms of money might be different, but the confidence factor is not. There is no magic wand, it takes commitment and discipline, there will be ups and downs along the way, and I cannot make any promises. However, I’ve seen a lot of my clients succeed by doing the things that Molly and Matt are doing. We’re starting a new year, and there is no better time than now to get started on your financial plan. If this sounds intriguing, and if you want a trusted advisor to take financial affairs off your plate so you can focus on other things and enjoy life, call me for a complimentary meeting.

This is a hypothetical example and is not representative of any specific situation. Your results will vary. The hypothetical rate of return used does not reflect the deduction of fees and charges inherent to investing. Investing involves risk, including loss of principal. 1

Securities and Advisory Services offered through LPL Financial, a Registered Investment Advisor, Member FINRA/SIPC. The opinions voiced in this material are for general information only and are not intended to provide specific advice or recommendations for any individual.

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Go Beyond

Story by Rose Marie Sand Sponsored by

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New Years Eve Drops A milestone TV sitcom moment was born in 1978, when fictional Cincinnati radio station WKRP held a promotion by dropping live turkeys from a helicopter to awaiting fans in the parking lot of a shopping mall. In the ensuing mayhem, station manager Arthur Carlson muttered, “As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.” The incident was actually based on a real life live turkey drop by a radio station in Atlanta, Georgia, with similar calamitous results. Indeed, fiction is as strange as truth. Yet live turkeys aren’t the only strange things dropped in celebration. Yes, common everyday things like glittery balls, apples

and fleur-de-lis are part of our New Year’s consciousness, but a slew of weirder things drop around the world. Which begs the question, “Why do humans ceremoniously toss things from high places on December 31st each year?” Is it simply good clean fun? Another commercialization of an international holiday? An anti-establishment prank? An artistic modern day interpretation of some pagan ritual? Legend has it that in 1586, Galileo dropped two spheres of different widths from the Leaning Tower of Pisa to demonstrate objects of different mass fall at the same

rate. The story may have been an invention of his biographer, but there you have one explanation for the phenomenon – scientific research. Yet nothing as logical explains some of the things we watch go down, or sometimes up, on New Year’s Eve. If the Internet is to be believed, and why not, people truly are funny: In Niagra, New York, a 10-foot Gibson Guitar makes its way gently from the top of the Hard Rock Café’. Perhaps that’s the inspiration for the Beatle’s song “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Slidell’s Mona Lisa Moon Pie Krewe take note – a 350-pound electronic Moon Pie is

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dropped in Mobile, Alabama. Don’t let the Crimson Tide roll over us on this! Yet another food inspired item, a multicolored giant Peep confection is dropped in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Not to be confused with a giant Hershey’s kiss that’s placed on the roof of the Hershey Building in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Or the 200 proud bologna that’s ceremoniously dropped in Lebanon, Pennsylvania (the home of Lebanon bologna, of course.) That state knows how to ring in a new year. Dropping beach balls in Panama City, Florida, or a big hunk of cheese in Plymouth, Wisconsin almost seems cliché’ up against the image of that bologna. So does a drag queen names Sushi perched inside a large red high heel in Key West, Florida, a peach in Atlanta, a pineapple in Honolulu and a sardine in East Port, Maine.

So, in the midst of the light trails left by fireworks that emblazoned the night sky, I imagined the following things drifting off to oblivion: Every political ad, flyer, campaign slogan, and mail out – no exceptions, every last one of them.

Group texts Disrespect Decaf coffee (aw, come on, Amy, I need my decaf!) Our Financial columnist, Mike Rich, is ever logical in his droppings: I would drop the TV commercials that want to make me feel like a chump because I don’t have two bathtubs outside with a mountain view.

My scale. Pollution. The dozens of ketchup and mayo packets and mold experiments in my fridge. Cockroaches. Poof. Gone. Expired spices and other goods I’m too lazy to clean out of my pantry. Parking tickets. Celery sticks. What would you drop off the nearest height? I decided to go beyond my own roof to see what my fellow Slidell Magazine writers would dump. Zac McGovern, our awesomely talented illustrator, had these beauties on his ToDrop list, and I must say I agree with him wholeheartedly:

Not to be undone in the pragmatic department, “Nauti People” writer, John Felsher, lists a few choice things: The only things I’ve ever dropped are my pants and a lot of cash.

“The Storyteller”, John Case, chimed in:

Twitter posts reported as news

I would like to drop 30 pounds

Mass shootings

I would like to drop sales tax on books, at least my book

Staged reality shows Wisdom teeth

I would like to know more influential people whose names I can drop

My nephew-in-law, Jockularity’s Corey Hogue, listed these gems:

But East Port also drops a Maple Leaf in honor of their Canadian neighbors. Now that’s just kindly. Me, I’ve got some other ideas about droppings. I decided to start my own personal New Year’s Eve Let-It-Go-Beyond Tradition. Yep, I had a “drop” on December 31st, all right, and I felt better for it. (Take your mind out of the gutter, folks, and stay in the spirit of this column!) I am by no means advocating literally dropping your own stuff off a building – people can be hurt! However, unlike resolutions can produce guilt, dropping stuff you want to get rid of in a ceremonious fashion is cathartic. Like smashing plates when you’re angry (again, not advocating destruction of pottery), I found that on New Year’s Eve, figuratively dropping accumulated baggage is a freeing release of crappy stuff (figuratively speaking).

I would like to drop a note to the Saints and tell them to get back on track

Adware, malware, and anything unnecessary on computers Illegal forward passes across the line of scrimmage (yay for chaos on the football field!) Love bugs Books that take 3-5 paragraphs to describe the setting Taylor Swift Elliptical machines Amy Hogue, his wife and my niece, (hence her automatic inclusion in my column!), added the following – this couple’s got us covered: Improper grammar/ spelling by people over the age of 15 Student loans Facebook drama

Eric Barnstein, from our distribution team, insists that the term dropping is quite subjective for his list. I would drop: A few dollars on a winning lottery ticket. Almost everyone who drives on I-12 when I need to get somewhere quickly. Crocs. F - bombs. Justin Bieber. Sarah Landry, the other half of our intrepid distribution team, chose practical items: Addiction - to anything, any substance, and any human. 23

Food allergies Meaningless song lyrics (the grunting noise, like ‘uhhnn’).

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10 pounds (exactly why I have no idea, this woman is a svelte Yoga instructor, but ce la vie). I’m beginning to see a trend that speaks to our staff’s personality, don’t you? So, I present you with our everpositive owner and editor, Kendra Maness’, choices: Mean people Any slang terms where they turn the last letter from an “s” to a “z” (ex: boyz) Most of the presidential candidates Hair knots Cold weather (I’m Southern, so this means any temperature below 60)

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Car inspection stickers There you have it – I just know the world, Slidellwise, is a better place post droppings. It’s not too late to climb high and let it fly! HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE SLIDELL MAGAZINE STAFF!!

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My dog Lady is about eight years old (we’re not sure because we got her as an adult; long story) and has already had to visit my office multiple times for dental cleanings, under general anesthesia. This has me thinking that it might be time for me to begin to practice what I preach. For all of the years that I’ve practiced veterinary medicine, I’ve recommended to my clients that they brush their dogs’ and cats’ teeth to prevent tartar build-up, gingivitis, periodontal disease and loss of teeth. However, I never managed to employ this regimen in my own home. Classic! The cobbler’s children have no shoes! Lady isn’t the first dog I’ve had with severe tartar starting at a young age. Trey, my 3-legged Doberman Pinscher, built up tartar on his teeth at Mach speed. He shouldn’t have gone as long as he did between cleanings.

Since Lady’s teeth have just recently been cleaned and polished, and are free of tartar, I can go into prevention mode, keeping the tartar from forming in the first place (at least the majority of it). After all, keeping animals healthy is my line of work! Where to begin? Well, I need to get myself a soft toothbrush. Special pet brushes are available, but a child’s soft brush works quite well. Similarly, special toothpastes are available for dogs and cats; these can be used, and I recommend them, but they aren’t entirely necessary. Strictly speaking,

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all I really need is the brush, as most of the benefit of brushing your pet’s teeth comes from the mechanical action of the brush itself. Bad breath comes from plaque, which is why brushing with a dry brush is as effective without toothpaste as with it. I think the paste mostly just makes people feel good because they use it too, and of course, marketing drives the point home. But then there is willingness: many dogs will take the brush better with poultry-flavored toothpaste on it because they see it as a treat.

We cannot use human toothpastes for our pets. These contain enough fluoride to be toxic if swallowed daily, and our pets certainly don’t rinse and spit when they brush. Additionally, some brands of human toothpaste contain xylitol, an artificial sweetener that is harmless to humans but quite toxic to dogs. (Also, most dogs and cats really do not really appreciate a minty taste like we do.) Next will come the training—both mine and Lady’s. I’m not super confident that she’s going to be excited about the prospect of having her teeth brushed every night. I have a friend who has done this for all of her dogs over the last 10+ years and none of her dog’s breath has ever knocked me down at the door! But she started them young, she makes sure that the dogs think it is a game, and she follows up by giving them a special treat. All of her dogs actually look forward to having this done! Realistically, I can’t expect to just grab a toothbrush and go. I’m going to have to teach Lady to accept the toothbrush, and I’m going to have to be patient. It’s an adventure best tackled when she’s tired! Veterinary Dentist Dr. Fraser Hale has a great set of guidelines on his website that show how to teach a dog to accept brushing (the same will apply to cats). Check it out at www.toothvet.ca. Dr. Hale’s site also mentions dry kibble as a mild abrasive to help reduce the accumulation of plaque and tartar on teeth; however, if your pet has a medical condition for which canned food is indicated or if you feed a canned diet to your cat, don’t worry: brushing is the gold standard, and should ideally be done every day. Also, any benefit from consuming dry food assumes that your pet actually stops to chew. There are many of dogs (and even more cats!) that really don’t bother to chew their food much. They don’t have molars for grinding food like ours, so dry kibble alone can only do so much to prevent the accumulation of tartar. It can help to give mildly abrasive foods and toys such as dry kibble, rawhide strips, and dense rubber chew-toys. The Veterinary Oral Health Council (www.vohc.org) tests products to see if the manufacturer’s claims of dental benefits are true. The list of approved products grows, as more companies make the responsible decision to obtain valid evidence that their products actually work. Avoid natural bones, antlers (which are actually bone), dried cow hooves, hard nylon toys, and ice cubes, as these are all hard enough to fracture teeth. Rule of thumb: if you wouldn’t want to get hit on the head with it, don’t let your pet chew on it! If all else fails — if there’s just no way you can talk your dog or cat into regular brushing — then regular cleaning by your veterinarian will have to do the trick. DO NOT wait until the teeth are in terrible shape to get treatment! Dogs and cats have to be in severe pain to cause them to stop eating, so don’t wait for signs of discomfort to appear before addressing the issue. Your veterinarian will examine your pet’s mouth at each regular checkup and make recommendations. If you’re brushing regularly, your vet will notice, and won’t he be impressed? I know I would be! I’m still working on Lady, though, and probably will be for a while. She always seems to know when I’m coming with the toothbrush, and she runs and hides. Since I’m done typing, I’ll go brush her teeth right now. That is, if I can find her.

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With all the craziness going on in the world lately, I find it hard to find and hold on to any sort of peace. I think it was easier not to dwell on the world around me before social media came into play. Sometimes I don’t feel strong enough to handle the opinions of others without letting it affect my peace. I have to remind myself that I’m a big girl, guiding my own path in this world with my own set of beliefs and opinions. If I decided to “unfriend” everyone who thinks differently than me, not only would I be alone, but I wouldn’t realize how big the world REALLY is outside of my own thoughts.

It’s OK to talk about politics or religion or whatever else we are passionate about because it allows us to think outside the box, expanding our minds intellectually, and giving our hearts a little more empathy towards those who see life different than us. The hard part, is when people aren’t nice about it. When a person feels passionate about a certain subject it may be seen as threatening to someone else, even if that was never the intention. It’s the world we live in. The world we’ve always lived in. It’s just that now, we have more chances to voice our opinion, even if it is just sitting on the couch pressing the buttons on our phones.

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We can have an immediate response before truly thinking about who we might hurt. It can get really ugly, and probably doesn’t help that it’s thrown in with the “regular” daily struggles of life. How someone finds their strength and peace is individual, but some of it can definitely be seen by scrolling through a Facebook feed. I see a lot of uplifting quotes (guilty) or someone going to the gym three times a week (not guilty). They may find hope in a blossoming career, or fulfillment in the accomplishments of their children… maybe even all of the above. These things make us happy. But lately, for me, it hasn’t been enough.

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Since I was a little girl, I’ve written. If I don’t put my thoughts into words on paper they fester in me like a disease. It’s my connection to the world, the voice that sets me straight, and my connection to something greater. I have a yellow paper folder where I have kept all my writings until I transitioned to a computer in my late 20’s. I’m 38 now. In that folder are the thoughts and emotions that make up different stages of my life, some of which I probably need to burn while drinking a bottle of wine… BUT, they are ME. There is a poem on a sheet of my Mom’s stationary written when I was probably 8 years old while discovering my little girl emotions, along with torn out looseleaf papers, scribbled with many angry teenage thoughts. There was the confusion and sadness when I was 12 and my Dad went to war; and the fear and loneliness when I was 24 with a baby, and my husband went. I explain feelings I had when a Drill Seargent screamed in my face at 17, asking why I ran away from home, or cutting the fly-aways from my hair because my bun wouldn’t hold in all the broken bits after whatever miserable physical activity I was tortured with. I proudly write of the feelings after giving birth, the pains of carrying my children for nine months, and the uncertainty if I am even fit to be a Mom. My accomplishments. Hopes. Dreams. And the times I felt I was lacking all three. I’m glad I did this. Because what I noticed within all of it, the common denominator, was the place from where I drew my strength. My faith in God. Or finding my way back, when I lost it. Years ago, I tried putting this feeling into words for some friends. We were having some beers, and started talking about God.

We want to prove it to be true through something concrete, because sometimes feelings just aren’t enough, especially if you have never felt Him/Her/It.

What would God look like if you were to put aside religions, differences, races, gender, and just described what the “feeling” looked like? What YOUR feeling looked like? The feeling when it is just YOU and YOUR GOD. It is definitely personal for each individual, I think. No one can ever tell you who He looks like because they aren’t supposed to. You have to feel it and know it for yourself. Does he look like your Grandfather? Your Grandmother? Jesus? Santa Claus? Nature? Denzel Washington? A purple elephant? I have no clue! I only know what mine looks like. Big and strong, wide-faced, piercing eyes of a color nonexistent to this world, and a CLOUD as a beard. He covers the whole sky. Like I always call Him, “the big man in the sky”. And next to Him, His sidekick. To me, God is pure love, but he still looks down on me when I screw up, shaking his head, saying, “YOUUUU KNOOOW BETTER LESLIEEEE”. It’s like a Father’s love for a child. But with the capacity to not feel anger or to reach down and pop me across the head when I say a bad word or put my elbows on the table. He doesn’t have the feelings we have, He has something greater, that we could never comprehend. Never measure. Never describe. As humans, we want to be able to measure it, to know for sure.

But that is where faith comes in. Faith grows from those one-on-one moments with your God, whomever it may be. I can guarantee everyone has felt it, they just didn’t know what it was, or what to do with it. Maybe religion gets in the way, and then it just becomes scary, because you feel there are some sort of rules to follow if you were to have REALLY felt God. Nope. You really felt Him. I had another conversation last week with a friend about our “God moments”. Although, there was no beer involved in this one. Those simple moments in your life where a light bulb goes off and you feel something greater. Or even the supernatural moments that you know no one would ever believe unless they felt it for themselves. Those to me, are “God moments”. Most of mine have come out of trials in my life where I felt God’s presence because I asked for it. Where I felt so lost or angry that I could no longer turn to things of this world to make me happy. I would find a quiet moment and say, “WHERE ARE YOU?!” Sometimes it took minutes, sometimes days. But the feeling still came, because I listened for it. I waited for it. I NEEDED it, to move forward. He wants you to need Him. When I was young, my sister got into a horrible wreck. She died twice. Her small truck was totaled from going underneath the back of an 18 wheeler. She was going 70mph. When they found her, her head was resting on the back bumper of the truck she crashed into. Her face was completely flattened.

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But it wasn’t her time yet. The paramedics brought her back to life. Her face was able to be rebuilt using a senior portrait. And now, she is as beautiful as ever. It was a very hard time for my family. Mom dealt with it the best she could with Dad being gone on jobs for months at a time. Being so young, I had to stay with my Aunt so Mom could be at the hospital every day. Two weeks later, I was able to see my sister in the hospital. I had not known much, being so young at the time, so I was scared to walk into her room. Scared of what I might see. My body was shaking. As I walked in alone, I saw her in bed. Mouth wired shut. Tubes and wires all around. Face completely reconstructed. It wasn’t my Sissy. What do I say? It only took me looking into her eyes to see HER, as one tear fell down her face.

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In that moment, I felt God for the first time. I had my first “God Moment”.

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Something just shined over me and made me warm, made me safe, made me calm. I felt LOVE. Yes, love from my sister, but also love from somewhere different to me. And I knew that everything was going to be OK. I have a lot of these moments in nature. In homeless people. Those moments of innocence in my children’s faces, when they aren’t getting on my nerves. And the innocence of their words, that show God’s pure love. When they aren’t getting on my nerves. A bible verse that knows EXACTLY what I need to hear, when I just open to a random page. A book. A TV show. A conversation with a stranger at the grocery store. A conversation with a friend. You will find your moments everywhere. Look for them. Listen for them. Own them. Because they are YOURS. Cloud Beard and all. 30

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BRAZIL

PART ONE: JAGS story and photos by Donna Bush

Picture this – I’m in a boat with two other photographer friends on the Cuiaba River when suddenly a radio controlled duck with a GoPro camera mounted on its head propels across the muddy river toward the sandy beach. The boat anchored next to mine carries National Geographic Photographer Lawrence Wahba and crew, on site to shoot video for Nat Geo Wild’s new series Brazil. The remote controlled duck with the GoPro is an attempt to capture some unique footage of jaguars in the wild. The jaguar is not amused and pretty much disinterested. I, on the other hand, am very excited to be shooting next to Nat Geo for two weeks in the northern Pantanal. I’ve been fortunate enough to make two trips to Brazil, visiting both the northern and southern Pantanal, as well as a brief visit to the Amazon rainforest. The name “Pantanal” comes from the Portuguese word pântano, meaning wetland, bog, swamp or marsh – a lot like Louisiana! It is a natural region encompassing the world’s largest tropical wetland area, located mostly within the Brazilian state of Mato Grosso do Sul, but extending into Mato Grosso and a small portion in Bolivia and Paraguay. It is 66,100 square miles, which is 10 times the size of the Everglades. The area is a wildlife photographer’s dream come true with 656 bird species, 159 mammals, 53 amphibians

and 92 reptiles, not to mention the 3500 plant species and 325 fish species. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see all of them. My mission is to photograph jaguars, along with whatever else I come across. The jaguar, more specifically the black panther, has long been associated with Dionysus or Bacchus, the Greek and Roman God of wine, revelry and wild-ness. Hmmm, another Louisiana connection. Brazil celebrates Carnival at the same time we celebrate Mardi Gras. The “black panther” is not a unique species, but a generic term used to identify any large cat with a black coat. The condition is caused by the agouti gene, which regulates the black pigment within the hair shaft. Even though they appear solid black, they still have spots that can only be seen in the perfect angle of light. Although some jaguars exhibit the black pigment, most seen are tan or orange with distinctive black spots, called rosettes. The name jaguar is derived from the Native American word yaguar meaning “he that overcomes his prey in a single pounce.” Jaguars, the largest cat in the Western Hemisphere, weigh in at approximately 250 pounds and once roamed from Argentina to the Grand Canyon. Today, it is a rarity to see one in the United States; although, in 2013, a large male was captured on a camera trap in the Santa Rita Mountains of southern Arizona. You are more likely to find the spectacular orange and black rosette cats in the north and central portions of South America.

Enjoy this latest installment from award-winning outdoors photographer and writer, Donna Bush. Inspired by life... Curiosity seeker... Inviting all Slidell Magazine readers to join her.

Endangered throughout their range due to habitat loss and over hunting, estimates report as few as 15,000 living in the wild and only 70-100 in Sonora, Mexico bordering southern Arizona. Ranchers see the cats as a livestock threat and will often shoot them. Their habitat is widely diversified, including deciduous forests, rainforests, swamps, pampas grasslands and mountainous scrub. They prefer wet lowland habitats that are seasonally flooded. Unlike most cats, jaguars are not opposed to getting wet and will often enter the river to play or cool off from the extreme heat, and will also swim after prey. Rivers provide many food sources, such as fish, giant river otters, and caiman; but a jaguar will also eat deer, tapir and capybaras (a rodent similar to our nutria, only taller). A trip to Brazil includes a tourist Visa, yellow fever shots and up-to-date tetanus shots, along with an 18-hour flight to arrive in Brasilia, then an hour and half flight to Cuiaba. From there, it’s overnight and then we start the real journey, a two and half hour drive on dirt washboard roads into the northern Pantanal to Fazenda Santa Tereza (also known as Southwild Lodge), where we stay for 3 days and 2 nights. The lodge maintains a jaguar ID guide, which now includes 109 cats, complete with photos and information specific to each one. Each jaguar has a unique rosette pattern. Guests contribute to the guide and if a new jaguar is seen, the spotter is given the privilege of naming him/her. Although jaguars live in the forests near the lodge, rarely are they seen except at night. Our first afternoon is highlighted by a shout, “Jag spotted!” And we are off to the boats, quickly grabbing camera gear and giving up thoughts of a nap. We don’t go far when she is spotted – Tereza, named after the lodge. She’s a nursing mother who recently ate and is back on the hunt. Woohoo! 33

Up at 5am, pack and load into our open-sided roofed safari truck for the three-hour drive on the Transpantaneira Highway. I use the term “highway” loosely, as the road traverses the Pantanal from the sleepy town of Pocone to the fishing camp of Porto Jofre on the Rio São Lourenço. The dirt road is 91 miles and crosses 122 wooden bridges. Sometimes the road crosses the bridge, other times it detours around what used to be a bridge. It’s an adventure and a superb way to get a flavor for Brazil’s numerous cattle ranches and grassy plains, along with spectacular wildlife found at the diminishing watering holes. We are here near the end of the dry season. Wildlife congregates at each of the small areas of water before it too disappears. At Porto Jofre, we board powerboats for the final 30-minute leg of our journey to

our next stop, the Southwild Jaguar Flotel, located on the Three Brothers River or Três Irmãos Rio. Picture it as a houseboat but definitely not luxurious! Yep! It’s a long trip but well worth it.

one. They were never in the same terrain. Sometimes they were on the beach, sometimes in tall grass. Other times, they were sleeping in the shade, swimming or stalking prey.

We spend the next 5 days on the flotel, with morning and afternoon river excursions, searching for jaguars. We share the river and jags with other lodges, but all of the boatmen have handheld radios and share sightings with each other. Even though the northern Pantanal is the easiest place to see jaguars, don’t think they are on every bank around each bend in the river. Wild and elusive, the jaguar’s tan or orange coloring with distinctive black rosettes add to their camouflage in the jungle.

My first trip to Brazil netted five jaguar sightings. My second trip tallied over 11 sightings, with one of those in the southern Pantanal where they are rarely seen. We were out for a late afternoon pontoon boat trip, fishing for piranha and were surprised to have a jaguar observe us from a deserted dock. He quickly tired of us taking his picture and retreated to rest from the heat. After the fishing was complete, we anxiously looked as we passed the same dock and there he was, cautiously watching us motor down the river.

Some days on the water we spotted multiple cats, and other days we were lucky to see

Piranhas are fun to catch, no good to eat and a challenge to get off the hook! Their razor

sharp teeth can quickly strip flesh off their prey or a fisherman, as our guide shows us his scarred thumb! Natives of South America catch piranha and use their teeth to make tools and weapons. Lodging in Brazil can run from moderately comfortable to decidedly glamorous. Most of the lodges offered air-conditioned sleeping rooms, but not always air- conditioned dining rooms. Generators provided electricity, with

limited service each day. Hot showers were available and some even offered private outdoor showers, which were a true treat. Food was delicious at all of the lodges, including fresh fish, tender beef, rice with beans and interesting vegetables. If you ever travel to Brazil, you must try the national drink – caipirinha! It is made with sugar, lime and cachaça, which is sugarcane hard liquor.

My jaguar trips were exciting and the photo ops were priceless. But there’s so much more to see and do! Stay tuned to a future edition of Slidell Magazine where I will share more about the wildlife and beauty to be found in Brazil.

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Traveling to the North Shore Editor’s Note: Slidell Magazine is proud to print this excerpt from the book Images of Slidell by Arriollia “Bonnie” Vanney. Bonnie has been a constant source of historical Slidell information for all of us here at Slidell Magazine, particularly Ronnie Dunaway as he researches his “Once Upon A Time...” features. In addition to Images of Slidell, Bonnie had authored An Island Between the Chef and Rigolets, and its companion book, The Lost & Forgotten Communities of Chef Menteur-Rigolets & Lake St. Catherine In Orleans Parish. Both are recognized by the State of Louisiana as THE source books for the histories of the Chef Menteur, Rigolets, and Lake St. Catherine areas. The information Bonnie took years to collect and document on paper is now regarded as historical fact. Both books also are included in the Louisiana Collection, the New Orleans Historic Collection, and the Library of Congress. Bonnie is also curator for the Slidell Mardi Gras Museum, preserving the rich history of our local carnival krewes and parades. THANK YOU BONNIE for all your contributions to Slidell Magazine and our great city!!

This is one of many steamers built by Canulette Shipbuilding Company on Bayou Bonfouca. She was launched in 1924 and named “Lake Saint Tammany.” Piloted by Captain Jim Howze and Frank Comfort, she traveled across Lake Pontchartrain to New Orleans from Slidell and Mandeville daily. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

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On the waves for repair is the “Leta” of Pearlington, Mississippi. She appears to be getting an overhaul. As one of the Hursey Company ferry fleet she was the fastest of the line. On a daily trip across the Rigolets she could carry 12 cars and 50 passengers. On occasion she would dock at the Pearlington ferry landing. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

Ferry service from New Orleans to Slidell and other ports in St. Tammany began around 1919 and continued until the construction of the Chef Menteur and Rigolets Bridges. “Mollie Lee,” an independently owned ferry, was small compared to the Hursey Company’s fleet of five ferries. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

The “Hi-Way” not the largest of the fleet cost $50,000.00 to build. She had a capacity of 40 cars and 500 passengers. She could cross the Rigolets Pass in 15 minutes. Her sister ferries were “Leta,” “Garibaldi,” “O.S.T.” and “Hursey.” During the summer months, 2,500 cars crossed into St. Tammany Parish and traveled through Slidell. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

In the early 1800’s, schooners and sailing vessels docked at Robert’s Landing daily bringing settlers and supplies to Slidell. Through early 1900, train travel became a major part of the Slidell economy and growth. The trains transported more than supplies to and from the town - hundreds of tourists came from all over to bathe in the pine rock water from the wells in the area, which claimed to have healing powers. As early as 1919, talk had begun on a highway being built between New Orleans and Logtown, Mississippi by way of Chef Menteur, Rigolets and Slidell. In 1926, the automobile brought other modes of travel. Ferry service from New Orleans to the north shore was more of a challenge than pleasure. An excursion by car on poorly constructed gravel roads from New Orleans to Chef Menteur Pass ended by waiting in the hot sun and fighting off mosquitoes to cross the island and travel down Hospital Wall Road at the Rigolets Pass to board another ferry bound for the north shore, disembarking fifteen minutes later onto a new 300-foot landing pier at the end of Treasure Isle and motoring up Old Spanish Trail from the lake into town.

The tugboat “Andrew”, built at Canulette Shipbuilders in Slidell, docking at one of New Orleans’ many ports. Constructed in 1920, the wooden hull and cabin served her purpose in towing and docking ships into port. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

In 1926, the Louisiana Highway Commission hired W. Horace Williams Company, an engineering firm, to explore the possibilities of building a bridge at Chef Pass and Rigolets Pass. All Slidell workers were hired for the construction project. Travel to the north shore became less complicated when in 1928 and 1929 these two bridges opened.

Three stationary Parker trusses modified from Pratt trusses of 400 feet each, as seen in the top photograph, were constructed from the St. Tammany side and worked toward the New Orleans East Land Bridge. An average of one car every ten minutes crossed the bridge. (Both photos courtesy of Bonnie Vanney.)

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During the 1920’s in Slidell history, businesses were abundant and tourists were flocking to the north shore during the summer months to escape the heat and mosquitoes of New Orleans. Work was plentiful with the large sawmills, shipbuilding companies and brick plants. Slidell was located in the heart of the Ozone Belt and had the healthiest water, which made it even more attractive. In Olde Towne, Sabrier’s Pavilion, a health resort and spa stayed busy. On February 18, 1928, the Watson-Williams Bridge (a.k.a. Robert S. Maestri and Five-Mile Bridge) opened. It was privately owned, with a toll of $1.25 per car (the equivalent of $16.96 today).

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www.slidellantiques.com The Five-Mile Bridge, as it became known, was heavily traveled before Interstate 10 was constructed in the 1960s. Today, it is still in use and used by many residents living on the south end of Slidell. (Courtesy of Mildred Pearce.) Governor Huey P. Long opposed the idea of people paying to cross the lake. He ordered the ferry services to be free and put into motion the construction of two free bridges. The Chef Pass Bridge opened in September 1929 and the Rigolets Pass in 1930.

The Rigolets Pass bridge, along with the Five-Mile Bridge, ultimately eliminated ferry service. Traveling Highway 90, you crossed the Rigolets Bridge. After suffering damage from Katrina, it was repaired but outdated, requiring opening for many boats to pass underneath it. As Slidell’s tourism increased, along with our reputation for excellent fishing, it was replaced with a high-rise bridge. (Courtesy of Bonnie Vanney.)

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Built in the early 1920s, the Commercial Hotel was a grand building, located across the street from our present train depot on the south corner of Front Street and Fremaux Avenue. This two-story building was not only convenient to the train, but it was next door to Neuhauser Brothers general merchandise store. It offered free sample rooms to travelers and drummers (traveling salesmen). The hotel was famous for its “Bird Cage Saloon” operated by Mr. and Mrs. H. D. Varlie and, in later years, Mr. & Mrs. S. H. Lott. The top photograph is the Commercial Hotel. On the right, next to it is Neuhauser Brothers, then Spanish Gardens dining and dancing and Baker’s Saloon. (Courtesy of GOSH.) The 1920 postcard below is a different look. In the bottom of the photograph you can see the fence of the train depot. (Courtesy of GOSH.)

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Mr. Jake B. Spence was from Mississippi. He moved to Louisiana when he took a position with the railroad as a foreman of the Southern Railroad trestle maintenance crew stationed at the south end of the trestle until 1922. He moved to Slidell and opened a service station and café at 2859 Carey Street. Later, he built a two-story business and residence on the corner of Front Street and Pontchartrain Drive, called Spence’s Bar, better known as the Curve Inn. He sold the business to Nick Sansone who operated it for forty-seven years. St. Christopher’s Curve Inn closed in October 1987 after fire destroyed the landmark. This photograph shows the original Curve Inn in 1930 with the family residence in rear. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

The Curve Inn was famous for its delicious fried chicken. Many of the town residents and travelers ate Sunday dinner at the restaurant. Local businessmen were part of the lunch crowd during the week. Jake Spence is pictured here standing behind the bar in 1937. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

Thephotograph below shows the last Curve Inn before being destroyed by fire. (Courtesy of GOSH.)

Jake Spence took off a few years after selling the Curve Inn. In 1939, he decided to go back in business. He bought a larger parcel of land down from his previous location on U.S. 11 and built another two-story building with residence upstairs calling it Spence’s Café. He operated the business until 1943 when he sold the thriving business to Sam and Elizabeth Bosco. It was remodeled and opened as Bosco’s Restaurant and Bar. A motel was added to the side and a large room that could be partitioned for meetings, dances and parties. Local bands played on weekends and special occasions. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

One of the 1940s bands that played at Bosco’s on a regular basis. L-r: Joe Blackman on piano, Hal Gilda leader and base, Sparky Penton drummer, Elmer Fortier singer/tenor saxophone, Jack Galatas trumpet, Oscar Davis alto saxophone and clarinet, Ralph Rousseaux alto saxophone. (Courtesy of GOSH.)

The Fontainebleau Hotel Court was one of many small motor courts built in 1940s. The main highways coming into Slidell were Highway 90 and U.S. 11. Seven to ten cottages with kitchenettes and drive-in carports accommodated the weary traveler. Rates per night ranged from $1.00 to $2.00 depending on the number of beds per unit. This hotel had a swimming pool for the customer’s pleasure. The Fontainebleau was located on the corner of Front Street and Gause Boulevard. Its lighted sign at night boasted air condition. Gause Boulevard was a single lane dirt road. Private homes can be seen in the background of the top photograph. (Courtesy of Slidell Museum.)

Slidell was the first stop after leaving New Orleans. It became a thriving tourist attraction. It was a place to stretch your legs, get a cold drink and play the slot machines at the White Kitchen on Front Street. Triangle Service Station sold 50 to 100 cases of Coca Cola on the weekends and added more pumps to the station for customer convenience. 40

One of Slidell’s most famous landmarks was the White Kitchen on Front Street, built in 1931. Onesine Faciane started with a humble beginning in 1926, opening a hamburger and sandwich shop on Front Street. The forerunner to the White Kitchen chain was White Kitchen Cellar. After becoming successful in the business, he changed the name to White Kitchen, perfecting open-flame barbeque with a secret sauce. It is said that his famous sauce was a gift from the Bowden family when they closed their barbeque business located down the block from him, adding a logo of an Indian kneeling at a campfire. This logo was displayed at his three locations, two in Slidell and one in New Orleans. He continued to expand the business and added a bus stop for the Bayou Bus route, which ran between Bayou Liberty, Covington and Slidell. The full service station was open twenty-four hours a day.

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“Our business is taking care of yours” The aerial photograph above was taken in the mid-1930s. It shows the White Kitchen on Front Street. (Courtesy of GOSH.)

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Other structures that can be seen down Robert Street are Poole’s Funeral Home on the right, and the two-story building on the left was the Community House. Down Front Street, the first two-story building is Slidell Masonic Lodge 311 and the next two-story building is the Bank of Slidell. Anyone traveling through Slidell in the 30s, 40s, and 50s stopped at the White Kitchen. It might have been for the food, the legal whiskey or gambling. The parking lot was always full. Carhops would serve you on the weekends, which was a great place to take your favorite girl. Taxi service was available for residents and gentlemen met at the barbershop for the local news. The photograph below is of the White Kitchen on Hwy. 90. (Courtesy of GOSH.)

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Slidell Magazine was EVERYWHERE this month! Here are just a few of our adventures!

The Comma Queen! Bogue Chitto Flats’ awesome proofer, Carol Wolfram, joins Kendra and “The Storyteller” John Case at John’s book release and signing.

LOVE. TH IS. PIC. Kendra a nd Dawn Rivera f r Castle FC om F irst U dance and sing C hamber at the ’s C hrist mas lunc heon

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tle is gives us a lit Michelle Chappu Vida Loca” at La flare at “Livin’ eater. Fellow Th ge Ed g in tt Cu ent Gwendolyn Clem SWCC sisters, ) and ce fa r he on (love the look n. , join in the fu Sharon Delong

We’re pretty sure Santa was bein g naughty in this photo! Kendra joins Fred Mar tinez as he plays Santa at Slidell Little The atre

for STARC at ristmas play t the fun in The Annual Ch ou tre brings ea Th s le tt Li l Slidel ary Lee Gibbon nta’s elves, M owd cr e th r everyone! Sa fo m cobs, perfor and David Ja

Yep - that’s Saint s quarterback, Lu ke McCown, signing a copy of Slidell Magazine at th e Second Harvest Food Dr ive. Awesome.

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