Slidell Magazine - 59th Edition by Slidell Magazine

THE OFFICIAL MAGAZINE OF SLIDELL

Vol. 59 June 2015

“10”

OTAC Art Show June 12 - July 17

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All students will have the chance to exhibit their work in a student art show in our gallery! Only 10 seats available! Small Classes for constant one on one attention and instruction! Richard Fuentes Art Studio is located inside the CECA at 767 Robert Blvd. Slidell, Louisiana. To register, contact Richard at 504-579-2474 or richard@cecaslidell.com

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Editor’s Letter I’m a glass half-full kind of gal. I call myself “an eternal optimist” and I’m pretty sure those who know me would agree. There are few things in life that I can’t joke off, or see the brighter side of. My life has been blessed with so many good things, more than bad, and I appreciate them all.

Over the years, I’ve learned to slow myself down enough to snap a few shots of my life’s journey. No matter how small the experience may seem at the time, I will have these pictures for the future, when my memory no longer recalls the simple things. The picture you see here is from October, 2012 at the “Accidental Artist” show in the City of Slidell Cultural Arts gallery. I don’t know who took this picture, using my camera, but I’m grateful they captured this moment. This was the first time I met artist Keith Dellsperger, and viewed his painting that now graces our cover.

In 2005, I started on a chemotherapy journey that lasted for the better part of two years. One of the side-effects of the medication was memory loss. (My friends can attest to this and I thank God for their patience!) My memories fade in and out, and I know they will become more distant over time. Sometimes I get scared that I will lose the history of my life completely.

Keith’s painting captivated me and I really DO remember the first time I saw it (even without the picture reminder). It was vibrant, yet innocent, and spoke to me from aross the room. I fell in love with it at first sight and it remains one of my favotite paitings of all time.

When I began Slidell Magazine, my job required me to carry a camera with me nearly constantly, to document all of the wonderful events and people of Slidell for use in my publication. Because of this, I have photographic recollections of most of my moments in the Slidell community. Some moments that were captured on film were published for the public’s enjoyment and for the stories we’ve covered, but most are simply reminders of the experiences I’ve had and help to spark my failing memory.

Kendra with cover artist Keith Dellsperger, viewing “My Little Friend” for the first time, October 2012.

That night, I met other members of the art community, a close-knit family that I’m proud to be a member of. I have those pictures too. Now, all these years later, I am grateful for my “photographic memories” of the friendships I have been blessed with, and the moments they all began.

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Graphics@SlidellMag.com Illustrations by: Zac McGovern www.HalMundane.com Contributing Writers Donna Bush EFOP, Charlotte Lowry Collins The Storyteller, John Case Jockularity, Corey Hogue Pet Points, Jeff Perret, DVM Crimmi-Mommly Insane, Leslie Gates Nauti People, John Felsher www.JohnNFelsher.com Once Upon A Time...In Slidell, Ronnie Dunaway Ronnie@WhoDatShoppe.org Making Cents of Your Money, Mike Rich MikeRich@mypontchartrain.com Go Beyond, Rose Marie Sand Rose@RoseMarieSand.com COVER ART BY KEITH DELLSPERGER

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JUNE 2015

Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” People

William Thomson Lowry

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by Charlotte Lowry Collins

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

This month’s story is one I have spent my entire life waiting to write. Completing it has been a challenge. I have resisted my readers’ requests for this tale as I was worried about how I could do justice to all I have heard and experienced with my Dad, known as “Cappy” to the grandchildren, in these few pages. After months of rewrites, this is the abridged version of a lifetime of memories. First, I want to give you a vignette of William Thomson Lowry. He is 90 years old as I write this article, and locals describe him as “the perfect Southern gentleman”. There just aren’t many of them these days. In the summer, he will sport a white straw Panama hat; in winter, it will be a dark felt Fedora, usually with a tiny red and yellow feather under the band. Weather permitting, he will be wearing a sports coat; but regardless, you can count on a snazzy, colorful shirt for accent. His bright blue eyes twinkle as he greets you, and he is certain to give a friendly handshake.

His colleague, Wanda, refers to him as “a walking Slidell history book.” He can recall whatever you want to know about old Slidell. If it is about the history prior to 1949, he remembers it as the elders of Slidell told him. When he meets young people who say they were born and raised in Slidell, Dad can usually tell them all about their family, much to their surprise. Should you join him on his screen porch, you can rock while watching the bayou flow by and the bird life soar, and learn about life in those early years. Better still if you have time for a glass of wine, as he might reveal the more colorful stories. But those are his alone to tell. For this interview, we will stick to “WT’s” life. Dad actually grew up in Jackson, Mississippi on President Street. He has many tales about growing up during the Depression. “I was the youngest of four boys and one girl. We never went hungry, as Dad always had a garden,

some chickens, a cow, and a goat. Mom was a great cook, but we kept them both busy. As you know, we had some childhood escapades. For instance, the day my fireworks from my Santa stocking went off during a sibling dare and burned up the hallway, and I ran away on Christmas day.” He laughs, “I was smart enough to hide under the house next to the fireplace, so I could stay warm and hear every word spoken. I reappeared when my parents finally figured out that it wasn’t me that was responsible. I think we kept them hopping,” he joked. Then he grew serious and stated, “All four of us boys joined WWII and I don’t know how my mother dealt with that. I went in Infantry ROTC at Central High School, and eventually became a Corporal in the U.S. Army Air Corp, as Air Transport Command. This later became the U.S. Air Force.”

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“I had to lie about my age in order to serve, and my father was willing to sign the papers. It was something we all had to do to protect those we loved. I didn’t do anything special, everybody felt this sense of responsibility. I was a flight engineer, and in charge of the cargo. Our job was to bring in medical supplies, food, equipment, and anything that was needed in the war. On the return flight, we got the wounded out. It was the most pitiful thing I’ve ever had to experience, something you would never want to see. Coming back from South America once, we were shot at by a submarine. Usually, they were very careful as to where and when they sent us, as they didn’t want to jeopardize the equipment we were bringing in, or the lives we transported back.” “I went so many interesting places between 1943 and 1946. From Miami, we flew to Central and South America, as well as North Africa, like Casablanca, which was part of the North African Operation in the European Theatre of Operations. From Hamilton Field, we flew the entire Pacific Theatre. I recall when we took the Seabees to the Navy airbase of Atsugi, Japan after the bombing – it was just unbelievable the amount of damage we had done. We went into Pearl Harbor and Honolulu, Hawaii, where we saw more devastation. Of course, I can’t help but remember the island of Okinawa, outside of Japan, which was the staging area for all of the ships about to invade Japan. I never saw so many boats, ships of every type. It really gave you a sense of confidence. By then they were already pulling back the Normandy Invasion ships. We didn’t know that we were sent to prepare for General MacArthur to land for the signing of the Japanese surrender. Even though we were among the first to arrive after the bombing, signs were already everywhere bearing the slogan ‘Kilroy was here’. Later, we went to Tokyo by truck. It was like a morgue, with no movement or activity, really eerie. By then, the second bomb had been dropped. As we walked down the streets, we noticed the Japanese crossing the street when they saw Americans. From there, we went back to Okinawa, then Manila. On this flight, we heard the news that FDR had died. It was April 12, 1945. We didn’t stay long in Okinawa because the Kamikazes were very active at the end of the war. We had to fly in after dark and leave before daylight so as not to be targets for the Kamikazes. Of course I saw a lot of gore, death, and devastation but I don’t talk about those things.” Looking back up he suddenly asserted, “One incident I will never forget was barely missing the chance to transport my brother, Ruffin, when he was injured. I landed in Casablanca, and had to follow regulations to layover for the prescribed period following flight time. When I went over to Operations to find out when I could fly back out, they revealed that a Lowry had come in that night, and gone out while I was sleeping. I looked at the manifest and it was my brother. We were supposed to take that group of wounded out, but another plane

left sooner. No one could tell me how bad it was at the time, but later I learned that he lost his arm. Finally, I got to talk to him, but didn’t get to see him for over a year when I was discharged. It was Monday, Feb. 25, 1946 and I caught a train, arriving home on the 27th, and Ruffin came in later that day. He spoke briefly to my dad and they told me I would be going back with Ruff to Ole Miss that weekend. By Monday, I was sitting in classes. It all happened that fast.” It was at Ole Miss that he saw Pomeroy Huff, my mother, for the first time. “She was in the Student Union, laughing and trying to learn bridge. She was such a beautiful women that I found myself going straight over to her. I stood behind her and signaled the cards for her to play. Afterward, she asked me to teach her to play better, and from there, well, we were married almost 60 wonderful years.” “She told me great things about Slidell, and her Dad would tell me about the hunting and fishing here. I started visiting her family regularly, when they lived at the Creosote Plant. That was a fine, old house on Bayou Bonfouca, right near the train station. Mr. Brick Pomeroy (BP) Dunham ran the Creosote Plant, so Pomeroy had spent her childhood on the bayous with her friend, Barbara Fritchie. Back in those days, kids roamed free from dawn to dusk, and let me tell you, Pomeroy made the most of it. Compared to Jackson, Slidell seemed like a little ‘Wild West’ to me at that time. But it was interesting, and you just never knew what might happen. It seemed to me there was a bar and a church on every corner,” Dad laughed. “Pomeroy was homesick whenever we had to leave. Your mother just loved to sing and dance, and to play the piano here. Her presence brightened any room.” “After we married, we continued to visit as often as possible, and spent every holiday with the Dunhams. But she begged to go back for good. How could I deny her?” He raised his palm. Dad continued, “Now, I’ll tell you a coincidence that is part of the reason your mother and I moved to Slidell. My father, Ben S. Lowry, had been the Mississippi Insurance Commissioner back, oh I guess, in the twenties. Coincidentally, Pomeroy’s uncle, Russell Dunham, bought the Liddle Insurance Agency in Slidell, which was founded in 1901, from his uncle, Charles Liddle. It just so happened that I was working in insurance when we married. Russell was Pomeroy’s favorite uncle, and he made me an offer at Dunham Insurance Agency. The next thing I knew, I was the sole owner, and the rest is history. Our agency is now a fifth generation business in Olde Towne,” Dad said proudly. For my readers that aren’t familiar, my

sister Brenda Lowry Case, her husband John Case (‘The Storyteller’ of Slidell Magazine), and their son Alan still own the agency in the same building that Johnny Sollberger built about 1954. “We bought a little starter house right down the street at 2341 First Street, one block from Slidell Grammar School (now Brock Elementary), where you and Brenda could walk to school. Mrs. Brick Pomeroy (Lucy) Dunham and Russell lived right next door. We did our grocery shopping around the corner at Carollo’s, bought meat at Sarraille’s, and our clothes at Neuhauser’s. Pomeroy opened Pomeroy Lowry Interiors, and did quite well in the Neuhauser building. She was so creative, and decorated a large portion of the homes and offices throughout Slidell. So we had everything we needed right in those few blocks.” “Pomeroy and I now could spend a lot of time hunting and fishing with her dad and friends on the bayous and Pearl River, especially in the Honey Island Swamp. We slept in jungle hammocks on the West Pearl, and I remember hearing the yelps as one or the other flipped their hammock during the night,” he chuckled. “In those days, we could go weeks without seeing another human. Later, we had several actual camps along the river, and that’s when we started bringing you and Brenda.” I vividly remember that flowing river, the food they cooked on a big fireplace, and also the Indian midden on that property where my sister and I found arrowheads. Dad went back to stories from his early years back in town. “Pomeroy’s family had always been heavily involved with Slidell activities, and

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“While you girls were growing up, we decided you needed land to play on, so we moved from Olde Towne to Old Spanish Trail.” Dad continued, “Pomeroy did a great job with that house. She had it raised, and brought in beautiful, dark wood paneling and a staircase from Meridian, Mississippi. By then, young couples were moving back. We had a lot of parties there.”

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Pomeroy quickly joined in. She encouraged me to do the same, and we soon all knew each other. I joined the Lion’s Club and then became a Masonic Knight, where I eventually earned the title Master of the Lodge with a 50 year pin. As soon as a Rotary chapter was formed in Slidell, I became a Charter Member, where we did a lot of community service.” Today, there is an award named after Dad, the Bill Lowry Service Above Self Paul Harris Fellow Award. “I received a fifty-year award from the Rotary and from the American Legion. That was a lot of years,” he joked. “I joined the Commanderie de Bordeaux, and we went with them to France one year. Travel was a big part of my girls’ education.”

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“I fell in love with Slidell too. When you wanted to get out in those days, there was only the White Kitchen, Bosco’s and the Curve Inn, and everybody went there. But we were also close to the city and the Gulf Coast, two places we liked to go.” In the beginning, I told you that our kids refer to him as Cappy. He and mom bought a 44’ sailboat. “I remember it was the most handsome boat I ever saw. It was all handcrafted from teak and mahogany. I wasn’t even in the market, but we decided we couldn’t pass it up. We flew to Holland, Michigan, and then sailed and motored it home down the Mississippi River all the way from Michigan. We named her Kangaroo II, after Pomeroy’s father’s boat in Bay St. Louis. “ “I know you remember when we had a resort on Cayos Cochinos, in the Bay Islands of Honduras. A lot of Slidellians joined us down there. We did a lot of boating and scuba diving there. So, I’m sure that’s why they called me Cappy, short for Captain. It was an ideal white sand island with coconut trees, banana trees, and all the seafood you could ask for. The island was so small, we could hike from one end to the other. That water was a deep shade of turquoise, and from the dock we could see all manner of glittering, colorful fish, the resident octopus, multi-colored coral, and sea shrimp. At night, the waters teemed with supernatural looking creatures by the light of our underwater flashlights. I loved to dive for conch, so we could have fresh ceviche. We could reach under the reefs and pull langoustine (small lobster) out by their antennae. One thing we didn’t do though was spear fishing. The fish were so unafraid, they actually swam up to your mask out of curiosity. It would not have been fair, and photographing them was much more satisfying anyway.” “We did a lot of boating in Slidell. I gazed at this piece of property (motioning around us) every time we rode up Bayou Liberty. One day, I heard that RV parks were buying land next to us on Old Spanish Trail, and we started looking for another place. We were on Pete Schneider’s boat and we stopped at the place we always admired on Bayou Liberty. The ambience just hit you. The property was gorgeous, but the house was in severe need of maintenance. The previous owner, Mr. Gwin, added the new addition and the cottages in the back, probably in the 1880’s. We

looked around enough just to know that the front part was much older than we were led to believe. We looked at the fireplaces and pulled down some loose ceiling boards, which exposed the original high ceilings in the front of the house.” Just a note - the front of these older homes is the bayou side, not facing the driveway, as the waterways were the throughways in the late 1700’s. After carbon testing, our home turned out to be built about 1789. Imagine, that was even before the Louisiana Purchase, when we were part of the Republic of West Florida and during George Washington’s term as president! He continued, “It took some doing, but we finally bought it. The restoration was an act of passion and art. Each board was taken up and numbered, re-planed and put back. We went through three layers of floors before Pomeroy found these wide heart pine boards she knew must be there. The fireplaces were rebuilt, and we exposed some of the beautiful handmade brick and had it repointed. We planted more oaks, and those are actual trees now. I made jogging trails, and just watched the wildlife throughout the seasons.” “Then, I started researching the house, and traced it back to the original owner, a Frenchman named Francois Cousin. He came over to Slidell and Lacombe to make bricks. It turned out his bricks are still in the streets and buildings of New Orleans today, including the St. Louis Cathedral. I visited archives in Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Covington. Before Katrina, I had the old land plots and a copy of his ‘Mystic Last Will’, which were all written in French. His family was quite interesting, and they played a major part in the Bonfouca community. Francois was the largest taxpayer in the parish at that time. He respected the Native Americans and lived very amicably with them. The information on this house led me to apply for the National Register of Historic Places. Meanwhile, Pomeroy was doing research on Creole style cottages. We just couldn’t find period style architectural elements that fit a Creole cottage. Most of the French antiques in New Orleans were much too grandiose. We finally decided we would have to travel to France to find what we needed. It was a great trip, and Pomeroy found some wonderful additions to this house.”

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“Both of our daughters loved the house, and you had your wedding reception here. All the grandkids spent their youth out here on the bayou, and Lowry (my son) was raised in the cottages out back. We had Easter egg hunts, Christmas, Thanksgiving and July Fourth fireworks. Just recently, my grandson Chris had his wedding here. I love Bayou Liberty because it is so pristine and quiet. Neighbors look out for each other, and yet we respect each other’s privacy above all else.” “After Katrina, we had to fight for years to completely rebuild this house, the oldest known structure in St. Tammany Parish. We had about five and a half feet of water in the house, which had never happened previously. Pomeroy once again did a great job. Every stick of furniture had to be restored, and she restored it to a T. She died soon after, it was just more than she could take. Unfortunately, she didn’t live to see it elevated. Everything goes in cycles, and I hope we see a stable environment for awhile.” After Katrina, the main thing we tried to restore and archive was related to family, not monetary goods. These artifacts go beyond our family, to the families tied to our land and our home. I cannot count the number of times a new guest has described our home “like a museum.” It isn’t that any of this is valuable to any one but us, but history buffs do seem to appreciate it. My father explained, “Before Katrina, we had information, articles, and photographs about both sides of the family, and about the founding of Slidell. There were copies of the ‘Ruffin Thomson Papers’, which the family had thankfully donated to the archives of UNC at Chapel Hill. It contains original, handwritten letters from

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my Grandfather during the Civil War. The last letter was his regretting that he knew he would never make it back from Fort Simcoe in Yakima, Washington to see his youngest daughter, my mother.” He pointed up and continued, “Those shelves once held genealogy books, tin-type photographs, and memorabilia from the 1800’s to today. It was a collection that began with my great, great grandparents. Add to this, that your mother’s ancestors moved to Slidell when it was newly founded, so we had boxes and shelves of Slidell articles, and documents. We found letters and keepsakes from almost every family member going forward.” I remember vividly laying these items in the sun to dry after Katrina, placing them back in clean boxes, and laying out the next round to dry. We even bought a chest freezer just

to dehumidify those documents and books. Next was the cataloging. The more my sister, Brenda, and I went through this material, the more parallels we found between the two sides of our family. I discovered the explanation for my passion in education. My father’s uncle, Edward Mayes, was the founder and first chancellor of Ole Miss Law School. On mother’s side, J.A. Huff was the first President of Pearl River College, now PRCC. When we pointed out the similarities, Dad explained, “Your mother and I had so many coincidences in our family backgrounds. Maybe that’s one reason we were so good together. It always goes back to family.” Dad brought me back to the present as he explained, “My favorite spot is where we sit right now.” We were on the porch, watching fish jump, and listening to the evening ritual calls as, one by one, the bird species began their nightly calls. The frogs and cicadas broke in, drowning out the birds periodically. When it was time to go in for dinner, he stalled. Once in the dining room, he gestured at all four walls, lit by oil lamp. The handmade brick was so warm and the shadows flickered like dancers encircling us, gently swaying with the breeze. “This is my second favorite spot,” he added. “Just look around, such ambience. If only these walls could talk. I can’t tell you what it means to see this restored after Katrina. FEMA and

St. Tammany Parish were a huge part of that. I really hope it will stay in the Lowry family. My only goal now is to enjoy it every day I can. After experiencing this, I couldn’t be happy anywhere else.” I feel the same passion about this place, but I also feel fortunate that my sister and I, and our families, have had the opportunity to learn from “the greatest generation”. This extraordinary man, together with my mother, taught us about priorities and sacrifices, as opposed to wants and needs. I only hope to pass on this influence. Our family bond is what brings us back to Slidell, and what helpd us continue to be there for each other. Family is indeed everything. Thanks Dad!

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THE DESERTER three consecutive Saturdays, the neighbors had all pitched in and built him and his wife a small but functional home.

The Civil War was an interesting, important and sad event in the history of our country. When I was young, it seemed to still be an obsession with many of those who lived in the South. In the eighth grade, our year-long history assignment was to make a scrapbook and write a report on â&#x20AC;&#x153;The War of Northern Aggressionâ&#x20AC;?. This was in recognition of the 100th anniversary of the war.

This was just what he and Beatrice wanted. They had married at seventeen and now, approaching twenty, it was still just the two of them. He affectionately called her his â&#x20AC;&#x153;little BeBeâ&#x20AC;? and she called him â&#x20AC;&#x153;Jesse Boyâ&#x20AC;?. He and she both worked off the right side of their brains - she, painting detailed landscape scenes on any material she could find; and he, writing songs and molding them together with the chords he created on his guitar. I suppose they could be best described as 1860 hippies. They were happy.

I listened to all the stories related to me at the time, especially those about my ancestors. As a fourteen year old, I fantasized of being a gallant officer in a pristine gray uniform. I think I had also seen Gone With The Wind and, of course, this left an impression of a place and time that probably never really existed. I was told that â&#x20AC;&#x153;the warâ&#x20AC;? was in no way based on slavery, and that it was a cause that all Southerners were anxious to defend. I was told the real issue was stateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rights versus a strong federal government. Does that sound familiar? Fast forward fifty years. I am now more traveled and, occasionally, I am removed from my southern surroundings. My contemporaries raised above the Mason Dixon line were an ignorant group, as they had little knowledge of the Civil War and could really care less. An expression such as, â&#x20AC;&#x153;when are you guys going to quit fighting that war?â&#x20AC;?, was one of the many that I heard.

I needed to revisit what I thought I knew about those times. This is a story based on what I discovered... Jesse Smith had inherited forty acres from his grandfather. Even though farming was not a primary interest to him, he had been successful. His first two crops had been bountiful; and on

Jesse and BeBeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home was eight miles west of town. It was in a family compound granted to his grandfather in 1838. Four of his brothers had adjacent or nearby identical plots which they too had inherited. With what his father owned, the family controlled five hundred acres. This was not exactly a southern plantation, as this was not the part of the state that was conducive to the best cotton crops. It was, however, larger and more prosperous than the typical farm. His brother, Nathan, whom he was closest to, lived next door. There was only 11 months difference in their ages, Nathan being the oldest.

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The family was never a large slave holder, but his father had two slaves and had inherited three more from his father. They were well cared for and seemed to be loyal servants of the family. Jesse was content with what he had. On the other hand, Nathan was ambitious. He wanted more land and slaves to work it. He wanted a fine home and servants for his wife. Jesse wanted to live and let live, but Nathan wanted to lead, maybe even enter politics. Despite their differences, they were devoted to each other. Jesse first heard of Secession through Nathan. Nathan explained that they could found their very own nation. He explained how it would be theirs and belong to them and people that thought like them. No Yankee would be telling them how to run their business. Jesse did not object to that. If that is what his friends and neighbors (especially Nathan) wanted, it was fine with him. In reality, he did not put much thought into it and never realized that it would be a life-changing event. A few months later, he learned that his state would be seceding from the Union. Nathan brought the Declaration when he came home from town: Mississippi ~ Our position is thoroughly identified with the institution of slavery - the greatest material interest of the world. Its labor supplies the product, which constitutes by far the largest and most important portions of commerce of the earth. These products are peculiar to the climate verging on the tropical regions, and by an imperious law of nature, none but the black race can bear exposure to the tropical sun. These products have become necessities of the world, and a blow at slavery is a blow at commerce and civilization. That blow has been long aimed at the institution, and was at the point of reaching its consummation. There was no choice left us but submission to the mandates of abolition, or a dissolution of the Union, whose principles had been subverted to work to our ruin. There was more, but this was the lead-in paragraph. I think their intent was stated. Could it be so simple as to send the U.S. Government a piece of paper? Nathan said they may send a few soldiers to try to change their minds; but, after a few shots, they would hightail it back up north. On January 9, 1861, Mississippi would secede from the Union and, in a very short time, join the Confederacy. Nathan had been correct - not much was done to prevent this until April, when Fort Sumter was fired upon. Then came the call to arms. Nathan excitingly rode his horse almost onto Jesse’s front porch one evening in May. “Pack up, let’s go. They need us. We’ll teach them

Yankees a lesson. We will leave in the morning. We are all meeting in Magnolia and our unit will be called the 7th Mississippi Infantry.” Jesse was taken by surprise and, out of respect for his brother, agreed, but only halfheartedly. He then told BeBe. She cried and neither could sleep. At two o’clock in the morning, Jesse saddled his horse and rode to his father’s house to get his advice and blessings. His father, Hiram, did not know about Nathan’s plans. Hiram sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the plan Jesse revealed. He then got off the bed, pulled his overalls on and went to the front porch. To Jesse, it seemed he was silent forever; and then he lit his pipe. Slowly and meticulously, he said, “Son, I don’t believe in killing nobody over nothing, unless you have to. You don’t have to in this case. I’ll set all my slaves free before I ever pick up a gun against my fellow countrymen. Not a slave I have would leave. They love us too much. They are just like family.” “There is no use to try to talk your brother out of this. He’s made different in the head from you. Good boy, but different. He has to be his own man, but I don’t think either one of you should go. This ain’t our war. This is the rich man’s war and your brother has just got caught up in the excitement.” At daylight, Nathan again rode into the yard. “Let’s go. Let’s get them Yanks. Come on Jesse.” Jesse stood still. “I talked to Pa last night, and I listened to BeBe. I ain’t going. I will stay here and look after your place and your wife, but I ain’t going. You take care brother.” Nathan did not try to persuade Jesse, he just rode off. Jesse did not play his guitar that day, or the next. Eventually, he would pick it up and string together some words and a melody. More often than not, the song was about Nathan.

November came. With the note in hand, Nathan’s wife came running to Jesse’s house. Nathan was dead. He died of pneumonia at Camp Shieldsboro. Shieldsboro would later be known as Bay St. Louis. Jesse and Pa left within a few hours to retrieve the body. It was a two day wagon ride. It was also a two day ride back. On the return trip, the body began to smell. From time to time, they would stop and buy a chicken, pluck its feathers and burn them to mask the odor. Finally, they reached home. Nathan would be interred next to his grandfather and grandmother in the small church cemetery not far from their farm. (Three other brothers would perish in this war over the next three years. Nathan’s was the only body that was recovered.) After Nathan’s death, Jesse’s attitude and view of the war changed. Maybe if more people would join, this thing would quickly be over and all the dying could stop. He would enlist. He basically took his brother’s place at Shieldsboro. The war in Tennessee was picking up. The 7th Mississippi was training to possibly go to Tennessee. Jesse had misgivings about what he had done. He regretted joining the Army. He looked at his fellow soldiers. He knew that they were mostly poor and had much less than he had. They did not own slaves. He also heard that if you owned twenty slaves, you were not expected to fight. That did not seem fair. Mostly, he missed BeBe. In February, the order came to go to Tennessee. They boarded a troop train. It would prove to be a big mistake. At seven o’clock in the morning, the troop train was headed north on the New Orleans, Jackson and Great Northern Railroad. It was loaded with brave men who were clamoring to fight the enemy. Southbound, there was a lumber train that had failed to follow protocol and take a side track. Just below Ponchatoula, Louisiana, the trains collided head on. Dozens were killed or would die of their injuries. Jesse was thrown clear of the wreck but was briefly knocked unconscious. When he came to, he saw the mangled bodies of his friends, many of whom lived within a mile of his home. To avoid the sounds and sights of the dying, he wandered deep into the woods. Later in the day, the track was cleared and a new locomotive was brought to continue the trip to Tennessee with the survivors. Jesse remained in the woods that day and the next, not knowing what to do. Finally, his decision was firm. He would go home. He would desert. The second night, he started home, following the track. He would walk by night and sleep by day. He could not be detected. This early in the war, he was not forced to stay, but to be absent 15

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without leave was a cowardly act. In just a few short months, it would be a crime punishable by death and he knew this law was already in the process. The messenger gave BeBe the note. It said that Jesse could not be accounted for, but was believed to be one of the unidentifiable bodies. Her world ended at that moment. The messenger then gave the news to Hiram. He and Ma hurried to BeBe’s house to comfort her. It was late in the afternoon and they would spend the night. Together, the three would grieve. Before daylight, a noise was heard on the porch. The door opened and it was Jesse. Had they seen a ghost? No - hungry and with threadbare clothes, there he stood. No questions were asked.

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After breakfast and a hot bath, his future plans were discussed. The discussion was short. He was not going back. It would be best if it was not known that he had survived. If found, he would be labeled a deserter and, when the law changed (which was imminent), he would be forced back into the Army. They had to make a plan. Hiram needed someone he could trust. Nathan was dead and all the other brothers were at war. He knew who he could trust - the five slaves. They were like family. He took them to the most remote corner of the property. Located in the thickest of the forest, there was a clay bluff. He instructed them to dig a cave in the face of the bluff. Trees were cut and placed on the ground as a floor, sealing off the dampness. A sloping ceiling was erected to run the drip water off. This would be Jesse’s home for four years. Food and fresh water were delivered to the cave everyday by one of the slaves. No one said a word. They were trustworthy. On some late nights or very early mornings, Jesse would come home. BeBe would cook a large basket of biscuits. During his visit, they would throw a biscuit out the open window every few minutes. This would assure them that the dogs would not wander off and would be available to warn them if a stranger approached. During the next three years, BeBe had two children. A widow having children was not something this community would accept. She had no friends and, regardless of the fact that she went to church every Sunday, the community withdrew from her. Hiram and Ma died and Nathan’s wife remarried. Even with Jesse’s visits, BeBe struggled to raise two sons. If it had not been for the slaves, she, Jesse and the children would have starved. After Ma and Hiram died, the slaves turned their attention to solely providing for her, her family, and themselves. One day in late April, 1865, BeBe heard a loud joyous noise on a nearby road. The slaves came in and told her that the war was over and they were free. BeBe did not know exactly what that meant and she doubted they did. Where would they go? What would they do? What would they eat? She also wondered what she and her children would eat. The next night Jesse came home to visit. He devised a plan: “Tell the slaves that since my brothers are dead, we have access to all my brothers’ land and my father’s. Tell them that we can farm most of it and, whatever we make, they will keep half and

we will get half. They are free to come and go as they wish but if they don’t work, they will be fired. Tell them that I will come home as soon as it is safe.” It was almost a year before Jesse came out of the cave, shaved and put on the new clothes BeBe had made for him. That Sunday morning when they walked into church, the preacher stopped in mid prayer. His traditional prayer lasted about ten minutes, but on seeing Jesse, he abruptly said “Amen” after only thirty seconds or so. Then others saw the couple and whispers began to be heard through the building. After service, no one spoke to either of them. Jesse had committed an unpardonable sin. He had deserted the cause. He had contributed to the fall of his friends’ and neighbors’ way of life as they had known it. He would forever be an outcast. That is the way it was and that is the way it would be. All five of the slaves, which grew to be nine, lived on the place as Jesse had outlined until 1888. Partly in retaliation for Jesse’s actions in the war, and partly because the now-free slaves were successful farmers, the White Caps ran them off. You see, a black man was not given an easy chance to succeed in those days. In 1933, Jesse died. BeBe and the boys had a tombstone erected in the church cemetery. It was soon vandalized. “Traitor” was written on it with paint. The stone was removed and placed in an old barn on the family place. Some of his grandsons found the stone and, eventually, my Dad ended up with it. Jesse was my great-great grandfather. Dad replaced the stone at the gravesite in the 1960’s. Again, it was vandalized, and again it was placed in storage. In 2005, I returned the stone to the grave. This time, it remained unharmed. Time does have a way of healing, but traditions die slowly in the South.

Post Script: Jesse and Nathan are both fictitious names. You must understand that, even now, I have cousins who would not exactly agree with how Jesse is portrayed. Another brother fought with the 7th Mississippi in Tennessee and died in the hospital at Oxford, Mississippi. His body was not returned home. One is buried at Vicksburg. One brother was never found, and what happened to him is unknown. This story in no way should reflect negatively on the brave men of the 7th Mississippi. They fought gallantly in most of the major battles of the Civil War where many gave their lives to the cause they believed in. Others that survived returned home to rebuild a land that had been ravished. They became farmers, politicians and leaders in the community. I would recommend you Google the 7th Mississippi Infantry and the train wreck of February, 1862.

 John Case June 2015

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THE STORY Behind the Photos Story and Photos by Donna Bush

Lions roar! My heart speeds up, thundering in my chest, as I hold my breath, anxious to see what will happen next. It’s nighttime too! More screams in the night! What is that? Or what was that? I hear the lions roar in triumph – a successful score! The pride will eat well tonight and for the next few days. There is plenty of food for the males, who will eat first, and food for the females, who are the primary hunters (or should I say huntresses). This is my first night at a safari lodge in Tanzania, Africa. What a welcome? What excitement! I wake in the morning sure it was all a dream due to my excitement from being on my first African photo safari. I gather up my camera gear and head off to the lodge to meet for breakfast and the start of our day. A nice young guard meets me at my door, picks up my camera bag and walks me to the lodge, as he shines a flashlight to illuminate the path in front of us. I think to myself, “Oh how nice, so very friendly!” I arrive at the main lodge to find out that my dream was not a dream. Lions killed a cape buffalo during the night and I heard the whole thing. WOW!! Welcome to Africa! If you read my articles in the January and February 2014 editions of Slidell Magazine, then you may remember my Tanzanian photo 18

safari and recognize some of these photos. I am also including a few new photos and the story behind them. So, sit back and enjoy the ride! We are about 7 hours from Kilimanjaro Airport where we began our fourteen-day photo safari. The Ndutu Safari Lodge, located inside the Ngorongoro Conservation Area on the southern side of the Serengeti, offers a beautiful laid-back way to experience safari life. The lodge is made up of one large communal building for meals, gifts and lounging, along with 34 thatched-roof stone cottages made of local materials. Accommodations are quite comfortable, with generators providing electricity for approximately 10 hours per day, some in the morning and some in the evening. Perfect for downloading, reviewing images and recharging batteries. The first night of lions roaring set the tone for our stay with lions, lions, and more lions. We are in search of the large pride of 17-18 lions with two or three sets of kittens! We locate two lionesses with two cubs each. One set of cubs is 6 weeks old and the other set is 3-5 months old. Female lions remain with the same pride into which they were born. Often, two females in a pride will give birth around the same time. Female lionesses leave their pride

for 4-6 weeks when their young are born, in order to nurse the young without having the kittens pushed away by the older cubs. These two sisters willingly take care of each others’ young. They are so incredibly cute! I just want to pick them up and pet them. We could even hear them purring! After observing for over an hour, one of the moms is comfortable enough to lie down and nurse all four cubs in front of us. Observing animal behavior is my favorite part of nature photography. The beauty of watching the two lionesses and their four cubs interact with each other was well worth the cost and hours of travel. The lionesses rubbed heads with each other. The cubs licked their mom’s and aunt’s heads. They head butted each other, a bonding technique used by domestic and wild cats. Lots and lots of purring. Then nursing right in front of us! OMG! This went on for hours! We moved on after every one was asleep to find a pair of mating lions. Lions will mate every fifteen minutes over and over for seventy-two hours! WOW! That’s a long time and they get the funniest expressions on their faces! LOL! It’s over pretty quick! There can be multiple males in a pride if they are related to each other. Young male lions are kicked out of their pride around age three

when they are seen as a threat to the senior male. They will lead a nomadic lifestyle for approximately two years and then will look for a female to mate with, often mating with multiple females. Well, we find this pair and they could care less that we are observing and photographing them for several hours. After all, this could go on for 72 hours and our guides estimate they’ve only been at it for about 24 hours. In between mating sessions, the female rolls over on her back for a rest while the male looks at her longingly. With a growl, they are at it again. We break for lunch, come back and they are still at it! So, of course, we photograph some more. After about another hour of mating, the lioness decides she’s had enough and gets up to leave with the male following her. They nonchalantly stroll past several safari vehicles, including ours, and decide to cross the road many vehicles away from us. After crossing the road, they walk back towards our vehicle but they are hidden behind low acacia bushes. They seem to have a specific spot in mind. The male marks his territory as he meanders along behind his female. She decides to turn beside our vehicle and lay in the shade of an acacia shrub directly outside my window of the safari vehicle! OMG!! I’m excited, as I quickly change from my medium lens to my shortest lens. The lions are too close to focus with my long lens. Darn it! I have to switch to a shorter one! LOL! I’ll take it! I wish I had problems like this every day. But, wait there’s more! The male is still following her and he lies down directly beside her, practically underneath my window. I could almost reach out and touch him. I can see every hair of his beautiful mane. I feel he is looking directly at me and we have made a connection. He looks back down to watch his female sleep. Then she looks up, right into my camera! AWESOME! Tonight I go to bed with a smile on my face, a purr in my heart and dreams of lions… Oh my!

Of Your Money By Mike Rich Pontchartrain Investment Management

Dumb things to do with your money (as told by someone who knows). When I was in college, I bought a shirt. It looked really cool in the department store in Chicago when my girlfriend and I were shopping (that girlfriend became my wife, and she thought that shirt looked pretty cool, too). The year was 1971. If you’re old enough, you can imagine the style: slim fit, a long, pointy collar, flowery pattern. Very 70s. Did I mention that it looked cool? Plus,

it was on sale. How could I go wrong? I just had to have it. I never wore that shirt. Every time I thought about wearing it, I realized how awful it looked and how “not me” it was. I kept stuffing it farther and farther to the back in my dorm room closet and eventually lost track of it. Today, that shirt

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might be hanging on a rack at one of those pricey vintage clothing stores, waiting for someone just as dumb as I was to buy it. Who knows? All I know is that I wasted my money. What was I thinking? Buying that shirt was not the last dumb money move I made and it certainly wasn’t the most expensive. However, remembering that purchase got me thinking about some of the dumb things some of us (including me) do with our money. The list is long. Here are a few gems:

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Dumb move No. 1: Borrowing money from your 401(k) account. This is a popular feature in some qualified plans, especially 401(k)s. While it’s not inherently wrong to borrow money from a retirement account, I can’t imagine a good reason why anyone would want to do it. Let’s think about this for a minute. Rather than having your money work for you in your account, it’s being spent on something else that likely has nothing to do with your retirement plans. Plus, if the stock market is on an upward tear, you could miss out on big gains. To make matters worse, many plans say that if you get laid off or leave the company voluntarily for another job, you have to pay off the loan right away. If you don’t have the money to do that, you could be hit with taxes and an early-withdrawal penalty. Ouch! Some 401(k) plans offer hardship withdrawals, but a new jet ski probably doesn’t qualify. If you have to borrow money, your bank is a better choice.

Dumb move No. 2: Not using life and disability insurance to protect your family. If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me that he or she doesn’t need life or disability insurance, I’d have enough money to buy a lot of of ugly shirts. If your family’s financial well-being depends on the money that comes from your job, you need insurance. For most people, the best time to get it is when you are young and healthy, but older workers can get it, too. It just costs more. Call me to learn more.

DumbmoveNo.3:Thinkingyourchildrenwill take care of you when you are old and sick. I wrote recently in this magazine that my mother-in-law had to enter an assisted living facility last summer. It has worked out well for her and everyone else involved, and Mom is thriving. Prior to that, while she was living with my sisterin-law and coming down to Slidell for long visits, not so good. The last time she stayed with us in Slidell, she passed out in the bathroom. Mary’s mom is a small woman, but Mary and I had to use all of our strength to get her into a position where we could evaluate her condition. She ended up at the hospital because she had crushed a bone in

her back. We realized then and there that we were coming to the end of our ability to care for her. Thankfully, Mary’s mom has long term care insurance that is paying for all of her assisted living care. So, here’s the lesson: if you think your family will drop everything to take care of you – not to mention their very ability to handle it physically and financially – you are probably thinking wrong. Even if they want to do it, they might not be able provide the care you will need. Either buy insurance, or set aside the money and have a plan to pay for someone to take care of you. I can help you put a plan in place.

shares in a high-flying technology mutual fund. It was early March, 2000. Now, if you remember anything about early March, the year 2000, and the financial markets, you know that I could not have chosen a better time for losing money if I had ordered it from a catalog. On March 10, 2000, the NASDAQ index hit its peak and then began a slide to a low point that makes me sick every time I think about it. I hung on for a while, but finally sold the shares to cut my losses. What a fiasco. By the way, my daughter still ended up going to college, but it was a lot more painful for my wallet. I never told her what happened. So, Betsy, my sweet, I’m coming clean. Your dad, the financial advisor, cannot predict the moves of the stock market. But, neither can anyone else.

I mentioned before that my money mistakes go beyond buying a shirt I would never wear. Here’s a good one for you. In early 2000, it was pretty clear to me that anyone who could fog a mirror was making money in technology stocks. One of my co-workers boasted at the office that he had made enough money in one day to pay for his new laptop computer. Smart guy that I am, I figured I could do the same thing. You know, get in, ride the everrising tide, make some easy money, and get out. So, I took a good chunk of my younger daughter’s college money – yes, you read that right, her college money – and bought

An amazing rate makes amazing things happen. A Regions Home Equity Line of Credit is a smart way to borrow – especially when the rate is so low. Our introductory rate for 12 months can help you consolidate debt, pay for higher education or renovate your home. As always, our associates are here to assist you with quick decisions and helpful advice. Ready to do something amazing? Michele Tierney | Branch Manager | Slidell and Gause Branches Slidell Branch, 985.847.0667 | Gause Branch, 985.649.3312 Kurt Bozant | Business Banking | 985.726.0534 Charmaine Seymour | Mortgage Loan Originator | 985.781.3114

No one is immune to money mistakes, but financially successful people learn from them. If you’d like some advice – not about fashion or market timing, please – call me for an appointment to meet.

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10 OTAC’s summer exhibition, “10”, is a continuing partnership with the City of Slidell’s Cultural Arts Department. OTAC offers the public an opportunity to observe outstanding art, as well as participate in an overview of where the cultural aspects of our city stands a decade after Katrina. The mission of the Olde Towne Arts Center, OTAC, is to enlighten, excite, and educate all lives that participate in our events using a variety of arts mediums. For the show, ten artists were selected, each of whom experienced Katrina in diverse ways. Some of the artwork speaks of Katrina, while some speaks of the strength and determination Katrina gave the artists to rejoice and take nothing for granted. There will be artist statements on view, explaining the concept or the technical approach behind the works of art. An artist’s talk will be held during

the opening, and viewers are encouraged to ask questions about the work or the techniques involved. There are two different and dynamic methods for YOU to add your voice or to help our service men and women overseas. At the opening reception, as part of “Photos, Prose, and Feeder Bands”, the public is invited to share photos, images, remembrances, and reflections from Slidell, where the eye of Katrina passed over in 2005. This memorabilia will be displayed in the City Hall Community Room, adjacent to the Slidell Cultural Center Gallery at City Hall during the reception only. The Slidell Ladies For Liberty will have boxes available in the City Hall Community Room during the opening to bring eligible dry goods to donate for our service men and women overseas. They ship

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Prelude: Catholic masses were performed in the Slidell area as early as 1885. There were no church buildings, so mass was held in private homes or at a general store. Priests or missionaries would often arrive by horseback from neighboring towns. Father LaVacri supervised the first church building on a land grant just south of City Hall on First and Bouscaren Streets. Since Father LaVacri was from France, I would assume he gave the church its name. Our Lady of Lourdes cornerstone was laid on September 14, 1890. The church was built with a tall iron crucifix as its steeple. In the adjoining building, Miss Eva Petrich served as the first schoolteacher. In 1915, a hurricane destroyed the church. On July 14, 1917, the new Our Lady of Lourdes Church was dedicated on the same site as the original church. In the fall of 1929, Lourdes’ new school was opened for classes. In 1932, the convent was built for the nuns. Prior to that, the nuns lived in private residences. The entire complex faced First Street for nearly 75 years. I visited the old convent for the first time the other day. The city has done a remarkable job in preserving its original architecture. In 1962, Lourdes moved to south Slidell on Westchester Blvd. to accommodate a growing population. Again, in 2005, it was destroyed by a hurricane. Today, the newest church is near the original Westchester site and hopefully, with the intercession of Our Lady of Prompt Succor, it will never be destroyed again.

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FATHER TIMOTHY PUGH Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church

† Most people don’t like to talk about their religion but I’m not one of those people. I always believed in God, even though I had no formal church experience growing up. I knew one day I would have to face my Maker, and I also knew that God works in mysterious ways. But, in a million years, I would have never imagined that God would bring my life full circle, fifty years later. How in the world did my actions as a little boy repeat themselves after a half century? Could it be that God left an indelible mark on me? Was the Blessed Mother touching my heart that very day when I made an uninvited visit to Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine? Was I too young or arrogant to accept it before now? How can I have a connection to Father Tim when I never met the man? And me convert to Catholicism? Not a chance that would ever happen. Is it possible that trespassing on private property eventually becomes a little boy’s salvation? Well, you read the story and you’ll see...

the convent. I guess this was because I never had a reason to. I was raised Baptist, and not a very good one at that; but that’s ok because God had quite a surprise waiting for me later in life. Despite having never been there, I do have a few very distinct memories that I will never forget. First, was the high brick wall around the convent. I remember asking my mom - why in the world would the church build a brick wall completely around the convent? Why would they cement broken glass around the top of the wall? And what’s with the iron gates? She looked me dead in the eye and answered, “Well son, that’s how they kept the nuns from running away.”

I never met Father Tim. I had never been in Our Lady of Lourdes Church. I had never been inside the school, and I certainly had never been inside

Don’t you Catholics go and get all mad on me because you know that was funny.

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I also remember the grotto. It was so pretty. So pretty, that my friend Steve and I decided to scale the fence and get a closer look. Steve came from a strong Baptist background. He feared God more than me, but not enough to stop him from going over that fence with me. Once our feet hit Holy Land, we were mesmerized by what we saw. It was really peaceful in there. Very quiet. Other than the fact that we were trespassing, we were being very respectful. We just stood there, staring at Mary, waiting for something magical to happen. Well, it happened alright. The doors of the convent swung open and about ten nuns came walking out. Both of us got weak in the knees. We were too scared to run so we just stood there like two dummies. Each one smiled as they walked past - except for the very last one. She must have been the Queen Bee (no pun intended). She was not smiling, and was not a happy camper by any stretch of the imagination. She was no different from anyone else in town, though - she knew I was a Dunaway and she knew I wasn’t Catholic. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Being a fast thinker, I said, “Praying.” After she left, Steve told me I was going to go to hell for lying to a nun. The truth is, I really WAS praying. Praying that she wouldn’t ask how we got in there. Can you believe, when we left, the gate wasn’t locked like we thought? Good thing the nuns didn’t know that, because they might have all escaped that day. On October 3, 1963, the church was moved to a new home. It was a six-block, two-day journey. Getting it there was one of the most exciting days in Slidell’s history. Our Lady of Lourdes was a huge building, even by today’s standards. Getting it on wheels, turning three corners, lifting electrical wires, chopping up a prized tree, and crossing over a rickety bridge would not be an easy task. But that’s what it would take to move it. Johnny Herbert was the youngest employee at Cleco at the time, so he was the designated pole man. If he wasn’t sitting on top of the church lifting wires out of the way, he was climbing up and down telephone poles disconnecting those that were too tight to lift. Nearly everyone in Slidell, including myself, lined the streets to witness the event. Even though they had issues with trees on the entire route, nothing compared to the tree at the corner of Cousin and Second Street. The lady living on that corner had a beautiful magnolia tree that extended over the street. When the moving crew pulled out a chainsaw, she came out of that yard like a raging bull. Talk about a show stopper! Louisiana was about to have its own version of a chainsaw massacre. (And, if I had to guess, the tree was not going to be the victim.) She stood in front of that tree like she was guarding one of her kids. It took an hour and several policemen to calm her down. As it turned out, the crew managed to move the church over a little and just trim a few limbs. I have to say, church or no church, she was ready to fight. And one thing you can take to the bank - I was right in the middle of it. No disrespect to the Slidell Police, but this little old lady was about to kick some ass. If I only had a video camera, I could have sold it to YouTube for thousands. As the church slowly crawled its way down the street, it reached its next obstacle, the Second Street Social Bridge. (I love that name. If God let’s me live long enough, I’m going to petition the city to officially name the bridge just that.) Nearly everyone on the street gathered near the bridge. We all knew when the church got on the bridge, it would collapse and fall in the canal. I bet that lady with the tree was wishing it would. Everyone was holding their breath as it went over the bridge at a snail’s pace. It had almost made it across when the back right wheels fell through the bridge. You should have seen us run. That canal was about to get real holy. Some fast thinking workers managed to stabilized the bridge long enough to pull the church the rest of the way across. By the end of the day, Our Lady of Lourdes Church was at its new home. Today, the church is as beautiful as the day it was built. It is now the home of Mount Olive African Methodist Episcopal Church.

Left: Our Lady of Lourdes prior to 1915. It was located on the corner of Bouscaren and First Streets, built on a land grant from the Archdiocese of New Orleans. It was destroyed by a hurricane in 1915. Note: On the far left is the town hall and city jail. The bottom window had bars and this is where the kids would talk to the prisoners. Right: This was the new church, built on same spot, along with a school and convent. It is still standing as beautiful as ever on the corner of Second and Guzman Streets. It is now Mount Olive African Methodist Episcopal Church.

Left: The convent for the Benedictine nuns in the 1930-60’s. It was located next to the school facing First Street. Downstairs had a large dining room and a kitchen. Upstairs had five bedrooms and one bathroom. Right: Today, the building is the home of G.O.S.H. (Guardians of Slidell History) Just like City Hall, it now faces Second Street.

The date of the photo is 1940-50’s. On the left is the rectory. It too was moved, just ahead of the church. Front center, the shrine of “Our Lady of Lourdes”. Back center, Lourdes School. On the right is the church. Behind the church is the convent, which is barely seen in this photo.

Left: The front on Our Lady of Lourdes School as it appeared in the 1940-50’s. It was built in 1929 and faced First Street. Right: It is now the rear entrance to City Hall (2015). It too faces First Street.

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Father Timothy Pugh O.S.B. Benedictine May 22, 1917 - December 10, 1969 Just as important as what a priest does, is who a priest is. Father Tim was a priest who truly offered sacrifice on behalf of the people. He really loved his church and everyone in it. When the Church said a priest should give his life for the sake of the Gospel, they certainly must have been referring to Father Tim. Just as the Church expected, Father Tim used his graces to tell the truth of the Good News. This was just one of the many reasons he was so well loved. He was a formidable figure, a large man in stature, tall and rather husky. When he raised his arms, they reached well beyond the width of the altar. He was very personable and quite sociable around everyone. He could hold a conversation with anyone regardless of their social status. Some of his most faithful followers, though, were the children. They loved him dearly and he loved them the same. When he visited the school at recess, the kids would follow him around like little ducklings. As long as you were not in trouble, all was good. One of his ways to keep law and order was to distribute the report cards himself. He loved checking the conduct grades to see who had been naughty or not. If the girls got a “C” or below, he would send them to see Sister Alberta (the principal), who was known to use a ruler. The boys were sent to the rectory for an attitude adjustment. Whichever way you went, your behavior usually changed for the better. A side note: Since the school playground was located next to the City Jail, many kids would talk to the prisoners through the cell windows. They weren’t dangerous prisoners - in fact, most were local town drunks. The kids were probably the only ones to offer some encouragement as well as a prayer or two. Mass is Not Over Yet We all have pet peeves. Father Tim was no exception. Some were minor and some were major, but all of them were justifiable and righteously so. His biggest pet peeve was really one he took very personally. Plain and simple - mass is NOT over until the last part of the concluding rites are said. For you readers who are not Catholic, it goes like this: Priest or Deacon: “Go forth, the Mass has ended...”

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Then everyone should further wait until the Priest has left the altar and the recessional song has ended. Father Tim would get very upset when people left mass before it was over. During the time Lourdes was in Olde Towne, the priest performed mass with his back to the congregation. (This was standard in the Catholic church, as was saying the mass in Latin, until the mid-60’s.) It was like Father Tim had eyes in the back of his head. If he thought someone was leaving early, he would turn around and call you back. The tone in his voice spoke for itself. He often made the stained glass windows rattle when he got upset. It was so powerful, people sort of slid back into their pews with their heads down. He definitely put the fear of God in them. Using the eyes in the back of his head was not the only way he caught early departures. The only place in the church where the wooden floors squeaked was near the front door. And believe me, his hearing was exceptional. Often, when he heard the squeaks, he wouldn’t even bother to turn around. With his gruff voice he would say, “Mass is not over yet” and then continue with the Rites. It certainly wasn’t beyond him to instruct the ushers to return you back to your pew. He did it many times. Since I never knew Father Tim, I decided to use social media to learn about his character. The response was overwhelming. In fact, I had to remove the request or I would be writing this article for the rest of my life. Everyone had a special memory of him. One lady said he baptized her and her four siblings, and confirmed them as well. He presided over their marriages. He presided over her parents’ funerals. Every year, he gave her parents pears from his pear trees. He gave so many pears away that it was coined as the “Pear Fest”. My only regret is that he will not be here to preside over

my funeral. After reading hundreds of testimonials, I am confident that Father Tim has touched the lives of thousands of Slidellians. In 1965, the Archdiocese of New Orleans established a new church parish. Father Timothy Pugh was appointed the administrator. The new parish would be named St. Margaret Mary in honor of Father Tim’s mother, Margaret Mary Pugh. In 1968, he established St. Margaret Mary School and was named pastor of St. Margaret Mary Church. In late 1969, Father Tim became ill and was taken to Slidell Memorial Hospital. After remaining critically ill, it was decided that he be transferred to Oschner in New Orleans for additional treatment. When the ambulance came to transfer him, he asked if he could make a pass around the school to say his goodbyes. The entire staff and all the students stood in the parking lot and waved as he passed by. A few days later, Father Tim died of a heart attack. The Benedictine Monks made him a casket and he was buried at St. Joseph’s Abbey, outside of Covington. Father Tim’s death brought an end to over 80 continuous years of priests serving our Lady of Lourdes. Some pretty remarkable things have happened to me since I climbed over that fence some 50 years ago. Most of my younger adult life was in direct contrast with what God would expect from any of us. I was living in the fast lane and going nowhere. I lived in sin for so long that I had forgotten the real meaning of life. After years of alcohol and drug abuse, I finally realized I had had enough and turned to God for help. It didn’t take long before I realized what I was missing. I needed faith. I needed a church that wouldn’t judge me. I needed new friends. In reality, I needed a whole new way of living. While at work one day, one of the young boys working for me implied that his mom would like to go out with me. I knew she was Catholic, but the entire time we dated she never pushed her religion on me. However, she always talked about the Gospel and the Homily. I can honestly say, I looked forward to what she had to say. After dating for awhile, she asked me if I wanted to go to mass with her one day. Before I could answer, she assured me it wouldn’t kill me. Jokingly, I quickly replied that I had heard otherwise. After stalling as long as I could, I decided to go with her to St. Margaret Mary. We weren’t three feet in the door when she started introducing me to several people. Every one of them, the men and women, greeted me the same way. No handshakes, just hugs and a verbal welcome to St. Margaret Mary. I was treated like I was the Bishop himself. The mass was phenomenal and the Homily was about forgiving yourself. I thought to myself - how do they know I needed that message and how do they know I was coming to visit today? It was then that I confirmed that God really does work in mysterious ways. I knew right then that I had found my church and my new friends. In early 1992, I went to a formation class (RCIA) to become a Roman Catholic.

The church as it is being moved, October 1963

The front of our new City Hall (2015), facing Second Street. At one time, it was the rear of Our Lady of Lourdes School.

On Easter Vigil 1993, I was formally received into the Catholic Church, at the very church Father Tim had started. I received four of the seven sacraments that the church had to offer. I was baptized, confirmed, received the Eucharist, and made my first confession. I truly believe that, from the moment I jumped that fence at Lourdes, an indelible mark was placed upon me. After a few years at St. Margaret Mary, Father Carroll asked me to lead a group of volunteers to build a grotto (Our Lady of Lourdes grotto) behind the church. Again, history was about to repeat itself. The first time I had laid eyes on a grotto was when I was trespassing on church property. This time, my relationship with our Blessed Mother would be much more intimate. In order to build the grotto, I first needed to know her. I did just that by learning to pray the rosary and studying Mary’s role in my faith.

The 1955 First Communion class from Our Lady of Lourdes. The second angel on the right row is Ginger Badon Nyberg. Note: Girls and boys were not allowed to play together. The sidewalk in this photo was the dividing line. Boys on the left, girls on the right. If you are in this photo, please let us know!

In 2005, my house was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. While remodeling, I decided to build a brick wall around my courtyard. Needless to say, I built an exact replica of the brick wall that surrounded the convent at Our Lady of Lourdes. I even cemented

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broken glass on the top. This time, the gate is always kept open so the nuns can come and go as they please. Like I said, I never met Father Tim, but I have a feeling if he was here today, he would be bringing me some fruit every now and then. Today, and only by the grace of God, life is better - much better. Even though I still sin from time to time, there is one thing I pray I never start doing - leave mass early. This is my personal editorial. Right or wrong, this is how I feel:

Sister Mary Ann Carollo, O.S.B. taught 1st and 2nd grades at Lourdes in Olde Towne.

Meet the Samrows, April 1959, in front of the Lourdes shrine. l-r: Jeanne, Liz, Connie, Mary, and Stan. This was Connie’s First Communion. I am proud that this family has been my next door neighbors and friends my entire life.

Nothing drives a priest crazier than people leaving mass early. Leaving early because you are sick or having some emergency is one thing; leaving early to catch a ball game or get to a restaurant before the crowd is another. The reason we should stay is to say thank you to God. Each week, we should be thanking Him for the gifts we receive from the Most Holy Eucharist. We often take this gift for granted. When one leaves before mass is over, it communicates our lack of gratitude for the gift our Lord has given us. Another reason we should stay is so the Lord can impart to us His blessing and dismissal. In the dismissal, the priest gives the command of Christ: go forth in the peace of Christ, or a similar version. Sometimes, for not very good reasons, we walk out on the Lord. This behavior is not only hurtful to God but also to the remaining congregation who are still praying. Bottom line is, it’s a sin. It’s a sin of arrogance and pride when we feel as if we don’t need God that much. It’s like saying, “Thank you, but no thanks. I’ve had enough for one day.” As our Lord Himself said to Peter in the garden, “So you could not keep watch with me for one hour”. And let’s not forget Judas. He was the only one who left the Last Supper early, and you know what happened to him, don’t you... Special Thanks When I decided to write this story, I had no intention of giving my personal testimonial and I had no intention of this being a lesson in Catholicism, it just happened that way. I really didn’t know too much about Father Tim, so I reached out via Facebook. The response was overwhelming, to say the least. Within two days, I had received well over 100 responses.

Left: The confirmation certificate of Thomas “Tommy” Gorecki, 1960. Father Tim baptized and confirmed thousands during his tenure. Right: The kindergarten graduation certificate of Ginger Badon Nyberg, 1955.

I want to thank Mrs. Jerry Chauffe and Connie Samrow Whitfield for helping me. Adrian Innerarity for a tour of the convent and helping me find pictures. GOSH, Carollo/Fontana Family, Karrel Z. Weathers, Slidell Times, Johnny Hebert, Ginger Nyberg, Bonnie Vanney, and the Archdiocese of New Orleans. And, most of all, God for all the wonderful memories of my childhood and, especially, for my calling.

Our Lady of Lourdes on Westchester Blvd. (1962-2005)

Post-Katrina (August 2005) The church was a total loss.

Mrs. Capron’s 1955 Kindergarten class at Our Lady of Lourdes. Who are YOU? Let me know if you recognize these faces, as I’m trying to document this photo for future generations to enjoy!

Our Lady of Lourdes on Westchester Blvd. as it stands today

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Since the birth of my first son years ago, Father’s Day reigns as one of my favorite holidays. It’s the one day each year when fathers get a little respect, a very little.

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it because I believe Dad wanted to believe it. He made the most of it wherever we went.

It’s also a sad day for me. In 1995, my father passed away at age 69, another smoking statistic. Dad always took time to take his three boys fishing and hunting.

Dad never claimed to be the best sportsman in the world; he just loved the sport. He never shot a deer. In fact, he never owned a deer rifle. He hunted ducks and small game, but I don’t think he ever scored a limit. He never put a trophy on the wall. That didn’t matter. I don’t think he cared as much about catching fish or bagging game as he did just getting out after them and spending time with his boys, especially his youngest.

As the youngest child, I shared a special bond with Dad. Since I came along much later than my three siblings, I had Dad all to myself during my most formative years. We shared fishing boats, duck blinds and game trails. Sometimes, we simply went for a walk in the woods just to see what we could see. Naturally, I grew up fishing and hunting. I don’t remember catching my first fish. Somewhere, I have a black and white photograph showing a toddler just out of diapers sitting on the bank of some unknown Louisiana bayou holding a dime store toy pole dangling a worm from a small cork. I do remember bagging my first duck and my first squirrel, both with a single-shot .410 crack-barrel shotgun. Dad couldn’t have been happier if he had just downed a new world record grizzly bear. No matter how small, Dad always tried to turn our fishing trips into adventures, even if we just went down the road to look at frogs in a ditch. He called every place “out in the middle of nowhere.” Perhaps, we truly were “out in the middle of nowhere” in some vast coastal saltwater marsh or endless Louisiana freshwater swamp. Perhaps, we just visited a city park lagoon.

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He even made picking out a Christmas tree, always on a cold night, an adventure. He called any patch of woods “The Bear Woods.” To a wide-eyed boy, a towering Christmas tree lot on a dark night seemed like “The Bear Woods.” For all I knew, we could have been lumberjacks plucking pine trees out of the ground “out in the middle of nowhere” in the Canadian Northwest Territories. Dad would have loved exploring the real Canadian Northwest Territories in a canoe and feeding off nature’s bounty. That never happened, though, but we always enjoyed wonderful mini adventures. We did explore a good portion of the southeastern Louisiana wetlands. Whenever we ventured “out in the middle of nowhere,” Dad always told me that no one passed through this patch of woods or marshes since the Indians lived here. I believed

By today’s standard, he hardly qualified as an accomplished fisherman. He used the same favored few lures, mostly topwaters, and never followed trends. He never caught a bass bigger than four pounds and that was a lucky strike. In fact, he never caught “bass” at all. Back then, when fishing was for fun and not for profit, people in Louisiana called bass “green trout” and ate them. Dad disdained competitive fishing. He fished because he loved it and didn’t really care about contributing to a record book or winning a trophy. He always felt fishing for money took something away from the purity of the sport he loved. On Saturday mornings, he loved to slip away quietly in his home-built wooden pirogue. He paddled up some lonely swamp tributary, casting his fly rod for “green trout” and “perch” or bluegills. The only equipment he carried consisted of his fly rod, fly

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box, paddle and jug of strong Community Coffee and Chicory. If he only covered 100 yards and didn’t catch a fish, it didn’t matter. Dad loved “fishing,” not just “catching.” Although he loved his favorite quiet spots, Dad enjoyed fishing in new places. He jokingly said he hoped to fish every body of water in Louisiana and surely tallied quite a few during his lifetime -- at least in the southeastern part of the state. When fish suffered lockjaw in his favorite spots, he explored a new bayou or river. He wanted to see what waited beyond the cypress trees and tannin-stained waters -- usually just more cypress trees and tannin-stained waters. While we fished or hunted, Dad took time to explain things to us, pointing out egrets, squirrels, ducks and identifying plants. He explained the great interconnected web of life before it became politically fashionable. He paused, even if fish were biting, to watch a mother nutria or otter swim with her babies or a hawk dive to catch its breakfast. A true sportsman, Dad fished for the relaxation it provided “out in the middle of nowhere.” Often, when my brothers and I were very young, Dad didn’t even fish at all. Since we didn’t own a sleek bass boat, he paddled his pirogue all day so we could fish. This was before electric trolling motors became popular. He could only take one child in the small craft without it tipping over, so we took turns. As the youngest with my two brothers away as I grew up, I took more than my share of turns. He used to say, “You can either fish or take small children fishing, but you can’t do both at the same time. Decide what you are going to do and stick with it.” This adage proved true again and again -- first by his children and then by his grandchildren. With young children present, Dad kept busy tying on lures, baiting hooks, removing hooks from his skin, untangling Gordian knots, unsnagging baits, etc. and didn’t have time to even pick up his own rod. I think he more enjoyed for us to catch a fish. When we came home, we bragged how we outfished Dad again! Unlike Dad, too often today, adults think children should fish like other adults. Many fathers make the mistake of taking their children fishing during a bass tournament, thinking they might fish like Kevin VanDam, and get mad when they don’t. They yell at them when the child snags or does something incorrectly. Without training, children cannot possibly fish like a professional. They are not born with such skills. Because fishing with kids takes a lot of work and patience, many adults prefer to fish only with other like-minded adults. That’s OK, but they miss something marvelous. Teaching children to fish creates wonderful memories. Time is the more precious, fragile and unforgiving of all gifts. Children easily become bored reeling and cranking for finicky bass. An adult should tie a hook and bobber to an old cane pole or cheap rod that won’t cost much to replace if the child breaks or loses it. Hook on a cricket and let the child catch a few bream or catfish instead of casting crankbaits for bass or flies for trout. Let children experiment and use their imaginations. Let them chase frogs on the shorelines when they get bored. If you catch anything, that’s a bonus. Once they “become hooked,” they could graduate to more complicated endeavors – like bass or trout fishing. Moreover, a parent will never meet a better fishing partner than one created from sweat and time, and yes, maybe even a few drops of blood and tears. I wish I could still fish with my Dad, but he’s gone now. I still treasure those wonderful memories created over the 34 years we shared on this planet. He lived long enough to see me take my two boys fishing and carry out the tradition of untangling lines, baiting hooks and unhooking fish. Sometimes, I’m positive he watched from above as my own boys created tangled messes or dropped their rods over the side when they were young. Sometimes, if I listen carefully, I can still hear him laughing his knowing approval. History repeats itself, often for the better. Dad, your grandchildren and I miss you.

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