29th Edition - December 2012 by Slidell Magazine

F R E E TA K E O N E

THE OFFICIAL MAGAZINE OF SLIDELL

We Wish You A Blessed And Merry Christmas!

magazine Vol 29 December 2012

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The

Train of Hope

St.Tammany pays it forward

Slidell Magazine I succumbed to the effects of peer pressure just last month. Yep, at 41 years of age, I ﬁnally gave in and just took the word of the people surrounding me that they knew what was best for me. I quit smoking. I’ve been a smoker for 20+ years. Not many people were aware of it, because I refrained (mostly) from smoking in public. It was my secret. Other than being an awful, disgusting, smelly addiction, smoking has become such a taboo, it outcast me socially.

Kendra celebrates another birthday!

Editor’s Letter By Kendra Maness

This month, Slidell Magazine’s contributing writer, Alex Carollo, brings you the inspiring story of Pearl River High School student Kaitlin Gomez. Kaitlin and the members of the group, Amplify, are leading by example, showing kids that you don’t have to drink, smoke, or do drugs to have a good time and be part of the crowd. They perform skits and speak with students throughout the parish, hold summer camps to help increase self confidence, and teach others kids how to be peer facilitators. Kaitlin says this camp has changed her life. My bet is that she’s one of many who have been positively impacted. I attended a peer facilitator summer camp between my freshman and sophomore years in high school. It truly was a life-changing and wonderful experience. I learned how to stand up against peer pressure and how to positively influence my situations and those around me. I made friends that I could count on from that time forward to help me resist the temptation of bad influences. The camp was called “Positive Action” and the effects of that one summer week have impacted my entire life. You are reading the effects of a Positive Attitude right now! I haven’t always been strong in the face of peer pressure, though. I have fallen into the trap of “Come on…Just take a sip and see if you like it” or “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re wearing THAT” more times than I’d like to admit. (Drugs have always been an absolute NO regardless of what pressure or situation surrounded me.) My confidence has waivered in the past and sometimes I’ve just meekly and blindly followed others, rather than forged my own path.

Our community is chock full of awesome people and peers – I’m blessed to be inﬂuenced in such a positive way by such wonderful people. Stay on me. Don’t let up. PEER PRESSURE. Bring it on!!! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year And Good Luck with your New Years Resolutions! YOU CAN DO IT!!

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I was also keenly aware of just how audacious it was for me to smoke, being a Cancer Conqueror. God blessed me with a second chance and here I was, consciously choosing to let that chance go up in smoke. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

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So, I gave in to peer pressure. My friends and family have done what all good coercers do – they harangued, annoyed, taunted, cajoled, bullied, browbeat and pressured me. Classic peer pressure tactics. They never let up. They made me feel uncomfortable and different. My best friend put it simply. “I love you and I want to spend time with you. Smoking is a choice. I choose not be around you when you do it. Watching you kill yourself is not my idea of fun.”

Kendra Maness - Editor/Publisher Editor@SlidellMag.com Alan Lossett - Graphic Design Jennifer Rieck - Sales Contributing Writers: Alex Carollo Gay DiGiovanni Nancy Richardson Carol Ruiz Kim Bergeron Dr. Dennis Peyroux

To all of them, I say THANK YOU. Although my resolve is strong, I am afraid of failure. (This isn’t the ﬁrst time I’ve quit smoking). So this letter, in its own way, is a form of peer pressure. I’m exposing myself to the scrutiny and feedback of the people who read this. And to their inﬂuence and opinion of the choice I’ve made to never smoke again.

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Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” Person of the Month by Nancy Richardson

Slidell Magazine’s EFOP for December is Mr. Cultus Pearson, The Crabman of Lacombe. As you may recall, Cultus’ story began last month, as Slidell Magazine printed excerpts from his manuscript which chronicles his life as a child in the 1920’s and ‘30’s. Cultus grew up in South Point, LA, located at the south end of the Southern Railroad bridge across Lake Pontchartrain, near Irish Bayou. His childhood was spent

Cultus Pearson Part 2 December 2012 enjoying the beauty and bounty of Lake Pontchartrain with his brother, Ishmel, and his family. Cultus began his lifelong fascination and occupation with crab fishing at the young age of 6, when his family moved to South Point. For the next 80+ years, Cultus has honed and perfected his skills as a crab fisherman, inventing a self-contained shedding technique which helps to provide the elusive soft-shelled crabs for all of us Louisiana seafood lovers. In Part 1 of Cultus’ story (Slidell Magazine, Vol. 28, November 2012), we were given a glimpse of life in the Pearson family home, a camp on the southern border of the lake. Their home was on a small strip of land that no longer exists, where the railroad bridge coming from Slidell meets the South shore. A walkway from the back of their home extended over the lake. His community was tiny and close-knit, consisting of only 16 houses, about half of his neighbors were commercial fishermen, the other half were railroad employees. Cultus’ father, a bridge tender at the south drawbridge, encouraged his sons’ interest in crab fishing and helped Cultus and Ishmel begin a small business to sell their catch.

Cultus, with brother Ishmel, in South Point, LA 6

Cultus and Ishmel attended school, transported by the train, at Slidell Grammar School (now Brock Elementary) and in New Orleans at Beauregard School (now Thurgood Marshall School). Their time off from school was spent crabbing, fishing and exploring the waters and marshes of Lake Pontchartrain. Their childhood was set in the backdrop of a pristine and natural lake environment, decades before the I-10 interstate and coastal erosion swallowed their quartermile long community. Part 2 of Cultus’ story begins after the brothers had established themselves as a supplier of crabs to their neighbors and the local fishermen. Here now are the further adventures of Cultus Pearson in his own words:

One day Mother’s sister, Aunt Doris, and her husband, Uncle Hurshel, came to South Point and lived with us. Uncle Hurshel was a very likable person who would not accept any regular job, and Aunt Doris was the type that didn’t seem to be concerned about the fact that they were short of everything except coffee. Uncle Hurshel would farm a little and, in the winter, he would run a line of traps along one of the local creeks. In those days, most people in that area (and almost everyone there was related to me) liked to go camp fishing on the creeks and rivers. If Uncle Hurshel missed one of these campouts, it wasn’t often. He knew where, when, and how to make them successful. Most of the time they would bring salt, pepper, shortening, a frying pan, and a syrup bucket for their coffee. If they didn’t catch fish, they didn’t eat, and Uncle Hurshel seemed to bring good luck. I witnessed one occasion when he was in his field with his horse pulling a plow. Someone, and I don’t remember whom, stopped his car in the road adjacent to him and said, “Hurshel, let’s go fishing.” He uncoupled his horse from the plow and went fishing. That’s why he was welcome to join us in our crabbing business. He took my place with Ishmel on our crabbing boat. I would take my nets and pole to the Irish Bayou Lagoon in a pirogue. There, I would fish for green crabs. Green crabs are the ones that will still eat but are about four

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The Southerner train, circa 1940 or five days from shedding. Almost every crab that I would catch in that lagoon would shed. We enjoyed Uncle Hurshel, and I believe he enjoyed that summer with us. One evening when I was returning home from school, I saw a large strange dog. Mr. Ernest Edmenson grabbed the short rope that was tied around the strange dog’s neck. He let go of the rope when the dog bit him on his hand. When I went home, my mother told me how the same dog had attacked my puppy a few minutes earlier. No one thought about this incident until my puppy started to foam around his mouth and act strangely. [Cultus’ puppy had to be euthanized, affecting him deeply. The remains were sent for testing, and were confirmed positive for rabies.] Because my puppy still had his little razor-sharp teeth and because about seven or eight people in our small community had come in contact with him, we all had to get the rabies treatments. Arrangements were made with the staff at Charity Hospital in New Orleans to open after hours to accommodate us. The treatments consisted of eighteen shots in the stomach on eighteen consecutive days. Not long after that, I got another puppy who I named Spunk from the story book, Spunk the Leader of the Dog Team. Spunk grew up to be my pride and joy. When the water around my house was calm and clear, Spunk would chase mullets for hours at a time. The mullets would have the tops of their heads just a little above the surface of the water while they were feeding on the pollen that floated on the surface. Sometimes Spunk would be swimming and sometimes his feet would touch the bottom. I don’t believe he ever caught one without assistance from me and my 22 rifle. I would shoot a mullet in the water that was shallow enough for Spunk’s feet

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Cultus as a young private in the Army during World War II to touch the bottom. He would go immediately to the spot where the projectile hit the water and, with his front feet, he would locate the dead fish and turn his tail toward the shore backing up with the fish under his front feet. When he reached a point where he was sure that he could stand up, he would stick his head under the water and come up with the fish in his mouth. He would then select a nice spot on the shore and eat his catch. One morning, my brother Ishmel and I had just started setting out our crab nets. We were about 100 yards from the end of the bridge when we saw Spunk following us on the railroad track. I was begging Spunk to jump down on a cap where he would be safe. We could hear the Southerner, a streamline passenger train, coming. Spunk was about to jump when the

train reached the end of the bridge. The engineer blew his whistle when he saw Spunk. Instead of jumping down on the cap, he jumped on the track in front of the train. The train knocked him up and out over the lake. Although Spunk came up swimming, I just knew that he would not survive. I picked him up out of the water and held him in my arms. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his rear end because I was afraid of what I would see. Ishmel drove the boat straight to the back of our house while I held Spunk. Mother saw us coming and knew something was wrong because we never came home to the back of our house. When we arrived at our back runway, Mother met us there. I had not stopped crying and was still holding Spunk. I told Mother that the Southerner had hit him. She said, “Why don’t you put him down?” I put him down, and he walked off the run to the porch. I don’t believe any other dog has survived after coming in contact with a train on that bridge. Spunk was going to be fine. There was a strip of marsh that started just about even with the depot and extended south for about one and a half miles. It was about one hundred yards wide. [There were two ponds in the strip, referred to as ‘duck ponds’. This is where Cultus would catch turtles for his mother to cook or to sell for a quarter.] Along the shoreline of this strip of marsh is where we would find what we referred to as arrowheads. I have been told that they are actually spear points because they are too large to be arrow points. It is my theory that Indians would use spears to kill large wild animals like deer or wild hogs. Since both are difficult to kill, some of the animals would escape and eventually die. Everything would decompose over time except the spear point. As the lake slowly eroded the marsh,

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these spearheads would be uncovered. Since most of the erosion occurred on the east side of the lake, the northwest wind would cause the most erosion, and at the same time it caused the tide to drop to a low level. That is when I would walk the shoreline looking for those spear points. Almost every one would be in perfect shape, which supports my theory about the animals. At any rate, I had about 100 spear points when I was young, and my older sons had an opportunity to collect some much later. At the present time, there is not one square foot of that strip of marsh left. A bad thing happened around Christmas time when I was very young. For some reason, I was looking in our man robe (that’s where men kept their coats), and I saw the stock of a gun. Upon further investigation, it turned out to be a BB gun. I had to tell Mother and Dad. [The gun was a Christmas present for Ishmel] That’s where the bribery began. If I promised not to tell Ishmel, they would let me try it out. You can be sure that I did not let this opportunity pass. After a few shots, it was put back where it came from. I’m not sure, but I think there was one for each of us. I can remember that we oiled our guns every so often; when we did this, we would hold the muzzle close to the floor and fire it. Since there were no BB’s in the gun, it would leave a brown spot about the size of a silver dollar. Joe Bass, a friend of ours who was a couple of years older than Ishmel, was visiting. I cocked my gun and asked him to hold out his hand so I could demonstrate how it would make the spot in his hand. He refused, so Ishmel held out his hand to show him. When I fired my gun, a BB that was lodged somewhere came out and almost went through Ishmel’s hand. Dad carried him to the doctor in Slidell to remove the BB. One night, as I was hunting for alligators with my headlight, I saw a small one that I decided to catch. I could just see his head, and I underestimated his size. When I grabbed him by his neck, he started to twist. It was all that I could do to hold him with one hand until I laid my paddle down and added another hand to the equation. Now that I had him, I didn’t know what I was going to do with him. I thought that I had considered all of the possibilities, including throwing him back into the water, when the solution came to me. I took off one of my hip boots, put him headfirst into the boot and used the bootstrap to tie the gator’s tail and the top part of the boot. When I came home that night, my dog Spunk had to know what was in my boot. He followed me into our foyer where the floor was covered with linoleum. When I dumped the gator out, Spunk didn’t want any part of that alligator. Because we were so isolated, you are probably wondering how we got supplies, since everyone now goes to the store almost every day to buy something. The men who worked in the baggage car on the train (which

carried us to school and brought us home in the evening) helped make life more enjoyable for us. My grandmother would send milk, butter, and vegetables from her house in Caesar, Mississippi to the train station in Picayune, Mississippi. Someone would put these things in the baggage car of the train that we rode home in the evenings. The baggage men were not required to provide this service as part of their job. Any time someone wanted to send something to South Point, all they had to do was bring it to the train station. For one period of time, Roseaux Dairy would send us two quarts of milk each day from Slidell. The milk was in glass bottles, and the next day the empty bottles would be returned on the same train that carried us to school. I suppose that was the reason that we picked gallons of figs and gallons of dewberries to give to the baggage men. That is also the reason that we would pluck the ducks that we killed. Mother wanted the feathers to make pillows and the ducks to give to the baggage men.

Cultus and Frances Pearson with their 9 children Cultus joined the Lacombe VFW over 60 years later - about 6 years ago - and found out that he had been recognized with the Bronze Star, but just had never formally received it. Over a half-century and decade later, a ceremony was held in Lacombe to award Cultus his medal and to honor his meritorious service during World War II.) After his service in the Army, Cultus returned home to South Point and, incredibly, enrolled back into high school to continue his education and graduate. There, he met his lovely wife of 63 years, Frances Davis. He graduated high school in 1947 and attended LSU, where he graduated with a degree in forestry in 1951.

Cultus is awarded the Bronze Star for Heroic and Meritorious Achievements, over 60 years after earning it I considered South Point to be a paradise. I had two parents who I knew loved me. By their actions towards me, there was no doubt in my mind. I had my brother, Ishmel, to play with, to share with, to work with, and to fight with. I never had a single occasion to think that my parents would ever separate. I never went to bed hungry. It was an idyllic life for a young boy. Editor’s Postscript: Cultus continued to live in South Point until he was a junior at Slidell High School, when he was drafted into the Army in 1943, during World War II. Cultus served for 31 months, discharged with the rank of Sergeant, during which time his unit fought in the South Pacific invasion of the Phillipine Islands. While in service, Cultus earned a Bronze Star for Heroic and Meritorious Achievement. (The story of Cultus’ award is another fascinating tale: Cultus was hospitalized for appendicitis for two weeks after the invasion, and his unit was disbanded in Japan. During this time, it is believed that the members of his unit were given the medals they had earned during their time in service. Cultus was not present and, in the confusion, was never aware that he had received recognition for his heroism.

The Pearson’s had a large and close-knit family of 9 children, during which time Cultus used crabbing to supplement his full-time occupation as a business owner;

first as a service station owner, then his own boat business, where he built fiberglass pirogues and lake skiffs. He taught his children the crabbing business (all 6 boys had their turn fishing crabs to make extra money). He returned to full-time crabbing “once he saw that the children were in college and were started off, because that’s what he always wanted to do,” Frances says with pride. Cultus and Frances settled in Lacombe in 1954, where they still live today. Cultus Pearson went on to continue his interest in crabbing and all things related to life on the lakes and bayous of South Louisiana. The Pearson family has grown, and is still growing, with 28 grandchildren and 36 great-grandchildren (and 2 more on the way!) When you drive through Lacombe, look for the sign on the road that almost always says “Crabs: We’re Out”.

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The Salvation of Jenny Lynn And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. Mark 16:17-18 KJV He came the summer I turned fourteen. I know that because I was not old enough to drive. I lived eight miles south of Brookhaven and two miles north of the crossroads village of Bogue Chitto. Brookhaven was a small city and there were more things to do there, including watching girls, which had begun to interest me. Bogue Chitto did not offer much. It had a hamburger place with a pinball machine, and Dude Morgan’s Pool Hall. That was about it. It did have a few girls also especially one, which this story is somewhat about. But as for having fun, Brookhaven was the location of choice. If you lived out of town and you could not drive, you were at the dependence of others. We were dependent on walking, hitchhiking or we were at the mercy of a friend or relative for a ride. We did all three, especially a lot of walking and hitchhiking. That particular summer, my friend Buck Martin and I were extremely restless. If we did not have a chore to do, or when we finished our chores, we would do our best to go somewhere. We could walk to Bogue Chitto, and often did; but hitchhiking was faster and easier. Walking to Brookhaven was out of the question. Some days we would be hitchhiking south to Bogue Chitto and hear a car coming that was traveling north toward Brookhaven. We would just cross the road and hitchhike in that direction. It did not matter. We just had wanderlust and wanted to go somewhere. It was early August; hot and dry. Too hot to really enjoy walking anywhere so we were hitchhiking to Brookhaven. We heard a vehicle coming south and, since we had not been picked up by anyone going north, we crossed the road with the unspoken idea that Bogue Chitto was better than nothing. I was taken aback by the vehicle that topped the hill. It was a late model pickup, nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was that built onto the cargo bed was a miniature

house. Years later, these would become common as camping became a recreational pastime; but we had never seen anything like this back then, and it was homemade. It even had a chimney extending through the roof which was actually a metal stovepipe. It was built of rough lumber and not the metal you see today. There was a trailer attached filled with a large tent, tent poles, stakes, Coleman lanterns, a pulpit like you see in a church, and two screen boxes similar to animal cages. Some blocks of wood and lumber were lashed to the sides of the trailer. The driver of the truck started slowing before we actually got our thumbs out. He pulled to the side of the road just past where we were standing. Before we could approach the passenger side to get in, he exited the vehicle. Looking back, I think he would have been considered handsome. He was a muscular, athletic-looking guy about thirty-five years old. At least six foot four inches tall, he struck an imposing figure. In spite of his physical appearance, he had a soft manner about him. As I would learn in the days to

come, he probably was the byproduct of the coal mines of his youth and the Christian ministry of his adult life. He had dark hair, dark eyes and I would bet he had some Native American heritage. “Hello Brothers,” he said as he approached. Buck said, “We aren’t brothers.” Then he replied, “Oh yes you are. We are all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Lord.” He then handed us a piece of paper that read:

T he Apostle Wayne Spence Traveling Revival Church with Signs Following Buck and I had both seen his type before. Itinerant ministers were nothing new to us. We guessed that he had no intention of giving us a ride. We assumed that he just wanted to tell us about Jesus and then leave us standing in the hot sun as he drove off. This time, however, we were wrong. “Brothers, do you know where I can put up my tent?”

I told him he was welcome to put it up in our yard, as I was sure my dad would not care. In those days, it was not unusual for travelers to occasionally camp on the side of the road. It was a matter of financial necessity and not a means of recreation. Dad had never objected. “No, I need a place that can park fifty or sixty cars. You see, I am going to hold a tent revival meeting.” I knew that just down the road there was some sixteenth-section land. It belonged to the school board and they did not care if you camped there. In fact, every June the Gypsies camped there en route to Meridian to visit the grave of the Gypsy queen. Late at night, after we had gone to bed, we could hear their haunting music. As children, we were kept close to home during the time they were there. It was rumored they stole children. Even with the fear of being stolen, we were attracted to the idea of their camping and roaming life style. The spot where they camped was a perfect spot for them; and would (in my opinion) be a perfect spot for the Apostle Wayne. In the early part of the century, there was a gravel road that ran from Chicago to New Orleans. It was called the Jefferson Davis Highway. This old road had a concrete bridge that crossed Big Creek just north of Bogue Chitto. In the 1930’s, a new highway was built that, for all practical purposes, followed the path of the Jefferson Davis Highway but was located about three hundred yards to the east. It is known today as U.S. Highway 51. When it was completed, for safety purposes and because they did not want to maintain it, the old concrete bridge was dynamited. The concrete boulders were left where they landed; some in the water and some on land. It looked much like the ruins of an earthquake. The old roadbed made for excellent parking and the creek provided water for drinking and washing clothes. I could imagine that it would be good for baptizing also. These bridge ruins could be seen clearly from the new bridge which was a couple of hundred yards away. The new bridge was elevated to avoid flooding and from there you had an excellent view of the old bridge and the campground. Brother Wayne, he insisted we call him that, asked us to show him where it was and we climbed in the cab of the truck. Just a few hundred yards down the road we exited and traveled up the old roadbed. When we arrived, Brother Wayne told us it was just what the Lord would want and offered us a dollar each to help him put up his tent.

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The dollar wage was the first of many he would offer us over the next few days. In fact, for what he asked us to do, it was not a bad deal. Especially since we had nothing else to do. He explained that he would not start preaching for several days. He first had to advertise the meeting, and this was best done by letting the passersby on the new highway see the tent. They would get curious, stop, talk to him and pass the word to others. Our next job, again for a dollar each, was to catch a rattlesnake for him. He told us his snake had died in the heat on the way down from West Virginia. We told him there were no rattlesnakes in Lincoln County; so he told us to get him a copperhead. He said he did not want a cottonmouth. He did not explain and we did not ask. We told him we had experience in catching snakes because we regularly did that for the biology departments of several high schools. He again said, “You brothers were sent by the Lord.” The biology departments would give us glass containers filled with formaldehyde. They would pay us extra if we could get a pregnant moccasin. Of course we had no way to know if the snake was pregnant or not but, if it was fat, we would argue that it was probably pregnant and they would usually pay us accordingly. We would sometimes preserve a dozen or more snakes every summer in the formaldehyde solution.

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After turning over several rotten logs in the nearby woods, we found a large fat copperhead. We caught him and placed him in a burlap sack. Thinking Brother Wayne would be pleased, we were disappointed when he said the snake was too big. He explained that a fat snake ate often, thus using up its venom. He preferred a skinny copperhead that was most likely hungry and full of deadly poison. Besides, that was what the Lord would want him to use. We went back to the woods and, before long, we brought back a snake that he said was perfect. He named him “Satan’s Brother” and put him in one of the cages. He released the large snake and forbade us to kill him. He told us that all God’s creatures had a purpose. We had earned two dollars each in the employ of Brother Wayne, which was actually respectable for the time. Plus, we were enjoying what we were doing and enjoying him. We agreed to return the next day and assist him in posting flyers around the county on stop signs, business doors and utility poles. As Buck and I walked home that afternoon, we talked about the preacher. We both agreed he was a nice guy and there was something about him that we really liked. He was a nicer guy than the preacher at my church or the Baptist Church that Buck attended. We looked forward to coming to help him the next day. Looking back, the next few days would probably have more influence on me than any other short period of time. After all these years, I still say - I saw many things over that time that I can’t explain to this day. Those things have had a profound influence on my religious ideas and beliefs. The next day was a Thursday. We met Brother Wayne at nine o’clock in the morning. He had attached a sign to the side of his truck that read very similar to the paper he had shown us when we first met, but it did reference that there would be serpents. We were a little embarrassed to be riding in a truck with a religious sign on it, but we were already committed. Our first stop was at the hamburger shop in Bogue Chitto, less than a half mile away. Brother Wayne went inside to ask permission to post his flyers. We sorted out the hammer, tacks and tape needed to post them on windows and utility poles. While we were doing this, a car that we recognized drove up. It was a car that practically everyone in the county recognized. When it stopped, she exited.

Her name was Jenny Lynn Boggin. Jenny Lynn was most likely the most beautiful woman in Lincoln County. I have never seen before or since, a prettier one. She was about twenty-six years old. Jenny Lynn was naturally beautiful, with olive skin that looked as if she had a perfect suntan every month of the year. She had long black hair and green eyes. Most of the time she wore her hair down and, on more formal occasions, it flowed well below her shoulders. For less formal times, she wore it in a pony tail. That is the way it was today. She was dressed in a white blouse and light green shorts, both glistening with starch and freshness. She wore only a little lipstick, no other makeup. She did not need it. She had a very classy demeanor to top it all. Jenny Lynn did not belong in Bogue Chitto, or Brookhaven for that matter. In fact, I am not sure she even belonged in the state of Mississippi. I could easily have seen her on Broadway or in Hollywood starring in an award-winning movie. She did go away once when she went to college out of state. She then spent a summer in Europe and the entire community was surprised when she returned home. They were pleased but surprised. Girls like Jenny Lynn just moved on. She taught private art lessons and had students from several surrounding counties. Once she had a student art show at the public library. We did not think the art was very good, but since Jenny Lynn was going to be present, everyone we knew was there. Jenny Lynn entered the hamburger shop. Just moments later, Brother Wayne exited. When he came back to the truck, we noticed that Brother Wayne did not have the same assured composure that he had held prior. Almost stuttering, he said we had permission to place the flyers but gave us no instructions on where to place them. We could tell he was distracted. As we left to go to another location, he asked us who she was. We knew without asking who he meant. We told him Jenny Lynn’s name and we could see that he was attracted to her. Even though she was much older than Buck and me, we were infatuated with her also. Subconsciously, we were jealous. To punish him for his interest, we did not offer any information that he did not ask for. He, however, asked one question after another. Was she married? “No.” Why not? “I guess she just does not want to.” Does she have a boyfriend? “Nope.” Has she ever had a boyfriend? “Yep.” What happened to him? “Got killed.” Was she serious about him? “Engaged.” How did he die? “Car wreck, week before the wedding.” What else did we know about her? We were almost having fun withholding information. Buck answered, “She is pretty.” He replied, “Sure is.” He was quiet for a minute or two then I volunteered that, the year before she got engaged, she won a local beauty contest. Scored perfect in the bathing suit competition. My reason for telling him this was if I let him know she paraded in front of men half naked in a bathing suit, she may not be worthy of a preacher’s attention.

I also told him that she had never been the same since the accident and seldom went anywhere and never dated anyone. I was hoping this would steer his interest away from her, but to my dismay, I could see that this pleased him. He repeated her name out loud several times. “Jenny Lynn Boggin, Jenny Lynn Boggin.” The flyers we were posting indicated that the tent services would be held on the next two Thursday through Saturday nights. Brother Wayne told us that you did not have service on Wednesdays or Sundays, as that would interfere with the regular services that were held in the community. He told us that preachers are a jealous type so you have to respect their Wednesday and Sunday services. If you did not compete, they would not complain. Our next assignment was to acquire a guitar player and a drummer. He told us that he would pay three dollars to each of them if they were good. That was my first lesson in learning that you make more money if you have a talent or a trade. We found him Boozer Hart for the guitar and Bucks brother, Sammy Martin, for the drums. Monday would be a day that I would never forget – in fact, I remember as if it were yesterday. I saw what I think was the first miracle that Brother Wayne performed. The area of the creek where the camp was located had been rechanneled to accommodate the new bridge thirty years before. The water did not flow well in this area and, over the years, Buck and I had fished it many times. We had never caught a fish. When we saw Brother Wayne, he was sitting by the water praying. He asked us to go home and bring three fishing poles, some worms for bait, and a can of whole kernel corn. We tried to tell him there were no fish, but he insisted we had no faith. We got the items he requested, if for no other reason than to prove him wrong. We all put worms on our hooks and began to fish. After about an hour, Buck and I began to smirk at each other. Brother Wayne may know about the Lord but we knew about fishing on Big Creek. He gave us a disapproving glance and opened the can of corn. He then threw it in the water as he said a prayer. If I had not seen it, I would not have believed it. The moment his hook hit the water, he caught a blue gill. We had never caught one that big anywhere on the creek. Within ten minutes, he had caught six. We had caught none. He told us that we had caught enough for lunch and we should stop. There was no reason to waste the Lord’s bounty. Finally, Thursday arrived and we spent most of the day setting up chairs, assembling benches, hanging Coleman lanterns and cutting small bushes so that people would not trip and fall in the shadows. Service was to start at 7pm. We could hardly wait. Again we were paid a dollar each but, to be truthful, we did not care about the money at this point; we had bought into Brother Wayne and his Signs Following Church. The crowd started arriving about six o’clock. By seven, all the seats were taken and there was standing room only. The drummer started a slow roll and the guitar strummed chords of a song I had never heard before. We had not seen Brother Wayne in the last couple of hours. He had gone into the little cabin on his truck to meditate and dress. Then, out of the darkness, he came. He had worked his way through the woods and approached from a totally unexpected direction. He was dressed in a solid white suit including white shoes. He had a string tie with a large turquoise clasp.

The drummer got louder and the guitar joined in as Brother Wayne started to sing. Again, it was a song we did not sing in our church but obviously some of the crowd knew it as they began to sing with him. Half the crowd was standing. Some were turning in circles as they danced. Others were waving their hands above their heads. Then, as if you had turned off a switch, it got quiet. Brother Wayne, in the clearest most authoritative voice, one that shocked Buck and me, said, “And if they drink any deadly thing, it will not hurt them. That is the sign of a believer. Are you a believer?” The crowd responded with a loud, “YES WE BELIEVE.” He answered, “I AM A BELIEVER.” He then reached behind the pulpit and retrieved a quart bottle of Clorox. He removed the cap and started gulping down the liquid. Then he set the bottle on the pulpit so all could see. I would look at the bottle and then look at him to see if he was going to collapse. He did not. He preached. The crowd screamed, and he preached some more. Every now and then, he would take a swallow of the Clorox. Some people (mostly women) were fainting; other women were trying to revive them by passing smelling salts beneath their noses. It was household ammonia, I could smell it. Finally Brother Wayne finished the Clorox and pitched the bottle into the woods behind the pulpit. I had to know. I made my way to where the bottle had landed and removed the cap. It smelled like Clorox, but I was not sure. I poured the few remaining drops on the hem of my blue jeans. When the service was over, we helped Brother Wayne clean up. As I took one of the Coleman lanterns down, I let its light shine on my blue jeans. The hem was white. Brother Wayne was real. I had seen another miracle. The next day he asked us to rearrange the seating as he anticipated a larger crowd. We were to fashion some crude benches out of the blocks of wood and lumber that was lashed to the trailer. He told me to go inside his truck house and get a hammer and some nails. The inside of his mobile house was tiny but everything was neatly placed and you could tell he had spent time arranging things to accommodate the small living quarters. What caught my attention were his clothes. There were five suits hanging on a rack. All were covered with a plastic laundry bag and you could tell that they had been recently dry-cleaned. Each suit had the exact same spacing between them, as if the distance had been measured. Under the suits on the floor, four pairs of shoes were placed with the same precision. There was also one pair of khakis and he was wearing blue jeans. Completing his wardrobe were four white shirts, and two short sleeve shirts. In the corner were four bottles of Clorox like the one I had seen the night before. His personal possessions consisted of a Bible, an iron, and a battery powered radio.

“Brothers and Sisters, tonight is a healing service.” He then started walking up the aisle, stopping by Jenny Lynn. He reached his hand out and said, “This lady needs healing.” He reached for her hand and said, “Do you want the Lord to heal you?” I am not sure if she said anything or even nodded affirmatively. I could not see or hear what happened, but the next thing I knew, he was leading her to the front of the tent. He started to pray, she started to cry. He then turned to the crowd and said, “The Lord tells me this lady suffers from a broken heart.” There was a tiny stove in the center attached to the stove pipe. Beside the stove was a metal bucket filled with coal. This, I assumed, is where he prepared his meals. Friday night the service began almost identical to the night before. Brother Wayne was dressed in a blue and white striped seersucker suit this time. He wore blue suede shoes which I had previously seen in his living quarters. Just as Brother Wayne was about to take the podium, the crowd’s attention was directed to a late arrival. It was Jenny Lynn. When I saw her, I thought I was seeing an angel. She wore a solid white dress that went to just below her knees. There was some type of red scarf around her neck and she had on red shoes with low heels. Her long hair was in a bun held in place with something that looked like decorative chopsticks. They had red and green rhinestones. There were no seats remaining but a man in his early forties stood to give her his seat. She sat about halfway from the front of the tent in a seat by the aisle. Then Brother Wayne started his sermon. The excitement and feedback from the crowd grew. Then, when he lifted his arms, it became totally silent.

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With that, he grabbed her chest in the vicinity of her heart. Buck and I looked at each other as we realized this profession had hidden benefits. It appeared to us that Brother Wayne was holding her breast in his cupped hand. He continued praying for several minutes. He then led her back to her seat. She was pale and looked weak, almost sick. Her hair had begun to unravel from the neat bun with the chopsticks. I had never seen her look unkempt before. Buck and I missed the next service but we were told Jenny Lynn was there and she came early. We did not miss again and Jenny Lynn was always there. We had never been paid for any of our work; so on the last Friday of the scheduled meetings, we asked Brother Wayne about getting our money. A bucket had been passed at each service and we were amazed at the amount of money that was dropped in. He said he would be glad to pay us then, but if we would wait until after the last service and he counted the donations, he felt the Lord had blessed him enough to pay us double. We agreed. That night, the service started as a healing service and evolved into a spirit-filled event where Brother Wayne would put his hands on the head of those who came forward. Many would then faint and fall back on the ground. He said that the Holy Spirit had “slain them in the spirit.” Jenny Lynn now sat on the first row. We watched as a number of young girls came up to have hands laid on them. Buck and I thought it may be interesting if we went to the area behind the pulpit. If you got slain, you always fell with your feet pointed in that direction. We thought we might get a view of the girls when their dresses flew up. This proved to not be the case, as several women were throwing sheets over them as soon as they fell. Before we could make our way back to the area in front of the pulpit, Brother Wayne raised his arms. The audience obeyed with that distinct silence. “Brothers and Sisters, tonight we have serpents.”

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A gasp came from the audience. Brother Wayne picked up the cage with Satan’s Brother in it. He walked to the center of the tent, opened the cage, reached in and retrieved the snake. He lifted the snake by the center of his body and then he began to make a noise that I cannot describe to this day. Someone said, “He is speaking in tongues.” The sounds he uttered were most unusual, with almost all the words beginning with hard consonants. He lifted the snake to his eye level and the snake recoiled is if to strike. It did not. This was the first and only time I was ever frightened while being with Brother Wayne. Others began to speak in tongues and it

was not gibberish. No one could make up sounds like that. I even found myself trying to do so. Several members reached out to touch the snake but he turned away and soon he put the snake back in the cage. He handed the cage to Buck, who then carefully placed it behind the pulpit. Saturday, the next night, was the last night of the revival. Again Jenny Lynn was there in the front row. To describe it briefly, the service contained all of the strange things that had been done on prior nights. He claimed he drank strychnine, he spoke in tongues, he healed the sick, several were slain in the spirit, and he handled Satan’s Brother. After the service, and being Saturday night, Buck and I went to Bogue Chitto. For a while we played the pinball machine and then we went to Dud’s place and shot pool. About midnight, we were walking home and as we walked across the new bridge, we spotted Jenny Lynn’s car in the compound. The only other vehicle was Brother Wayne’s truck and trailer. In the middle of the bridge, we could look over into the creek by the camp and see two people standing facing each other. It was a very bright moonlit night. The moon cast a golden glow on the water from just in front of us, up to and beyond the couple. I could not help but think of the pillar of fire that led the Children of Israel to the Promised Land. It was Brother Wayne and Jenny Lynn. We assumed that it was a private baptizing service for her, so we crept through the concrete boulders to watch. We got within about fifty yards. The cars passing on the new bridge made enough noise that we could not be heard. We could tell this was not a normal baptizing. They were facing each other with their profile to us. We could see Jenny Lynn’s breasts, even the details. From what we could see, neither one of them had on any clothes.

Word went through the community that she was missing and so was the preacher. Buck and I were questioned at length by the authorities but we never told them what we had seen on Saturday night. Some talked of dragging the creek to see if she had been the victim of foul play, but I think the authorities knew what had happened. I never saw or heard of them again. The subject was just not discussed. For years I wondered what happened to those two. I wondered about the Clorox, the tongues, the snake, and the slaying in the spirit. I cannot and do not deny it happened. I saw it with my own eyes but I can’t explain it. When I decided to write this story, I tried to contact Jenny Lynn’s relatives. Most would not talk to me. I am sure if they read this story, they are glad they did not. But one cousin did. One of her younger cousins told me that the two lovers went to West Virginia and married. They were very happy until tragedy struck. About fourteen years later, their 13 year old daughter was bitten by a rattlesnake at one of the services. She died. After the death of his daughter, Brother Wayne never handled snakes again and he and Jenny Lynn moved to Johnson City, Tennessee. There he established a very successful traditional Pentecostal church. Brother Wayne passed away in 2009. Her cousin told me that Jenny Lynn died the next year. She said she just wasted away and died. Her death certificate says the cause of death was “failure to thrive” but her cousin says she died of a broken heart.

In May of 2012, Pastor Mark Wolford was bitten by a rattlesnake at a serpent service near Laeger, West Virginia. He died later that day. His father had died the same way in 1983.

John Case December 2012

We watched him take each of her hands and pull her toward him. They kissed for a minute or two. Jenny Lynn reached into her hair, removed the chopsticks and dropped then in the water. Her hair fell and covered her breasts. Brother Wayne then led her to a flat concrete slab on which he had previously placed a blanket. He lifted her onto it. Then he pulled himself up beside her and they rolled together. In a moment she disappeared underneath him.

Elder Mediation

That night we saw something we had never seen before. The parts we could not see, our imaginations provided the details. For the first time, being in Bogue Chitto was more fun than being in Brookhaven. We crept away and started walking toward home. Our emotions were mixed. I don’t think we faulted Brother Wayne for falling from grace. How could anyone resist Jenny Lynn if given the opportunity? I think we were jealous that the county’s most beautiful woman - one that we were infatuated with all our life - had been ruined. Finally Buck said, “At least we got to watch. No one else can say that.” Monday we went to help Brother Wayne pack up with expectations of getting a nice payday. When we arrived, everything was gone. There was not a trace of him having ever been there. Later that day, we learned that Jenny Lynn was gone too.

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Making ₵ents

of your money by Mike Rich

L I B O R Pains could make more money for themselves. Boring or not, those shenanigans have likely cost borrowers – you, me, and the guy behind the tree – a lot of money, and we’re probably not going to get it back. You might want to blow off the following explanation as one big snooze-fest, but stay with me for a minute, because this is important to all of us.

Unless you’re a money manager, stock broker, banker, or someone who likes to read really boring ﬁnancial stuff, you might not have paid attention to the news a couple of months ago about the big scandal in Europe, where it was discovered that bankers colluded for years to manipulate the LIBOR rate so they

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LIBOR is the London Interbank Offered Rate, and it sets the rate of interest that banks pay to borrow money from each other in different currencies. Viewed from that vantage point, you might not see what the big deal is, but consider this: LIBOR is widely used as one of the benchmarks for student loans, credit card rates, adjustable rate mortgages, and a whole bunch of other loans that affect a lot of us, including borrowing by state and local governments. Some estimates have pegged the value of financial instruments affected at $800 trillion. Yep, that’s TRILLION with a “T.” Without going into the sordid details, the bottom line is that those bankers in Europe likely cost borrowers all over the world a lot more than they should have paid for their loans. Plus, they got fatter paychecks for their efforts. American banks are being investigated, too. To use a technical term, the whole thing stinks. From those of us here at Pontchartrain Investment Management, this is our point: it’s pretty clear that investors, savers, and just about anyone who depends on money are at the mercy of big banks and a financial system that does not necessarily have our best interests at heart. If you read anything at all about what’s going on in the financial world, you are probably aware that money scandals seem to make up a good portion of the news every week. It’s not likely to change.

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So, what to do? The short answer is pretty simple: work with someone you trust to look out after you. The long answer is no different, and it comes down to this: If you are not keeping your ﬁnancial house in order and doing everything you can to make every dollar count, both now and for your future, you do so at your and your family’s peril. That’s the bad news. The good news is that you don’t have to do it alone, and you don’t have to have a million bucks to make the smart ﬁnancial moves that can make your future more secure. Consider these common-sense ideas:

1.) Answer “The Big Question.” Ask yourself this: “In thinking

about retirement, is it more probable that my money will outlive me, or that I’ll outlive my money?” If your answer is “I don’t really know,” let one of us here sit with you and ﬁgure it out. Even if you do nothing more than meet with us to do this basic calculation, at least you will have a better understanding of your ﬁnancial prospects, and you won’t have to guess.

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to pay an estimated $8 trillion to retirees in our country (there’s that “T” word again). If you are wondering where the money is going to come from, join the club. With that uncertainty in mind, we think it’s a good idea for people to get something in place that will supplement the money they are expecting to get from Social Security. If you don’t have an employer pension, the next best thing might be to build one for yourself by using an annuity. Start funding it now, and don’t stop until you stop working. You don’t need much money to get the ball rolling, but the key is to get started now. The guaranteed income stream your annuity will generate will come in handy.1

3.) Protect your assets. The last thing any of us needs is for our hard-earned money to go up in smoke because of an unexpected bad event, and one of the keys to financial security is to identify the risks in your life and protect against them with insurance. Any breadwinner in the house needs life and disability insurance, and anyone within 10 or 15 years of retirement needs to have a plan for paying for long term care (which we think is going to be a real killer for baby-boomer retirement plans). Check your car insurance, too, to make sure you won’t be financially ruined if you get sued because of an accident. The fundamentals of building financial security for most of us haven’t changed, and they’re not likely to. What’s not likely to change, either, is that there will always be people like the LIBOR bankers who will do anything they can to enrich themselves at our expense. You can’t do much about those cheaters, but you can look after yourself. And, you are not on your own. Call us, and we’ll show you how to take the pain out of your financial life.

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Frankly By Frank Davis

The Traditional Foods of New Year’s The Germans foster the same beliefs for the same reason but instead of kale they prefer, and substitute, sauerkraut.

Depending upon where you are in this world when the proverbial clock strikes twelve on New Year’s Eve is what dictates what traditionally will end up on your New Year’s Day table and on your plate. Surprisingly, however, after a bit of research, I’ve found that the menu from country to country, state to state, and city to city really has a similarity that isn’t all that different, one from the other. Each locale, it seems, chows down on “eats”—maybe without an accompanying football game to watch—which are symbolic of the important aspects of one’s life for the 365 days ahead. You can rest assured that there will be a particular and speciﬁc food to represent wealth, luck, health, and prosperity. Over the ages, here in the United States and especially in the South, there has always been a heaping helping of cabbage or collards, some cut of pork, and a big ol’ pot of black-eyed peas! Signiﬁcantly, they are said to represent money, health, and luck respectively. Cook ‘em and serve ‘em to January 1 diners, most of whom will always be family members or close friends, and they are practically guaranteed, by tradition, to have folding cash, outstanding health, and immensurable luck for the entire upcoming year. Eliminate any one of the items, though, and, well. . .you get the picture, right? So is it all based on superstition or popular legend? Probably. Are inherent qualities of each food really representative of what they stand for? Probably.

The Italians, it’s said, dine on pork sausages (brats) and green lentils.

And whoever came up with these comparison stories anyway? Here in the Deep South you’re probably gonna have to go ask your great-great-grandmother! She’s the one, we think, who allegedly passed the legends down to us and our children. I’m 70 years old now and not once in all those years did I question—or complain about—why we had to have black-eyed peas, steamed cabbage, and a slice of pork roast or a pork chop on New Year’s Day every year. And neither did any of my friends or relatives. We just automatically knew that when we sat down for a late lunch on January 1st (late because we were always up half the night shooting ﬁrecrackers) that we were going to have the peas-pork-cabbage combination set in front of us. . .no substitutions forthcoming. And not a single soul had better utter anything akin to “I don’t like..!” At least not without incurring the wrath of the New Year’s Day cook! But what about some of the other countries? Do they routinely serve traditional New Year’s dishes as well? Yes—most all of them do! Here are a few: The Danish eat stewed kale sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, believing that since the vegetable signiﬁes wealth, the more you eat, the richer you will become in the New Year.

My old MawMaw usta tell me that all over the world beans, lentils, and especially black-eyes peas represented “luck.” That account, rumor has it, supposedly reverts back to the Civil War. The story goes that when the Town of Vicksburg, Mississippi, discovered it was completely out of “vittles,” somebody reportedly turned up a big stash of black-eyed peas. . .which in turn warded off starvation. Ever since then, the strangelooking legume was always considered to be (and bring) “luck.” Pork, it seems, was always the most confusing item. For a long time it was considered “fatty” and not very heart-healthy. But then all of a sudden it was dubbed “the new white meat,” making it healthful enough to legitimately represent “health” on the New Year’s menu. Depending upon where you live, it is usually always served in the form of a chop, a sausage, a roast, or even in a slice of ham. In the ﬁnal analysis, though, are all these “old-folks beliefs” borne from word of mouth ramblings, inevitably to be regarded as tradition, which then become unforgivably sinful consequence if disbelieved or ignored? Who knows? I certainly don’t. The whole megillah has always been an ingrained part of my Southern up-bringing. So again this year, when lunch time rolls around on New Year’s Day, if you should happen to stop by my house to eat with the family, you can bet there will be a huge plate of black-eyed peas over rice, a large pan of smothered, seasoned, green cabbage, and a platter of mouth-watering, thinly-sliced pork loin, covered in a rich brown gravy, for you to savor.

Oh, yeah. . .and be it tradition or not, I think you’ll also have a chunk of plump, buttered, Dixie-style cornbread just for good measure! Happy New Year y’all! Crispy N’Awlins Cast-Iron Baked Cornbread A long, long time ago, when I used to cover the police beat as a cub reporter for the Slidell Times, I would regularly drop by the Slidell Police Department to retrieve the cases off the docket and rewrite them as “official police reports” for the newspaper. Well, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that at least one day a week the department cook—I seem to recall that her name was Mary— would bake a couple of pans of her untraditional yet finest and best-tasting Creole cornbread ever to pass a pair of lips! After many a visit to her kitchen, and after many occasions— by invitation—of gorging myself on the crunchy, crusty, buttery Southern creation she produced for the prisoners in her tiny little jailhouse kitchen, Mary agreed to show me how the cornbread was created. I never forgot those instructions and never, since that day, made my cornbread by any other method. Now, it is not for the diet conscious, not for those cutting back on fat grams, and certainly not for those of you who never go back for seconds! That’s because, without a word of a lie and absolutely no exaggeration, it is , hands down, the finest cornbread you’ll ever make…succulent and moist on the inside, golden and crunchy-crisp on the top and bottom. And the combination of the “butter” and the “double-baking” is the secret. I warn you now. . .try it just once and you’ll be forever addicted. ~Chef Frank Davis 1/4 cup vegetable shortening 1 stick real butter 1 whole egg, slightly beaten 1 cup whole milk (not low-fat) 1 cup yellow cornmeal 1 cup all-purpose flour 4 teaspoons baking powder 1/2 teaspoon sea salt First, take a measuring cup and melt the vegetable shortening over low heat (or in your microwave oven) and set it aside. Then take a 12-inch cast iron skillet and coat it well with a little of the butter. At this point, set your oven to 425 degrees, put the skillet onto the center rack, and preheat it. Next, in a medium mixing bowl take a whisk and whip the egg until it turns frothy. Then whip the whole milk into the egg. Now, in a large bowl mix together really well the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and salt. When it’s all been thoroughly blended, uniformly stir in the egg-milk mixture. Then stir in the melted vegetable shortening. You want to make sure you combine everything together until smooth…but don’t overmix it! At this point, carefully remove the pre-heated skillet from the oven, drop in the stick of butter, and let it sizzle until almost melted. This is when you pour in the cornmeal mixture. The mixture will pool on the bottom of the skillet and the butter will roll over the top in tsunami fashion. Immediately put the pan back into the oven to bake for 25 minutes. Now here comes the secret part! After baking for the allotted time, allow the cornbread to cool only slightly on the countertop. Then just before serving, brush a little more melted butter evenly over the top of the cooked bread, place it back into the 425 degree oven, and rebake it for 10 to 12 minutes more or until the top crust turns a rich, crunchy, golden brown. And that, y’all, is cornbread the way the Creoles usta fix it.

Health & Fitness By Dennis M. Peyroux D.C.

It is Christmas time again! You probably woke up the day after Thanksgiving with a long list of tasks that must be completed before Christmas. There is the dreaded “HoneyDo” list which becomes longer every year. This list includes making trip after trip up a ladder into the nether regions of a dimly lit attic to retrieve box after box of inside and outside decorations, lights, and anything else requested. After rummaging through the endless number of boxes looking for those special lights (that simply MUST be strung, or it’s just not Christmas), there is one more box of lights that must be found. So, one more trip back into the far corners of the attic. You spot the box! You reach for the box (which incidentally looks quite bigger than you remember from last year), then…OUCH! Lower back pain gets you! Thirty-one million Americans experience low-back pain at any given time. Americans spend at least $50 billion each year on back pain treatment. Most cases of back pain are mechanical, or non-organic. The causes of your back pain are most often NOT from

inflammatory arthritis, infection, fracture, or cancer. Many cases of low-back pain are from nerves, and/or muscle damage, or both. Irritations to the Sciatic nerve are one of the most common conditions. It can hurt from your lower back to your feet. Muscles can become stressed and inﬂamed, which results in physical, chemical, or emotional events. These knots tighten up like a braided rope and form trigger point areas which commonly reside in the neck and the lower back. There are many treatment options. However, the most effective treatments are non-drug, non-surgical ones. The following is an example of a comparison of those options.

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Chiropractic care is non-invasive, reduces pain and inflammation, increases blood flow to the affected areas, reduces trigger point areas (muscle knots) which hold the bones in position, and can permanently change the spine and posture. Chiropractic treatment realigns the spine, which reduces the pressure on the nerves and releases the pressure from the discs in your spinal column. The most important type of treatment program is performing the correct type of rehabilitation. Global Medical Center is medically supervised and provides a very specific type of spinal rehabilitation, called the Pettibon System. This system produces permanent corrections to the spine which help to relieve pain and discomfort. So, if you have neck, back or disc related problems, explore your options! We can show you the best systems available to correct your problem without the use of medications or surgery.

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Determination, Divine Intervention and The

By Kim Bergeron

Two friends. One idea. And the network of people who helped make it a reality. This is a story of sadness and hope. Of desperation and determination. Of ravage and resilience. It’s a tale of kindred spirits on two different U.S. coasts who had never met, but soon would be forever connected by a common, life altering element—that of Mother Nature’s fury. This is the story of the Train of Hope, a grass roots effort that became St. Tammany’s opportunity to pay forward post-Katrina kindness by sending critical supplies to the people of New York and New Jersey most impacted by the wrath of Sandy. While the concept of the Train was born of a conversation just before midnight on November 1, its path was paved much sooner, by way of chance encounters, shared experiences and a bit of divine intervention. When St. Tammany Parish Tourist and Convention Commission CEO and President, Donna O’Daniels, met Heather Donovan of Hoboken, NJ at a Bon Jovi concert, the two forged a friendship that would keep them in touch for years to come. About this same time, a young, spirited man with a desire to make a difference announced his candidacy for Hoboken City Council. “Get on the Occhipinti Train,” was the campaign slogan coined by one of his supporters, and Tim Occhipinti would ultimately win that

election, representing, among other Hobokens, Donna’s new friend Heather. Meanwhile, down in the south, through the Leadership Northshore program, my path crossed with others seeking to enrich their lives with strengthened leadership skills, exploration of the many facets of our city, and service projects designed to enhance the community. It was through this organization that I met Rachel Perez, Senator David Vitter’s Community Liason, and Rene Arcemont, Vice President of Sales and Marketing for eSYNCS, a full service advertising agency. When we committed to the Leadership experience, we were advised that the friendships that we would form throughout the year would last far beyond our graduation day. That prophecy would soon come to pass. None of us would have imagined that those seemingly random connections would soon take on a more cosmic nature, bringing us all together for a greater cause. Thursday, Nov. 1, just before midnight As Donna watched the news of Hurricane (soon renamed Superstorm) Sandy wreaking havoc on the northeast coast, she reached out to her friend Heather and offered assistance and support. The images were so eerily reminiscent of Katrina, Donna felt an instant connection, and the need to do more to help the many communities impacted by the storm.

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Around 11 p.m., Donna sent me a text message, asking if I was still awake. When I confirmed such, my phone rang. “Are you watching the news?” she inquired. “We’ve got to do something to help these people!” We proceeded to discuss what we might be able to do to offer assistance to so many in need, and the logistics of getting relief supplies from Point A to Point B, ruling out trucking due to the gasoline rationing and road obstacles. I reminded Donna that the Amtrak train runs daily from New Orleans to New York, with stops in Slidell and Newark, NJ. “What if we could convince Amtrak to allow us to ship items via the train?” I asked. “After all, they’re already going there - the logistics are somewhat in place.” “What do we need to do to make that happen?” Donna asked. “I’ll make a Facebook page,” I replied. “We’ll get people on board and, hopefully, if we get enough support, Amtrak will approve it. We’ll make it work!” Minutes later, the Facebook page was up and running, listing our goal, and requesting assistance from anyone with Amtrak contacts and anyone else willing to be part of the cause. We agreed to touch base in the morning and explore the possibilities.

Day 1 – Friday, Nov. 2 - “Crazy Train.” Sometimes things that make perfect sense at midnight seem absolutely insane after a full night’s rest. This was one of those times. I awoke to find a text from Donna, expressing concerns that the idea just might be a logistical nightmare. After all, we didn’t even have the essential info needed—an Amtrak connection—to make the project possible.

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“Keep the faith,” I replied. By 8:30 a.m. we had been contacted by Sam Caruso, Jr. and Sharon DeLong, providing us a regional Amtrak contact and we began pitching the idea to the regional executives. Shortly after, I called upon my Leadership classmates: Rachel was asked of the possibility of assistance from Senator Vitter, whom we hoped could encourage Amtrak approval, and Rene was asked about the possibility of a website donation for the cause. Meanwhile, Donna’s Hoboken friend, Heather, put her in touch with Councilman Tim Occhipinti, and the two began discussing the logistics of the delivery, in the event Amtrak confirmed its role in the relief efforts. One of the vital lessons we had learned following Hurricane Katrina was that the most effective relief efforts include not only shipping to areas in need, but also in having someone on the receiving end to orchestrate accepting, storing and distribution of supplies. Who better to become part of the Train of Hope project than the man deemed during his campaign as “The Occhipinti Train?” By 2 p.m., Councilman Occhipinti had confirmed a delivery staging area and had begun working on arrangements to facilitate the transporting of supplies from the Amtrak depot to that location.

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By 3 p.m. we had cleared the first level of approval through Amtrak’s regional offices, and were working with the national offices. We were promised a final response by Monday, Nov. 6. Meanwhile, messages of support began ﬂowing in via the Facebook page--people offering donations, wanting to volunteer, businesses offering to serve as dropoff locations. It was remarkable and heartwarming. Day 2 – Saturday, Nov. 3 – “Living on a Prayer” In Slidell, kiisa Corporation’s David Kiviaho and an adjacent business, Advanced Bio-Medical Electronics, offered warehouse space in which to store and sort donations. East St. Tammany Habitat for Humanity Executive Director Debbie Crouch offered assistance in packing and transporting supplies. And the hearts of St. Tammany began to shine as the Train of Hope efforts forged full speed ahead. As we anxiously awaited a confirmation from Amtrak, we decided to take a quantum leap of faith and begin collecting donations, with alternate plans in mind in the event Amtrak could not assist. Donation drop off points were announced via our Facebook page, and supplies began trickling in. Day 3 – Sunday, Nov. 4 - “Hear the train a’comin’?” By 8:30 a.m. Sunday, we received the final confirmation from Amtrak. The Train of Hope was scheduled to roll out of Slidell in just five days. It appeared as though the crazy train wasn’t so crazy after all. We posted the news on our Facebook page, and all hope broke loose. By the end of the day, the trickle of donations had become a ﬂood.

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Day 4 - Monday, Nov. 5 - “We’re halfway there.” It seems rather hard to believe that Day Four marked the halfway point of the Train of Hope inaugural operation. eSYNCS’ President and CEO Drew Franzo confirmed that the company would donate a website, www.trainofhope.net, to help get information out to the public. By the end of the day, the website was up and running. Donations and volunteer offers continued to pour in. The generosity from our community and beyond was wonderfully overwhelming. Day 5 – Tuesday, Nov. 6 – “Help is on the way.” As the Train of Hope continued to gain momentum, Amtrak officials advised us that in order to ensure minimal disruption of their regularly scheduled passenger service, they needed all donations shrink wrapped on palettes and pre-loaded at the New Orleans depot. Requests for assistance were again sent out, and our community rose to the challenge. Arrangements for a Train of Hope convoy were scheduled for a Thursday afternoon delivery. Day 6 – Wednesday, Nov. 7 “Full speed ahead!” Due to popular requests, two dropoff locations on the southshore were added to the list of options. Volunteers began presorting and packing donations, in preparation for the Thursday convoy. With less than 48 hours until the Train of Hope’s departure, volunteers worked quickly to prepare the shipment, and the Facebook and website pages were abuzz with activity. Children made cards with messages of hope, to help uplift the spirits of the Train of Hope beneficiaries. Day 7 – Thursday, Nov. 8 – “Making it happen.” While some volunteers gathered at the warehouse to sort and pack donations, others made the rounds to collect donations from the various dropoff locations. Boxes were loaded into the Train of Hope caravan of

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vehicles, which headed for the New Orleans depot at 3:30 p.m. The donations were shrink wrapped and loaded into the 85’ baggage cart that Amtrak’s corporate offices had sent to the NOLA depot specifically for the Train of Hope. The car was loaded to capacity with an estimated 8 tons of donations, valued at approximately $250,000. It was a monumental achievement made possible by an entire network of people that had materialized in just seven days. Day 8 – Friday, Nov. 9 – “All Aboard!” At 8 a.m. the Train of Hope pulled into the Slidell train depot, and Donna and I boarded, joined by St. Tammany Tourist and Convention Commission’s Vice President of Sales Tanya Leader, prepared for the 30 hour ride to Newark, NJ. We were concurrently exhilarated and exhausted, trying to wrap our minds around the magnitude of the past week’s whirlwind of activity. It all seemed so surreal. The Train of Hope was on its way. Jennifer Nagel, one of Donna’s friends in New York, provided ongoing Train of Hope tweets, and the staff of the St. Tammany Tourist and Convention Commission provided Facebook updates to keep all of our volunteers informed of the journey along the way. Day 9 – Saturday, Nov. 10 – “From Louisiana, with love.” Shortly before 3 p.m., the Train of Hope pulled into Newark, and we were greeted warmly by New Jersey Assemblyman Jason O’Donnell, Bayonne Mayor Mark Smith and Hoboken Councilman Tim Occhipinti. Amtrak personnel sprung into action, quickly removing cargo from the train so it could continue on to its final destination of New York City. Like a well oiled machine, personnel transported cargo from the train to the loading docks one ﬂoor below, and trucks pulled out, headed to the designated staging area. That evening, we joined Councilman Occhipinti in delivering and distributing the supplies to some of the areas most in need. We would spend the next few days volunteering our services to help in the recovery. One of these days took us to Staten Island,

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New York, one of the hardest hit areas, where we joined fellow Louisianians from Zatarain’s to help serve hot jambalaya to first responders and families who were gutting their ravaged homes. While walking through the streets of Staten Island’s New Dorp, we were struck by how many of the scenes we encountered resembled the destruction of Katrina. There were ﬂattened homes, massive piles of debris, boats displaced in the middle of the road, and people donning face masks, working to clear the remnants and destruction left in Sandy’s wake. Some of the houses were marked with the familiar, spray painted and numbered crosses that we’d seen on the doors of so many Katrina homes after first responders searched for storm survivors. It was haunting, massive devastation. It was then that we realized the Train of Hope’s mission hadn’t ended upon our arrival in Newark. Our efforts were just beginning. We vowed to return with more supplies, to help the people of New York and New Jersey through the long road to recovery that lay ahead. As of press time, we are working with Amtrak to coordinate Train of Hope for the Holidays, hoping to bring additional relief supplies to the areas most in need. The train will also bring a spirit of the season via an abundance of holiday gifts for the many children of the area, so that they don’t lose out on holiday traditions on top of their many other losses they have already endured. It’s a mission of compassion, born of a crazy idea at midnight, embraced by a community of hurricane survivors, with the intent of “Paying it Forward.” It is the hearts of Americans, reaching out to fellow Americans, at a time when compassion is most critically needed.

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This is the Train of Hope. And it brings with it promises for a better tomorrow for the people on the northeast coast. For more information about the Train of Hope, visit www.trainofhope.net, follow the journey on Facebook at TrainOfHopeSandyRelief, and follow “Train of Hope” on Twitter. Contact Kim Bergeron, (985) 640-0169 or Donna O’Daniels, (985) 966-2823.

Update! The next train leaves December 14th Visit www.trainofhope.net for more info

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This boat by the roadside was eerily familiar to the Louisiana volunteers who remembered scenes like this one from Hurricane Katrina.

We are proud to bring you this reprint of the December 2011 Edition (vol.17) of Slidell Magazine’s centerfold. It is a timeless representation of the true meaning of Christmas. God bless you and Merry Christmas. Now in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. T he virgin’s name was Mary. And having come in, the angel said to her, “Rejoice, highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!” Luke 1:26-28

T hen the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bring forth a Son, and shall call His name JESUS. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Highest; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David. And He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of His kingdom there will be no end.” Luke 1:30-33 So it was, that while they were there, the days were completed for her to be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. Luke 2:6-7 30

Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid. T hen the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!” Luke 2:8-14

Artist Lori Gomez had always yearned to create a nativity scene for her yard. After Hurricane Katrina, Lori knew the need was greater than ever to beautify her community with the true spirit of Christmas. Lori’s husband, Mike, built the nativity stable from their storm damaged fence boards while Lori began creating her life-sized ﬁgures of art, adding pieces each year. The scene spans over an acre and is on public display at 454 Parlange Drive, Pearl River, each year through the second weekend of January. The Gomez family welcomes you to share in the spirit of this season. For more information, contact Lori at 985-640-6361 31

Christmas(andGifting guessing!)

By John N. Felsher

Ok Guys…

Now, as I was saying, women think men should think like women. Wrong! For example, a woman buys a new dress and spends hours beautifying herself for her guy and does he notice? No. He says, “Football on TV! Got any dip to go with these chips?”

With Christmas here, it’s time to take that wallet out, shake it a little and start buying gifts. I would demonstrate, but my wife, Sweetums, already squeezed every drop out of my wallet. For you other folks, let’s talk about buying gifts for that most important man in your life. Ladies, you want your man to be happy, don’t you? You don’t want all the other sportsmen to laugh and call him names or not let him play any sportsman games, do you? Everyone knows that men can’t and shouldn’t try to ﬁgure out women. As soon as we think we can, they change. Many men died trying or have gone either totally insane or into politics, which is not a major difference. Women don’t understand men either. Before we shop for this pathetic creature, let’s see if we can ﬁgure out what’s cultivating in that male cranial fertilizer. How does a man think? It’s simple. “Simple is right. ‘Duh’ about covers what most men think.” “Sweetums, none of those comments. You’ll get your chance later. Right now,

this is just for the ladies to better understand the men who enrich their lives -- so that they can buy them the proper gifts for this holiday season.” Sorry for the interruption. Now, where were we? Oh yes, explaining how men think. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a Supreme Court justice to know that men and women think and act differently. I’m not saying either is superior to the other, just different. “I’m saying one is superior.” “Sweetums, enough! I said you’d get your chance later.”

Ladies, want him to notice you? Stick a plate of barbecued ribs and French fries in front of him and he’ll even pause from watching a football game to take notice. If you really want to get his attention, hide the remote. In another example, women buy all sorts of flowery perfumes to make themselves smell like a fresh rose garden in order to attract men, but what happens? They smell sweet and attractive -- to bees and other women! That’s not what appeals to men. When was the last time you saw a man perusing the scented lovelies -- or the flowers -- in a florist shop? Usually, a man rushes into a florist shop with a panicky expression on his face, slaps a credit card on the counter and proclaims, “I forgot my anniversary! Hurry up and give me something really nice looking, but cheap. I don’t care what - as long as you do it quickly! She’s back at the house taking my present out of the closet at this minute and I don’t want her to know I’m gone.”

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If a woman wants to appeal to a man, she needs to reconsider her scent selections. Here are a few scent samples that appeal to men: chicken barbecuing, bacon frying, fresh money, an old tackle box or that new car scent. Dab a few fried chicken crumbs or steak sauce behind your ears and your man will come running. It worked for my wife. Before we were married, Sweetums labored in a chicken restaurant. Whenever I would come a’callin’, usually around suppertime, she would hurry and run into the shower to get the chicken smell off of her. I’d wait for hours as she did a major overhaul on precisely what attracted me to her in the first place. So now you ladies know what drives your men -- basically food and fun. Knowing that, here’s what you ladies should buy for your man this Christmas. How about a dilapidated hunting camp with a larder stocked full of all the fried essentials? OK, so wrapping it might pose a problem. The little hunting hooch doesn’t need to look like much. Let’s face it. As your man stares blankly into his bathroom mirror to shave every morning, do you think appearances really matter to him? A man likes “character” in a camp. If he gets a spotless camp in which everything works, he won’t have many stories to tell while visiting a hunting buddy’s camp. Besides, it won’t remain spotless for long or his buddies will make fun of him. Location matters most. The camp should come equipped with easy access to good hunting and fishing locations, preferably one that can only be reached by boat (another great Christmas gift!). A man needs to hang a fishing line off the front dock and hang, well, you know what men hang off the back dock when they “go wild.” He’ll love it as long as it contains a stove, a refrigerator, an ample supply of eatables and a few dead critters hanging on the walls. Not only would this please your man, but it would make most women happy. When he’s off for two weeks vacation around the holidays, you ladies will probably really appreciate a place for him to go. Women enjoy telling men where to go; I know my Sweetums does! (Oh, the story doesn’t end here... Sweetums has to get her say) Read on --------------->>>>>

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H a p p y Ho l i d a y s from our family to yours!

Ok Gals…

By Dawn P. “Sweetums” Felsher Recently, my husband wrote about how women should understand men in order to buy the proper Christmas gifts for them. After that drivel, it’s Ladies Day. Let’s see if we can teach men a few things about women. I know that is practically impossible, but even iron ﬂoats with enough hot air pumped through it, and, living with my husband for more than 25 years, one thing I know about is hot air.

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True. Men don’t understand women -- never have and never will -- so don’t burn out your tiny masculine brain cells trying to do the impossible. Just learn to live with us and do what we tell you. Although much simpler to comprehend, direct and predict, sometimes men even give women trouble in the understanding department. Men can walk through a forest and hear every sound. They fully note every movement or shade of color out of place. They detect a subtle rustling and instantly deduce that a field mouse ran southwesterly over damp leaves 100 yards away. They can easily spot the tip of a deer ear at 300 yards and quickly discern that it’s a Boone and Crockett buck with a 24-inch spread and 14 points. They can track a rabbit through heavy brush for miles. After that, why can’t they hear what we explain to them for 45 minutes? Why can’t men find anything around their own homes? Women can hide gifts on the kitchen counter for weeks and men wouldn’t notice. Men have no clue about what’s happening around their own homes. A tree can grow up through the living room roof and they won’t see it unless it looks like a deer rubbed against it. This philosophy transfers over into gift buying. “Honey, look what I bought. It was the latest toy last year, but I got it for Little Johnny at a big discount.” “Dear, that was a hot toy five years ago and Little Johnny is now the starting middle linebacker in his college.” “Oh. Well, if he doesn’t play with it, can I keep it and play with it?” Except when buying guns, boats or cars, men typically don’t like to shop. They bury themselves under a pile of sporting catalogs and fall asleep on their recliners as they “watch” the big game. While sleeping, they dream about the great items in the catalogs, or more likely, about the impossibly thin models in the catalogs. When men shop, they hunt for targets of opportunity. When men visit stores, they only buy items at eye level and only those with pretty packaging, usually with a girl in a bikini on the box. They may not even know what’s in the box. Once they make “their kill,” they quickly escape and evade out the door.

Men may walk uphill for miles and single-handedly drag out an 800-pound bull elk from off a snowy mountaintop. They might carry a 200-pound sack of duck decoys, 100-pounds of rain gear, boots and ammunition and slosh a mile through broken marsh to reach just the right mallard pothole. They stand in blazing heat in a bass boat for 12 hours, but they cannot go 30 feet through a clothing display at the mall, or what my husband calls THE MAUL, without nearly passing out. They find the nearest bench and plant themselves, gasping for breath and whining to go home. While men hunt, women nest. Women start shopping in January to build a list and check it twice. We design a coordinated plan of gift buying so that everyone gets a gift and every gift relates to every other gift. Men don’t even know how they relate to everyone on the gift list. If men ever made a list, they could never check it twice because they could never find it again. They might memorize the entire ballistics table for a .30-06 rifle, but on Christmas Eve afternoon, they suddenly remember that Christmas falls on December 25 that year. On Christmas Eve -- if they can even find the store -- men usually approach the first woman they see to ask for advice. Whether she’s a 90-pound waif or a 350-pound lotsalove, men say, “I don’t know what to get my wife. What would you want? She’s about your size.” How can men shop for women when sometimes, they don’t even know what they want for themselves. A smart man asks a woman for advice. “Honey, do I like this style of shirt? What’s my size?” Here’s the best gift men can give to women. Freedom! We know what we want, what size to buy, where to buy it and who has it on sale. Just sit back and snore through the game; we’ll do the shopping. We’ll pick out something we really want and even wrap it. All you have to do is cash the check and not complain about the cost. When we tell you, just sign your name to the card and look pleased when we open “your gift to us” on Christmas morning. It’s easier that way. 35

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Do you remember coloring as a child? Putting a Crayon to a piece of paper is a simple thing with no extra frills or excitement, except for one thing: the names of the Crayons. What is Cornﬂower and why is it blue? Who thought of the name Mauvelous? And then you have the 4-Z club: Razzmatazz, Purple Pizzazz, Fuzzy Wuzzy, and Razzle Dazzle Rose. Of course, you always have Cerulean, the name no one can spell or pronounce but is everyone’s favorite blue. This naming phenomenon is not something that is relegated to Crayons. There are many sports athletes that have the most unique names I have ever seen. Some are fun or impossible to say, some are meaningful or heartfelt, and some are just plain crazy. Here, I give you the Crayon box of sports… First we have the fun names. There are so many. From Falcon’s linebacker Lofa Tatupu, to Jet’s tackle D’Brickashaw Ferguson, there is no shortage of fun football names. Eagle’s defensive back Nnamdi Asomugha (Namdee, As-uh-mwah) is probably my favorite. Born of parents from Igbo (Nigerian) descent, the back of his jersey makes everyone think twice before throwing the ball in his direction

or calling his name. Also of Igbo descent, Amobi Okoye (O-Coy-Yay), a defensive tackle for the Bears, creates fits on the defensive line AND for the announcers in the booth. Then there is Giant’s linebacker Mathias Kiwanuka (Key-Wa-New-Ka), who is actually the grandson of the first Prime Minister of Uganda (so think twice before making fun of his name). Finally, you have Devin Aromashodu (Aroma-Show-Doo), which makes you wonder if people call him “Mr. Aroma” for short...maybe he should think about creating a cologne... Next, we have the names that are unique in both spelling and meaning. Maurice Jones was a running back for UCLA when his grandfather passed away. To honor him, he changed his name to Maurice JonesDrew and now carries his grandfather’s name whenever he carries the ball for the Jaguars. I don’t know about you but the name Ndamukong Suh sounds like such an intimidating name and it only adds to his threatening nature on the field. His name comes from the Ngemba language of Cameroon and it means “House of Spears.” He, too, shares his name with his grandfather. And then there’s Prince Amukamara, whose name Prince is appropriate because he is actually of royal Nigerian descent. These names are heartfelt

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and special to the players beyond the game, much more than the average fan knows. Finally we have the crazy colors of sports’ names. Formerly “Ron Artest,” Metta World Peace is a basketball player who is so passionate about inspiring world peace that he changed his first name to Metta, meaning “loving kindness and friendliness towards all,” and his last name to World Peace. Ironically, he is a very rough basketball player and is known for throwing elbows. Then you have Chad Ochocinco. Chad Johnson honored Hispanic Heritage month in 2005 by changing his name to Chad Ochocinco, or “Eight-Five” (his jersey number), in Spanish. That was the last spectacular thing he did, as he has flamed out in each season since then and is now unsigned. We also have Marvin Hagler, a middleweight boxer who felt so under-appreciated from the media that he changed his first name to Marvelous. After that, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, retiring with 52 KO’s to his name, gave announcers no choice but to give him some love. Finally, we have John Paul Bonser. Since birth, he had been called “Boof”. He isn’t sure why, and in 2001 he made it a permanent name. Truly, I don’t know why you would provoke every opponent you will ever have by changing your name to Boof. That is

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like asking to be taunted every single game. One thing is for sure, his color is definitely not Mauvelous. It’s not just players that are crazy Crayons. There are some teams that make me scratch my head in wonder with the names they come up with. Some have great history but the names themselves are so ridiculous. Take the Tennessee Volunteers for example. I mean, really? Volunteers? If it weren’t for the fact that, during the War of 1812, the volunteer Tennessean soldiers played a prominent role, this name would be laughable. Then you have the Oregon Ducks. Yeah, ducks REALLY strike fear into the hearts of their opponents. Yet, if you stopped there, you would miss out on one of my famous history lessons. Oregon’s teams were originally known as the Webfoots, a name applied to a group of fishermen from the coast of Massachusetts who had been heroes during the Revolutionary War. Their descendants had settled in Oregon in the 19th century and the name stayed with them. Of course, you have a weird one with the Richmond Spiders, the only U.S. team known to use a spider as their mascot. In 1894, a baseball team comprised of Richmond students and city residents adopted the “Spiders” name after Ragland Chesterman of the Richmond TimesDispatch used the term to refer to pitcher Puss Ellyson’s lanky arms and stretching kick. So, ok, Richmond took the name from a player’s nickname instead of a nickname from the American Revolution. Fair enough. Some teams just need to find a new mascot. First up, the Stanford Cardinal. No, I wrote that correctly - CARDINAL. Singular, not plural. They didn’t name their mascot after a bird, but after a color. REAL creative. And the physical, unofficial mascot is a redwood tree. Do they actually want athletes as a player for “the Cardinal”? This next school is not very big and well-known but just as ridiculous. Webster University decided it would get imaginative and create their own animal. With the “paws of a speeding cheetah, the horns of a fierce buffalo and the face of a dependable Saint Bernard”, this school takes the cake on ridiculous mascot names. I would be more scared of a “Gorlock” if you could show it to me IN REAL LIFE. Moving on, and away from college, do we really have to call Utah’s pro basketball team the Utah Jazz? Originally, it was the New Orleans Jazz, which makes sense. Utah Jazz? When I think Utah, I think

of a salty lake or Mormons. Jazz doesn’t come to mind. Then there’s the Oakland Athletics. There is history to this name but, honestly, there is a time where you have to leave the past behind. Especially since the history was in PHILADELPHIA. Good job, Oakland. Then we have the Minnesota Wild. Even the relation of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” to the franchise can’t save this name. Wild.what? Cats? Animals? Scissors? Something?? Sadly, when it comes to team names, there are many, many more that should be changed. The Virginia Tech Hokies, Ohio State Buckeyes, and Wake Forest Demon Deacons are just a small sampling of what I missed. Ultimately, it is the color that the Crayon writes that we pay the most attention to. We look at how well these players play and how much these teams win. Beyond the initial fun we have with the names, we want to see these players justify our attention to their success. Who would really care about Shaquille O’Neal without his ability to beat the competition? With such a unique name, he is probably the most famous crayon in this sports box. In fact, it’s like he created his own batch of Crayons with his 18 nicknames (I am really thinking about calling myself “Hogueovitch”). But without his four championship rings and countless other awards, he would be known as Mr. O’Neal, and that’s just dull. We love these names and we can have a good laugh trying to pronounce them. But ultimately, we want that special Crayon to provide just the right color we’re looking for to make a winning picture.

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and many others refined and perfected this manner of creating music. Symphony orchestras live on today, playing the classics and much, much more.

Imagine writing one piece of music that will last more than 20 minutes, for 20 different instruments, in many different chords, octaves, melodies, and harmonies. And you did it by hand, way before the electronic age. That is what the musical geniuses did almost 300 years ago when

classical music was born. In the early 1700’s, Johann Sebastian Bach started to assign particular instruments to his melodies and harmonies, and orchestration - and the creation of what we think of as classical symphonic music was born. Beethoven, Wagner, Strauss

My guess is that most people skip right over the classical radio station for more familiar rock, oldies and country music. You may even think, “Oh that‘s the boring stuff with no words that only geeks and old ladies listen to” as you pass right by. But, you hear orchestra music all the time and probably don’t even realize it. Orchestras play the background music in many movies when you need suspense, or power, or delicacy to support the story. The symphony music creates the mood and evokes the emotion behind the scene you’re watching. Have you ever gone to a big production high school play or a ballet? The orchestra is playing way up front by the stage. The cool thing about classical music is that there are no words. You don’t need

somebody telling you their heart is broken when you hear the violins pleading and the cello and English horn playing mournfully in the background. You feel this music in your gut, and your mind can float freely with images inspired by the instruments of the orchestra. The violins can sound just like a hive of bees, and the piccolo and ﬂute like birds. There is no need for words. That was the goal of those early musicians. They blended the sound of many instruments to stir our emotions and our imagination. I want to thank my mom for exposing me to this wonderful genre of music. When my siblings and I were in her car, she was playing classical music too loud for us to talk. I really think this was to keep us from bickering with each other. She was also not so subtly exposing us to something she loved. She always hummed along, sometimes long after the music stopped. These were the tunes that got stuck in her head. When I was in college, I listened to classical music while I studied. I don’t know if it made me smarter, but it just felt right. I could focus better when there were no words to divert my attention. I feel certain that my love of blues and jazz is directly related to the opera and classics that I listened to early in life. So, Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to only-listen-like cowboys. Ok, that was a bit of a stretch… but the point is, broaden your horizons and your kids’ too. It seems to me that the radio stations today play the same old stuff over and over again. So it is probably necessary to make a little effort to seek out classical or orchestral music. Luckily, we have some opportunities on the North Shore. The St Tammany Libraries have selections of CDs that include the old time classical music, music written for movies, and some just for children. If you are looking for the full experience, check out the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra, at lpomusic.org. They have something for everyone’s taste - Really! In December you can hear and see the Nutcracker and other holiday music productions on the North Shore. In January, just for you rockers, the Music of Queen is performed just after the New Year, and later in the month, they offer the Young People’s Concerts. Perfect! Make your New Year’s resolution now to broaden your musical horizons. You never know where it may lead you or the young people in your life.

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Redﬁsh Blues Band ....................................... Landlubbers Supercharger ................................................. O’Aces BB Secrist & His Rockin’ 88’s ........................ Silver Slipper Casino

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Swing Night! Swingeroux Band, No Cover ......................... Landlubbers

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Bryan Lee & The Blues Power Band ............. Landlubbers

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NYE Party, Band TBA .................................... Landlubbers

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Pearl River’s Teen Advocate

Kaitlin Gomez By Alex Carollo

Kaitlin Gomez is an overachiever. And I don’t mean that in a derogatory way. The Pearl River High School student has a resume three pages long - none of it padded - and a busier schedule than many executives and business professionals in our community. I know this because it took me over three months to score an interview with her. And I’m pretty sure that I got this interview only because she was at home recovering from a car accident. A high school senior, Kaitlin’s days are ﬁlled with more that just homework and classes. She takes all honors classes during the day, even college courses through a dual enrollment program with Nunez Community College. She is involved with seven different campus clubs; currently serving as president of four of them. She’s a selfdescribed theater geek who has played in her high school band since she was in sixth grade. And she has been involved with student government from the onset of high school, serving as Class President her Freshman and Sophomore years and Parliamentarian her Junior and Senior years. Outside of school, Kaitlin remains just as busy. Membership in her many school clubs requires over 100 hours of service in the community each semester. Her positive attitude paired with her obsessive compulsive qualities help her stay focused even with a crazy schedule. She has a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor and a hearty laugh. But despite her heavy school load, Kaitlin also serves as an ambassador for several community organizations and even has a part time job as a t-shirt screen printer. And she plays a mean plastic Mardi Gras cup. (Google “cup song” for an idea.) Despite being in a severe car accident the day before the interview, I sat down with Kaitlin and her mother, artist Lori Gomez, at their home in Pearl River. Except for a bad bruise that stretches from her left shoulder to her hips - where she was restrained by the seatbelt - and her missing eye glasses that were never recovered from the accident, Kaitlin was happy to talk to me about her busy life, her involvement with Amplify Youth and some of the struggles that teenagers face today. 42

Positive Attitude Interns and Camp Director getting pumped before opening session Slidell Magazine: Kaitlin, you are a very busy person. What is occupying all of your time?

mandolin and ukulele. I ﬁgured: ‘My hands are too small to play the play the guitar, so I’ll learn the ukulele!’

KG: Well, at Pearl River High School, I’m president of S.A.D.D. (Students Against Destructive Decisions) Club, National Beta Club, National Honor Society, Sigma Rho Pi. And I’m in band. And I’m in student council. And that’s all that I have time for at school. (laughs)

SM: You are almost half way through your senior year. Are you nostalgic for the past or counting down the days ‘til graduation?

SM: With so much on your plate, how do you manage your time? KG: I’m very OCD about everything. I have big 2 inch binders for just clubs. I have a calendar with everything written down for the month and I color code everything. Sigma is blue. I have club pages on Facebook so that I can remind everyone about meetings. SM: I know you are also involved in your school band. What instrument do you play, or do you play multiple instruments? KG: I play multiple instruments! I play trumpet in band, but outside of band, I taught myself how to play guitar,

KG: I have mixed feelings about it. Part of me is ready to get out and experience the world. Pearl River is pretty small. I feel that my dreams and my aspirations are so much bigger. But I really do love my community. SM: What’s ahead for you? KG: The plan is to attend University of Southern Mississippi and double major in criminology and forensic psychology, then go to the University of Maryland for my masters. That would be the dream. I’m doing everything in my power for it to happen. If it doesn’t happen, I can’t say that I didn’t try. SM: What do you do outside of school? KG: I’m involved in two major organizations. One through Crime Stoppers is T.A.A.C. (Teen Ambassadors

Against Crime). I was nominated through S.A.D.D. and I’m the only Pearl River Ambassador for the program. We are planning a mock trial at the court house that I’m really excited about. It ties in so much with what I want to do with my future. It’s the first organization that I got involved with that is really focused towards my actual career. I’m also involved in a non-profit organization called Amplify Youth. I’m really passionate about this program. About 150 teens in high schools throughout St. Tammany Parish go to the different junior high schools and perform skits showing the kids that you can still have fun without doing drugs and alcohol. Amplify Youth has a week long leadership camp and I usually work that during the summers. The first one I went to changed my life so now I hope I can help do the same for others.

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SM: And you have a job too? KG: Yes, I have a job too! Because I need money to pay for all the club shirts and all the club dues! I work part-time as a screen printer. SM: What motivates you? KG: I don’t do it for me. I mean...when I was in junior high, I wasn’t this outgoing. I wasn’t involved. I was the band nerd, the theater enthusiast in the back of the room. I didn’t know how to make my voice be heard. I try to be that voice now, for the kid in the back of the classroom who doesn’t say anything. SM: What changed? How did you go from the quiet kid who sits in the back to the person in the front of the class who’s always asking questions? KG: My 7th grade year, my English teacher was passing out handouts for the Amplify Youth leadership camp. I thought it was cool, but it was $250. I thought: “Holy moley. My mom will never let me go to this. It’s a week long, away from home and too expensive. There’s no way.” I brought it home and asked my mom and she said “yes, we’ll make it happen.” So I go to this camp and I don’t know anybody and I’m the only person from my school who went, but I had the best high school intern. She knew the right questions to ask at the right time. She had a way of making you feel loved and important. Something happened at that camp. It’s so hard to explain. I can’t put it into words.

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Lori Gomez: It’s not like any regular camp. It’s not like you’re going to play games and swim. Here I’m thinking, it’s the ﬁrst time that Kaitlin’s been away from home, she’s gonna miss me and run up to me and hug me, but she wanted no part of me! They were so exhausted. They have speakers come in and talk to the kids about the effects of your actions, drinking and driving, and things like that. The kids go from 7 in the morning to 12 at night. It’s nonstop. But what it promotes - leadership, acceptance and accountability - is needed by kids today. KG: It was an amazing experience. I tell junior high kids all the time that they need to experience it to know what I’m talking about. Just go! LG: Amplify Youth, who runs the camp, was started 20 years ago by a group of parents from Slidell that were looking for things for their kids to do on the weekends that didn’t involve drinking and smoking and all that. And it’s more than just a summer camp, they have get togethers and socials all year. We host some here at the house. It’s a safe haven for kids. And with the rate of suicides in St. Tammany Parish being highest in the entire nation, we need this program. There are a lot of kids who need this program. And usually the kids who need it are the ones who can’t afford it. So we are trying to ﬁnd sponsors to help kids go to the camp. There were some years I couldn’t afford it, so I wrote letters to businesses. One year, the Lion’s Club sponsored Kaitlin and another was sponsored by Northshore Mill Works. It’s such a blessing that the organizations and businesses in our parish support youth programs like this.

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Having fun while learning! Everyone’s soaked after a camp wide water balloon fight SM: There has always been bullying in school, but it seems to have become a bigger issue. Is bullying a more serious problem in schools now? KG: Absolutely. And even outside of school. Cyber bullying is ridiculous. As far as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, it blows my mind how much a teen would say to another teen over the internet but not to their face. That type of bullying is getting way out of control, especially with everything being on your cell phone. You have it with you all the time and you can access those sites at any time. Years ago, if something happened at school, it usually stayed there. The bullying didn’t follow you home. There was a break, where you could escape it and go to your family and friends to help rebuild your self conﬁdence. But today, it follows you wherever you go.

Amplify Youth 2012-2013 Amplify Youth Leader induction

SM: Have you ever been a victim of bullying? KG: Yes and no. I don’t look at it as bullying. I look at it as my motivation, to see who my true friends are. Through Amplify, my best friend lives in Madisonville. I still talk to her all the time. She calms me down if I get super stressed out. SM: What do you say to kids who are being bullied and have nowhere to turn? KG: The motto that I live by is this: “Everything will be okay in the end and if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” You can’t give up.

KG: Yes! The bullying and suicide rates in St. Tammany Parish are so high and we’ve had so many deaths due to suicide at school, that I needed to do something. I always wanted to have a bullying and suicide prevention week that’s school-wide. So a group of us got together and put ‘Stay Strong’ on yellow cups on the school fence, we sold yellow ribbons that said ‘Stay Strong’, ‘Smile’, and ‘It Gets Better’ and all proceeds went to the Trevor Foundation, which supports bullied kids. We want kids to know that they aren’t alone and that it does get better.

SM: That’s the message of the “It Gets Better” campaign.

The Trevor Project was founded in 1998 by James Lecesne, Peggy Rajski and Randy Stone, the creators of the Academy Award®-winning short ﬁlm TREVOR. Set in 1981, TREVOR is a timeless coming-of-age story about love, loss, and learning to be yourself. The Trevor Project is the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning youth. Kaitlin has many YouTube videos where you can enjoy her humor and her motivational messages. A favorite of mine is her PSA video, “It Gets Better”, where she has fellow Pearl River High students from all classes and backgrounds saying the one-sentence catch phrase while teachers and members of

the school administration talk into the camera and give short, motivational stories. Kaitlin produced the video for Bullying Awareness Week at her school, which was sponsored by her school group, S.A.D.D. To see this video and more of Kaitlin’s motivational messages, go to KGomez2013 on YouTube. Proud mother, Lori Gomez, sums it up. “If you feel peer pressure or overwhelmed, look for help from the kids and adults around you, groups like Amplify. They will have your back. It’s not just you or the kids from your school, but the whole parish. It does get better and the people around you will lift you up. Reach out for help, and it will be there.”

For more information about Amplify Youth, visit

www.amplifyyouth.org

If you or your business would like to sponsor a student for the Amplify Youth Leadership Camp, please contact Libby Cole at libby@amplifyresources.org or call (985) 727-7710

The Gomez Family (l-r) Glynn, Lori, Kaitlin, and Mike 44

Calling All Santas 3. Ask your boss/church if they are helping

12. Help an elderly person do some

4. Donate to the thousands who are still in

13. Visit our local assisted living centers

the needy in any way.

dire need from recent storms.

Alright, Thanksgiving 2012 is but a memory. Most of us cooked for days in order to set out a proper feast for our friends and family. Our cornucopias runneth over as we expressed thanks for those around us.

5. Find a local food bank and donate a few

So are you up for a Christmas challenge? I suggest that this Christmas Season we join the ranks of the great givers of the past and present. Let’s show those less fortunate than ourselves that we remember and keep alive the spirit of St. Nicholas.

7. Bring clothing, shoes, toys and

Here are some simple suggestions for you to lend a hand this season and all year round.

1. Bring blankets and coats of all sizes to a homeless shelter.

2. Many children are in the hospital for

Christmas and would love a visitor bearing gifts to brighten their day. (Sometimes parents would rather not leave their child to shop for gifts.)

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bags of much needed groceries.

grocery or gift shopping.

with the kids. Bring Christmas cards and belt out a few carols.

14. Be a “Secret Santa” to someone who really could use a holiday lift.

6. Many churches and local organizations

15. Sit with someone who ﬁnds this time

have programs that serve hot meals to those in need all year long. Get involved and have your kids join you.

of year especially hard due to the loss of a loved one. Just to listen, lend a shoulder or a warm healing embrace.

household items to local shelters. They are always looking for donations of gently used and new items.

8. Do you love to cook or bake? Consider bringing your treats to help out local fundraisers.

9. Take a child’s name off of the many

“angel trees” around town and make their Christmas dreams come true.

10. Help local organizations put bikes together for needy children.

Remember, we all have to do our part in order to create a strong society that is aware of the needs of those around us. It is imperative to teach future generations the importance of giving of ourselves through our time, our talents and our treasures. Onward Santas!

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11. Mail Christmas cards and care

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OUT TAKES Mag Slidell ition th 29 Ed

e cher, candidat Alan Zaunbre e th of ts a glimpse e for judge, ge th at rs of the ba OTHER side m Slidell Museu

CONGRATULA TIONS AMY AND COREY! Kendra celebr ! ates with Joe and Gay DiGiovanni at the wedding of their daughter, Am y, to Slidell M agazine‛s Jockularity w riter, Corey Hogue

Slidell Magaz ine‛s Jennife r Rieck and Kendra Manes s with Linda Larkin at the annual Habit at for Human ity fundraiser “Home is Whe , re the Art Is ”

She‛s a cowgi rl! Northshore Harbor Cent er General Man ager, Kathy Lowrey, on th e Tour of Slid ell

the crowd as ie Kole wows nn Ro s g in az The am itorium for hi e Slidell Aud th me. at Fa s of ay l pl al he ana Music H si ui ! Lo e th E DESERV IT induction to friend – YOU y m s on ti la Congratu

nteers at bers and volu Kiwanis mem line of the sh ni ﬁ e Park for th l el lid S ce n Ra oh J Kiwanis 5K Camellia City

The Storyte ller, John Ca se, is the man behind th e mask at I.D .eel Design in Old e Towne on th e Fi rst Annual Tour of Slidell

rick s Kendra Ham The Chamber‛ hat and paws… in her cute … I mean, gloves hug ar be a us rs offe