Slidell Magazine - 62nd Edition by Slidell Magazine

Cultural Arts EVENTS CALENDAR Inside

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Editor’s Letter

Kendra Maness, Editor/Publisher, Slidell Magazine

every festival’s warm sunbeam, dance on the waves of every floating musical note, lose myself in the stories of every theatrical production, and savor each delicious bite of food. Pretty great life, huh?

the bustling Slidell activities calendar, and attended every social and business event that I could squeeze into my schedule. I met other business owners, community leaders, and future friends that have since impacted my business and my life in ways I could never have imagined.

It could be yours too! Our city has a thriving arts community that’s welcoming and accessible. Taking advantage of Slidell’s beauty and fun is as easy as showing up and soaking it in. Let me tell you a story about my introduction into the Slidell scene. I’ve told this story many times in speeches and toasts at events. Not sure if I’ve ever written it down, though...

September is here! If you’re a regular reader of Slidell Magazine, you know how exciting September is in my world and our community -- CULTURAL ARTS SEASON HAS BEGUN!

Kim showed me the Cultral Events calendar for the year (which I now proudly share with you in the centerfold of Slidell Magazine each September). I was blown away! So many festivals and concerts, art shows, and opportunities for family fun. Better yet, the city events were FREE, which fit perfectly into my business start-up budget.

I moved back to Slidell in February 2010 with the dream of starting Slidell Magazine. Upon arrival, my first two stops were to the Chamber of Commerce and the City of Slidell. I wanted to introduce myself and share my idea, learn more about my hometown and, honestly, ask for help. Little did I know that those first two meetings would change my life in such dynamic and glorious ways.

For the next two months, Slidell will be treated to amazing visual art, culinary art, music, theater, literature, events and galas. Our culturally rich community explodes in vibrance and activity during this time every year. Throughout the year, I probably attend over 100 events. It’s my favorite part of the job! During September and October, I’ll tuck about 50 of those events under my belt. I plan to soak in every art show’s paint drop, bask in

Here I am, 5+ years and hundreds of unforgettable memories later. More activities have been added to the Slidell to-do calendar, giving me even more opportunities to meet people and love life. For those of you reading this who are my friends and associates, I’m betting we met at a Chamber or City of Slidell function. And I’m sure glad we did.

That day, I found out that the Chamber of Commerce offers over 360 networking events a year to its members and the Slidell community. I was immediately plugged into

TO SUBSCRIBE!!!

IT’S TIME...

That very same day, I visited the City of Slidell and was introduced to the Department of Cultural Arts and Public Affairs and Kim Bergeron, who served as the Director at the time.

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SLIDELL MAGAZINE PO Box 4147 • Slidell, LA 70459

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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

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September 2015

Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” People

Mr. R.L. Lott by Charlotte Lowry Collins

Sponsored by

Storyteller

MY WEEKLY READER If I were enrolling in school this fall, I would be in the sixty second grade. That’s a lot of schooling. As long ago as that first day of school was, I remember it like yesterday. Mom led me to the door and my matronly old maid teacher with lace-up, high top shoes took my hand and led me inside. I looked back and I could see my mom was crying. I guess that is the day that life really began. Never had I been at a place where there were so many boys to play with. There were girls too, but they were insignificant. Cowboys and Indians was our favorite recess activity. Yes, we were allowed to bring our holsters and cap pistols. They were stored in our cubby holes; but when the recess bell rang, we would strap on our weapons and mount our imaginary trusty steeds and gallop amongst the trees, the swings and the jungle gyms. As I recall, we were all cowboys, no one wanted to be an Indian, but we still shot each other. We all lived to ride and shoot again. Native American was not even in the English vocabulary, or at least to our knowledge it was not.

This is when I noticed the difference between girls and boys. On our side of the playground, there was constant motion. Kids would be on swings, jungle gyms, sliding boards and seesaws. Screeches of “Gitty up!” or “You’re dead!” overpowered the sounds of the automobiles and trucks that passed nearby. Needless to say, they and we were quite noisy in those days. On the girls’ side, it was quiet as a mouse with clusters of little, skirted figures with frilly socks talking softly. There may be a few girls on the swings and a few jumping rope or playing hopscotch; but compared to the boys, they were quiet. Back in the classroom, there was a fragrance - no, there was an odor, of sweaty little kids. Drifting among this aroma was the sweet smell of ditto print, crayons, and molding clay. We had so much time for fun but we still got an education, or I think I did. One of the best days of the month was when our class got to go to the visual aid room. We would watch a film. That is, we

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would watch it if the machine worked, which it seldom did. It was more fun when the teacher would run them backwards. I am not sure of the educational content of this activity. The worst days were the days that we got our mandatory immunizations. I never understood why they had to humiliate us at school in front of our classmates. The nurses were mean - well, most were. Fred Wayne was in our class and his mom was a nice nurse. Those shots hurt. I do believe they used a square needle. We could not cry because we would be humiliated by our classmates. Speaking of humiliation, that took place when we got weighed. I remember the day when I stepped on the scale in the first grade. The nursed yelled out, “Johnny Case, 48 pounds.” Then Suzy followed me. The nurse yelled, “Suzy Douglas, 84 pounds.” Suzy immediately burst into tears. They even had a dental chair out in an open space at the end of the hall. We could watch our classmates get ground and drilled. We all clinched for the pain we knew they felt. Another favorite of grammar school was receiving my very own copy of My Weekly Reader. I was saddened to hear that My Weekly Reader exists no more. I am sure its demise has a lot to do with the digital age, similar to what is happening to all newspapers. In our electronic world, it had become a dinosaur. However, I remember when it was the cutting edge. I knew My Weekly Reader during the 1953-1960 era. She was an old girl even then, having been started in 1928. How we looked forward to the day when they were passed out. I most likely heard, for the first time, the words “Space Travel” from that publication. I remember a story about uranium and its miraculous powers. There was often an animal story, which is always a big attraction to kids. When summer came, we would receive books from the Weekly Reader Book Club. I still have a few. We also would receive in the mail a publication called Highlights For Children. That was entertainment for two full days. Good, wholesome stuff.

It never occurred to me that all the news these publications reported was upbeat and imagination inspiring. I thought that is what the world was. There was nothing in it about the Korean War, or Emit Till, or any of the atrocities that were occurring at the time; but after all, it was a child’s newspaper. It was an innocent time for children, a time for children to grow up with comfortable, heartwarming thoughts. How different it is today, brought about by the internet and video games. Grand Theft Auto - is that really appropriate for children? My Weekly Reader would not have thought so. Then, back to schoolyear two, and the first realization that some of your cowboy buddies had moved away during the summer without you even knowing it. To this day, I try to look them up, to see if they are on Facebook. I have found a few, but they do not remember me.

Girls became a little more imaginative in their dress. I suppose the intent was to be noticed by the guys, and it sure worked. Full pettycoats were still around, but more shirt-waist dresses and pleated skirts were beginning to make their appearance. This gave us guys some clue as to the shape of the still-mysterious female form. Lipstick and makeup were now a common thing on even the nice girls, not just the ones that were previously deemed too advanced for their age. For the first time, we had to share each others’ recreational space and this required that we communicate. How awkward. What if you said something wrong? You hoped they did not remember that, just a few years prior, you were playing cowboys. Could we have ever been that immature?

I think we emerged from our cocoon when we finally went to junior high. No longer did we have the same teacher all day, but actually moved from class to class. No longer were we required to drink milk with our lunch.

Then came high school. We entered the ninth grade knowing we were the coolest, best looking and most fantastic class to ever dart in the doors. Our enthusiasm would soon be dashed to know that we were bottom feeders. “Freshmen” they called us. We had to assume our rightful place at the bottom of the social order.

The girls were no longer segregated by playground. In fact, there was no playground. Cap pistols and imaginary mustangs had been left behind. The sweaty odor of little kids now blended with the sweet smell of perfume worn by a few of the girls.

We deserved it. Those Junior and Senior girls had mastered the art of makeup, dress and attractiveness. They were no longer girls, they were women, and most of us guys were infatuated with at least one.

The boys wore the same thing in junior high that we had worn in grammar school. Blue jeans, a shirt over a tee shirt, with white socks. There were a couple of differences, though. We no longer wore the U.S. Ked high-top tennis shoes, black, with a round rubber circle on the side. We now wore loafers. Also in the early grades, more often than not, our shirts were made from flour sacks. Now they were mostly store bought.

And the Junior and Senior guys had it made. They were bigger and more mature than us. Some had cars, most all had driver’s licenses. Worst of all for us boys, was that they could date not only the women their age, but the girls our age also. That seemed unfair.

I mention we wore shirts over tee shirts. This is about the time that we began to discriminate. If you wore a shirt over an undershirt, the “wife beater” type, you were country or redneck. The truth is, we were all country, just different degrees of it.

The four years in senior high were real life shapers for us. Most of us felt the joy of first love and the deep pain of love lost. Oh, the passion. How sweet it was. We also honed our skills in interactions with each other, our teachers and our community. Our success or failure of this would dictate the paths of our lives. Next month, there will be a class reunion marking our 50th anniversary. I remember on an October day in 1964, our class hosted and honored the classes of 1964, 1954, 1944, 1934, 1924, 1914 and 1904. I remember how ancient we thought those from the class of 1914 were. It was their 50th reunion. Our attitudes are now different. If the Lord is willing, I will be at that reunion. Come to think of it, the expression “If the Lord is willing” was something I was taught in school back then.

 John Case

September 2015 15

Elect

RANDY

SMITH

S T. TA M M A N Y PA R I S H S H E R I F F

R A N D Y S M I T H . L A 16

PA I D F O R B Y T H E R A N D Y S M I T H C A M PA I G N

When Randy Smith left the Sheriff’s Office after

Now, Randy wants to bring those leadership qualities and commitment to the Sheriff’s Office.

nearly 25 years of ser vice,

After nearly 30 years in law enforcement, he knows the people, the problems – and the solutions. With his success as Police Chief, he has a proven record of managing tax dollars wisely and efficiently, and with full transparency.

he wasn’t finished. The people of Slidell overwhelmingly chose him as their police chief in 2010, and the results have been evident. There are now more services, more technology, and lower crime, even as the City struggled with budget issues that resulted in cuts. The Slidell Police Department renewed its National Accreditation, and added motorcycles and public safety programs. When major crimes and disasters have occurred, Randy has been there – on the scene, taking charge, making sure the people are safe.

As Sheriff, he will be visible in the community, among deputies, and on the streets. He won’t be satisfied with public service that is merely “acceptable,” but will always strive for excellence. He demands professionalism and accountability. Married to Adele Bruce Smith and the father of Nathan, 21, and Ashley, 25, Randy shares our values and knows the importance of family and faith. Randy and Adele are Members of Church of the King near Mandeville. 17

A Cajun Girl Can Survive Story and Photos by Donna Bush

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Part 3

For me, the Go Beyond philosophy – getting outside of my comfort zone in a spiritual or physical way – is the secret of life, the One Thing. In my daily life, I’m distracted by everyday chores and shiny things. On the road, I concentrate on One Thing and experience life outside the confines of a lens or window. So, I’ve paused to reflect on the One Thing I would recommend on a trip to each of the snow-capped, sea-shelled, deep-fried corners of our fifty states.

Ron Newson

“What goes up, must come down, Spinning wheel, got to go ‘round.” So sang Blood, Sweat and Tears, and so it is in this month’s travels in the Just One Thing Transporter. In the past, we’ve gone from Minnesota to Texas in one day; so this month, let’s test the limits of gravity in our Time Machine.

that spin you into the stratosphere, to dark and mysterious caves, these destinations may make you happy to be back on Slidell’s flat, solid ground. Dear Editor Kendra: Set our first destination for Derry, New Hampshire for a trip high above the clouds - we’re going up, up and away with High 5 Ballooning.

September’s mild weather is the perfect time for this venture. From roller coasters

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I was lucky enough to take this flight several years ago, and I’m ready to go again. High Five boasts “New England’s only basket with a door,” a balloon basket that you walk into instead of climbing into.

The history is as palpable as the thick, cool air inside the caverns. Evidence of this is found at every turn in stalagmites and stalactites. Since Mammoth Cave was formed thousands of years ago, there are many types of cave formations, such as stalactites, stalagmites, columns and helictites. Stalactites form on ceilings and overhangs over long periods of time as water seeps through limestone leaving thin, hollow calcite soda straws. Continual water over time transforms the straws to thicker formations that resemble icicles.

This makes boarding the hot air balloon basket as easy as entering your front door – if your home contained 600 lb. fuel tanks of liquid propane. I expected to be a bit scared when I first flew, but hot air balloon flight is like drifting through the clouds in a feeling of weightlessness. You hear the rush of the hot air that keeps the balloon inflated and feel its warmth and energy, all while floating lazily above the treetops of New Hampshire in a two-ton apparatus. Time stands still, and it’s almost as if you are in a movie dream sequence.

Water also drips on the floors of the cave from overhead. The water leaves calcite deposits which build up making mounds. Continued dripping water causes the mounds to grow upward, forming stalagmites. When stalactites and stalagmites meet and grow together, they form columns.

Tony Sica, owner and pilot of High 5 Ballooning, chose appropriate balloon-friendly music for flight in the first rays of the morning sun. Suspend your beliefs and your worries about how you’ll eventually land – Tony is in constant contact with the chase crew. Our flight ended as we navigated whatever landing site the winds and his piloting expertise afforded. As we plopped down gently in the middle of a picturesque New Hampshire neighborhood, Tony produced an extra bottle of champagne for the unsuspecting landowner. It seems this romantic tradition began in France, naturally, where early French aeronauts found that the peasants who feared the fire breathing contraptions could be easily distracted if the monster’s human occupants offered them a glass of champagne. Kendra, at the moment of landing, please transport me back to Slidell’s even terrain with my champagne glass in hand!

Sufficiently fortified, I’ll soon be ready for my next adventure. This time, let’s reverse directions from above the clouds to inside the very earth itself! Mammoth Cave in Kentucky is my next destination; perhaps because the first time I visited, I was struck at the size of the interior. The tour guide told us that several hot air balloons could fit in the Rotunda of the cavern!

That’s the scientific explanation of the formations – in real time, they give you a look into prehistoric times. To me, that’s the most awe-inspiring part of spelunking. Which brings me to the bats – yes, you may see them flying about, so be prepared. And should we encounter them, time for Kendra to send us back to the Slidell sunshine. Ah, time travel! It’s not long before I’m ready to rumble again, and Las Vegas is the place for something other than gambling.

The cave also has an amazing history that spans 6000 years. Mummies found there show evidence of pre-Columbian funerary practice, and Native American remains have also been recovered.

Vegas sports a couple of the craziest thrill rides you’ll ever encounter. Send me right to the top of the X-Scream as it plunges over the Stratosphere Tower – because there is NO WAY I’d get on this thing unless you do. And screaming is in order – you will scream. (There’s something about heading straight off a building that will do that to you.) Putting your life in a ride 866 feet above a building is an act of faith. Take a deep breathe as we consider that this may be the last one we’ll ever have; or perhaps a moan of fear is more in order. X-Scream is a 69-foot straight piece of track carrying a single open top car, pivoting vertically in a see-saw motion 27 feet so that the car rolls backward and forward past the 33

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precipice of the building. Yeah, you read it right – plunging over the edge into Las Vegas is the point. There’s another roller coaster across the top of the New York, New York casino, but I’m over roller coasters for now. Ahhhhhhhhh! Once is enough – get me outta here, Kendra! I’ll need a bit of time on the St. Tammany Fishing Pier by the Frank Davis “Naturally N’awlins” Bridge to decompress, before my final trip in the Transporter. A few golden sunsets, and let’s be on our way for one more September excursion. This time, we’re in Tennessee. Ruby Falls is one of those tourist traps, like Graceland and Mount Rushmore, that you have to experience at least once in your lifetime – but do it in the Transporter if you can book it with Kendra. With time travel, you can pop right in front of the actual Fall, without the hassle of lines, crowds, or bending over in narrow places. The first time I saw Ruby Falls, I did it the old-fashioned way. We drove to Chattanooga on I-75 in our 1981 Buick Rivera, gawking at the ubiquitous “See Ruby Falls” signs at every turn. On water towers, on barn walls and roofs, on signs at every turn, the signs become part of the landscape in a strangely congruous way. This was, of course, long before social media and modern advertising tricks had inured us to such hype, so we were completely ready to see Ruby Falls. I must say, the actual Falls themselves, a skinny stream cascading 145 feet, were anticlimactic to the experience of navigating the mile long rock formations to get to them. So, beam me right into the belly of the beast, 400 feet inside Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga. The Park Service has rigged the Falls up with colored lights, which add to the moment. Although it can seem Disneyesque to encounter neon colored water and the crescendo of piped-in music, it also adds a touch of the eerie that is apropos to a cave. You can feel the spray, climb around the back of the Falls’ stream in a crouched over position, and snap photos of the big mouth of water pouring down on you. I like to imagine the first explorers seeing such a place. And then I’d like to get the hell out of there. And back to our beautiful Slidell! Thanks for taking this trip - up, down, and all around. Next time out, we’ll stay on terra firma!

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Why Buying Local Matters People are always talking about the American Dream, especially politicians come election season, but what does it mean in this day and age? Seventy years ago, that meant owning land and starting a farm, building a business or building your home, with the expectation that you’d one day leave everything you’ve built or earned to your family.

What is it about those businesses that made you recommend them? The simple answer is - THEY ARE UNIQUE - and they represent the best that our local culture has to offer. When travelling, people don’t want to visit the same businesses they have at home; they want to try something new, something unique. Otherwise they’d stay at home.

The new American Dream has built its foundations on the old, but it’s less about land, and more about ideas. For example: Someone has a great idea, starts a company, and builds a life for themselves and others on the strength of that idea and their hard work. Seems simple, right? Not really.

We tend to forget about all the truly unique businesses and people that make our community special. The stories behind these businesses, their owners, and their motivations are truly inspirational. We need to keep the sense of adventure and wonder that we have while on vacation and apply it to where we live all year.

It’s harder than ever to start and keep a successful independent business today. For a myriad of reasons, great ideas and hard work aren’t enough to ensure success for small business entrepreneurs. Bureaucracy, regulations, competition (from chains & online sellers), difficulty finding good employees, difficulty obtaining small business loans, etc... All these (and more) are reasons that great small businesses fail. But one big reason local businesses close is a lack of support from local consumers. If local consumers supported more local businesses instead of non-local ones, all those other reasons for businesses closing could be worked through. Local businesses need a steady stream of customers and revenue to be able to meet the unprecedented challenges that they face today.

GOOD THRU

12/2016

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Try to remember the last time you had friends from out of town visiting. Where did you recommend that they shop, visit or dine? It’s a good bet you recommended a local, independent business? Why?

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By John N. Felsher

Spanish moss – still the stuff of legends Probably no other plant more epitomizes the Deep South than Spanish moss. Long a symbol of the South and the Southern way of life, paintings of old plantation houses always portray Spanish moss dripping from stately trees. These slender, threadlike stems can reach lengths up to six feet, like eerie fingers waiting to grasp anyone who ventures too close. Modern movies, books, paintings and television programs depicting the Southern way of life go to great lengths to show stereotypical oak trees festooned with the gray plant. The plant blankets hardwood forests and swamps across much of the Deep South from east Texas to Virginia and throughout Louisiana, wherever it can cling to a tree. It attaches itself to tree trunks and branches, especially oaks or cypress, and hangs in long, gray ethereal wisps that seemingly glow in the light of a full moon. Contrary to popular belief, Spanish moss does not harm trees. Not parasitic, it absorbs necessary moisture directly from the air through scales in its “stem.” It does not compete for food with its host. It gets nothing from the tree, except a sturdy place to hang around. To survive, it needs a strong host, sunlight, moisture and clean air. Like octopus tentacles, it wraps itself around suitable branches and hangs in the sunlight, absorbing all the goodness of the air. Despite its common name, Spanish moss is neither “Spanish” nor a “moss.” It is an epiphyte, or air plant, with the scientific name of tillandsia usneoides of the family of Bromeliaceae, or a bromeliad. Not usually thought of as a flowering plant, it does grow small leaves and inconspicuous minuscule yellow flowers. It is most closely related to orchids and, oddly enough, pineapples, the only species of the pineapple family indigenous to the continental United States. It even bears a small capsule-like fruit that somewhat resembles a miniature pineapple. When “nauti” Europeans first sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to visit the Gulf Coast, they found forbidding coastal wetlands dominated by cypress trees draped in the mysterious gray threads. If they listened carefully, these intruders might imagine hearing the spooky hair-like growths whisper warnings not to enter the swamps unprepared or nature might not let them go. 36

In 1524, Giovanni da Verazzano, an Italian explorer sailing for France, ventured along the East Coast of the present-day United States. In North Carolina, he first described these hairy plants. However, for thousands of years before Verazzano’s voyage, the original “nauti people” who ruled the southern swamps learned to live in a land comprised mostly of water. With primitive looms, the natives weaved moss fibers into clothing, which early European explorers described as “clad with the hair of the trees.”

These native people used this special plant for many other purposes. Besides clothing, they made sleeping mats, blankets, shawls, rope, bindings and other items. Warriors used wads of this beneficial native plant to dress wounds. Some tribes even used moss to make roofs for their huts or as a binder to hold mud together when chinking gaps in log walls. They even made moss toys and dolls for the children. The original Louisiana swamp people thought so highly of the special odd-looking plant that they even told stories about how it arrived in their land. Sitting round village fires in the evenings, tribal elders told tales of love affairs gone bad, the deaths of lusty intruders and intervention by supernatural powers. According to one legend, long before Europeans first penetrated the swamplands of future Bayou Country, a native princess fell deeply in love with a warrior from another tribe. Her choice of a mate outside the clan greatly angered her father, a powerful war chief. The chief prohibited the princess from seeing her lover -- possibly named Romeaux, or maaaybe not. Anyway, as the story continues, the chief considered this romance simply unthinkable. Marriage to an outsider would disgrace the chief, the village and the tribe. As often happens, especially with teen-aged girls, love proved more powerful an influence than parental authority. The princess obeyed her father, at least publicly, but secretly rendezvoused with her forbidden lover deep in the swamp as often as they could meet. Also, as frequently happens throughout history, the lovers could not keep such an illicit affair secret for very long. Soon, the chief learned about the clandestine assignations. Enraged, he swore to end such disobedience immediately. He hid near an oak tree that marked the lovers’ secret meeting place. When the lovers arrived for their tryst, the chief hurled himself at the surprised young warrior. They grappled in a deathly embrace. The brave warrior fought like a lion (or maybe an alligator, considering the setting for this story), but his strength proved no match for the chief’s blistering paternal hatred, power and fighting experience. The old man cut the young warrior to pieces with his knife. Heartbroken, the princess then grabbed the knife and thrust it into her own stomach, killing herself – so the legend goes. This tragedy so saddened the Great Spirit that he placed the lovers’ long, ebony hair high in the oak tree that marked their meeting place so everyone could see it blowing in the wind. Forever, this symbol would remind all who passed beneath it of the power of love

and hate. After many years, the hair turned gray and spread from branch to branch, then tree to tree, as a lasting memorial of the affection between the princess and the doomed young warrior. A second legend evokes the bitter rivalry between natives and Europeans determined to conquer the land. In the early history of the Gulf Coast, Spanish explorers roamed the swamps in search of gold. After months at sea without female companionship, these men raged with overflowing testosterone. When they landed and discovered beautiful, scantily clad young native maidens, their boiling hormones erupted. One Spanish explorer fancied a certain native maiden. She did not return his affection. Spying her fetching water one day, the Spaniard fell hopelessly in love - or at least in lust - with the girl! He approached the young maiden who fled through the swamp in terror. Not being able to outrun the larger, stronger man, the girl tried to escape by climbing into a giant oak tree, but the Spaniard saw her and climbed after her. She climbed higher; so did he. Soon, she had no place else to go. As the Spaniard nearly reached the beautiful young woman, she jumped to the ground. Injured, she limped away, disappearing into the vast unknown that marked the primordial swamp that became Louisiana. She never returned to her village. The Spaniard suffered a worse fate, according to the legend. He lunged after the maiden, but entangled his long gray beard in twigs and tree branches. Hopelessly enmeshed in the high branches, the Spaniard became a prisoner of the tree. Trapped deep in the swamp, he never returned to his shipmates either. Nature took its course. Eventually, nothing remained of the lusty Spaniard except his

beard. By supernatural force, it propagated from tree to tree as a reminder of the Spaniard’s sin. Soon, nearly every oak tree in the South sported some “Spanish Beard.” Delightful, though doubtful, this origin may seem for the mystical plant, the name “Spanish Beard” caused considerable real friction between competing French and Spanish forces both trying to claim North America for their kings. The plant reminded French explorers of the long, flowing gray beards worn by Spaniards. They called it Barbe Espagnol, or “Spanish Beard.” Highly insulted, the Spanish retaliated against their European rivals by naming the plant Cabello Frances or “French Hair.” Although Spain and France each ruled Louisiana at various periods in history, the French culture in the state prevailed more than that of the Spanish. Although Spanish architecture dominates the old sections of New Orleans since most of the buildings actually date back to the Spanish colonial period, ever hear of the “Spanish Quarter”? Therefore, a variant of the French version stuck to this day. Native peoples also taught European settlers how to wrap themselves in moss to keep mosquitoes from biting them, a tradition that survives to this day among some old-time hunters and trappers in Louisiana. One would think that such a hairy plant would make an insect paradise, but something about Spanish moss actually repels insects. However, other small creatures, such as tree frogs and lizards seek refuge within its protective cocoon. Not only does the moss protect sportsmen from insects, but also provides excellent native camouflage hunting in the swamps. Since Spanish moss repels bugs, the fibers make excellent stuffing material for mattresses and upholstered furniture – a major reason 37

why the natives made clothing from it. Before modern medicine, insect-borne diseases killed thousands of people in the warm, wet, semi-tropical Louisiana wilderness. To keep bugs away, early settlers began stuffing mattresses and pillows with the moss. By the early 18th century, the North American colonies exported tons of raw Spanish moss to Europe for stuffing into mattresses and furniture, a practice that persisted until just a few decades ago. During the Great Depression of the 1930’s, Spanish moss not only protected people from the ravages of insects, but also from the ravages of poverty. Commercial moss harvesters operated lucrative enterprises throughout the once vast swamps and forests in parts of the South, particularly southeastern Louisiana. In places like Honey Island Swamp along Pearl River, Manchac Swamp on the western shoreline of Lake Pontchartrain, the Atchafalaya Basin and other wetlands, moss gatherers stood in flat-bottomed wooden boats and used long rake-like poles to pull the gray clumps from tall oak and cypress trees. To support their families, moss harvesters labored in summer heat and winter chill in remote wildernesses populated by alligators and venomous snakes while dodging enraged wasps dislodged by their efforts.

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These hearty nauti people baled their “catch” into great heaps and transported the haul by boat or wagon to processing gins. In the mid-1930’s, Louisiana moss harvesters sent about 10,000 tons of the material to processing plants annually. Processing gins turned the gray-scaled strands into black fibers similar to horsehair. These fibers constituted the backbone of a thriving upholstering industry. Some of the best furniture in stately old homes still contains this symbol of the South. President John F. Kennedy owned a rocking chair stuffed with Spanish moss. In the post-World War II boom, cheap new synthetic fibers and foams flooded the market. In addition, the vast, remote wilderness areas where the moss thrives largely disappeared by the mid-20th century. By the late 1950’s, most of the few remaining wild moss harvesters looked for other employment. The last moss gin burned down in 1958 and never reopened. Today, those wild areas that remain sit mostly on private land or in highly regulated refuges, wildlife management areas or other sanctuaries. Because it gets nourishment directly from the air, Spanish moss cannot tolerate airborne contaminants or cold temperatures. Automobile exhaust fumes can kill it. Therefore, increasing pollution and urbanization reduced the abundance of this rather delicate plant across much of the South, although modern travelers can still find it clinging to trees in nearly every public park or forest across its range. While few people still stuff Spanish moss fibers into furniture, a few people continue the tradition. They gather small quantities of moss to make stuffed novelty objects, handicrafts and decorations. One can still purchase small quantities of Spanish moss in hobby or craft stores. However, the plant will remain forever the stuff of legends. It survives as a reminder of the time when rival tribes and nations fought for honor, riches and glory in the new land, eventually called America. Hopefully, this wonderful plant that so epitomizes the Deep South, will survive to whisper tales to the imaginations of future southern generations.

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Fulfilling the Mission Another school year has begun and I’m still here to talk about it. In other words, the summer did not have me running away to join the circus, the mental ward, or the local prison. As always, I had my OWN circus to attend, and it turned out to be, well, not that bad. I left the cage with my 3 monkeys for most of the summer days, hiding out at my friend Tonya’s house, an hour away in the country. There is a lot of peace there… pondering life while sitting in a field with the cows, talking to the horses, catching up with Tonya while our kids played together. We made a redneck slip-n-slide, caught bugs, and watched the kids use their imaginations. Screen time was even limited to a bare minimum, and miraculously, they survived it. She is a teacher, which makes her naturally good at structure. I suck at it.

It’s hard to find that level of peace living in a busy town and neighborhood during the summer months, especially since schedules aren’t my thing. It was also a welcomed break from the constant flow of people coming through our front door for the past 7 years. It’s all good, until you realize you’ve drained yourself and aren’t finding ways to be filled back up. It’s nobody’s fault. I do it to myself. I mean, I want to teach my kids to be compassionate, but not to the point where they get run down. I also hope that whoever they reach in the world will pay it forward somehow. Letting their hearts lead, doing good, without expecting to see the positive result from their actions, is what we try and teach our kids to do; but every now and then, it sure would be nice for them to see the difference they’ve made. It would

give them the motivation to keep reaching out in the world. THAT’S what fills us back up. Not sitting in a field lined with barbed wire, mooing back at the cows, because you are tired of being disappointed by people. Well, MAYBE a teeny tiny bit. The week before summer was ending, my son and I went on a mission trip to Austin, TX with the youth group from church. It’s called “Reach Beyond Mission”, and it teaches them about the homeless population and different programs out there that help to feed, house, and care for those less fortunate. It was named with the hopes that, after the mission trip was over, these kids would “reach beyond” that experience, finding compassion for people on a deeper level, then wanting to help those in their own communities.

There were 6 of them in the youth group, all with HUGE hearts, and an eagerness to help others in need. That eagerness didn’t only come from the fact that they are good kids, it also came from a more personal place to them, because they ALL have special needs of their own, and can deeply relate to feeling left out at times. Maybe even overlooked or judged, just like many of the homeless people they encountered on this trip. They worked in a food pantry, served food out of a mobile food truck in 100 degree weather, sorted through clothes, made LOTS of sandwiches, served more food… just gave so much of their time. But most of all, they TALKED to the people they were helping, treating them like anyone else. It didn’t matter how scary they looked (and some of them did). The kids were AMAZING, connecting with the homeless in a way that most of us probably couldn’t. It’s just who they are, the way they were made, and it showed me something that I was missing in myself. Before going on this trip, I judged some homeless people. You know, the ones that didn’t give me a “warm and fuzzy”, whom I felt needed to quit taking people’s money and go out and get a job. Especially when they look more than capable of working. Well, call me crazy, but that all changed for me. I no longer feel the need to pick and choose who is “worthy of being homeless”. And why would I even want to teach these kids who they should be compassionate to? That just doesn’t feel right to me. So yes, my outlook changed with the example they set, and then, with one man. His name was Alan. We got to a church at 5am on the third day, where the homeless were waiting for breakfast. While the food was being prepared, the kids went out in the crowd, talking to whoever they felt led to talk to. I started to feel like I needed to reach out as well, giving some “poor soul” my worthy advice. But I wasn’t really ready to be pulled down into the pits of my emotions again… still in my “break from helping others so that I could be filled”. And besides, it was about the kids anyway, not me.

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Then, there was a touch on my shoulder. The timing was so strange. A man, in his 60’s, covered in tattoos, wearing a do-rag on his head, handed me a folded piece of paper and walked away. I opened it, discovering very quickly by the words on the paper, that he was a writer. These were his words: “Within each and every one of us, lives beauty. We are all children of God regardless of age, race etc. We all bleed red. We are all gifted. The breath of life in itself is a gift. We live in an imperfect world. Some strive for perfection, some are perfectionists, and still fall short. Yet, how much is learned in this process encourages us to seek further, to dig deeper in ourselves, to do right. We are all here on earth to learn from one another… to teach. One big family is what we are. It takes all kinds of people to make the world go round.” Alan After reading it, I walked over to his table and sat down. Trying not to cry, I simply said, “Thank you”. He smiled, telling me how he writes to help others, and to help himself. Because of this, I immediately felt a connection. And from that, we talked. For what felt like hours. I didn’t see anything else around me... don’t think I was supposed to. 41

After leaving breakfast, I couldn’t speak to anyone. There were no words to explain what had happened. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

We saw many homeless people, but none of them were Alan.

Alan is a kindred spirit, and he helped me see many things. He has a story like we all do, and a very hard one at that. He spend 17 years in prison. Part of that in solitary confinement. I don’t know why, didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

We left the next morning and something still felt incomplete inside of me.

HE showed ME what I thought I was supposed to be showing him. Because you know, “that’s what I do”. Funny how that worked. I was humbled, and then, I WAS FILLED. But it doesn’t end there. And it certainly doesn’t end with me. Being such a powerful experience, I felt I needed to say goodbye to Alan before we left… Or tell him thank you… SOMETHING. I really didn’t know WHAT I was going to tell him. I remembered he lived behind the Church of Scientology because of a story he had told me. It made me laugh and cry at the same time: “I walked in there when the sign said Testimony Day, because, well, I had a testimony! It wasn’t the same testimony of belief that they had, but I told them anyway, and the whole place got quiet. Everyone’s eyes were HUGE. When I was done, and walked back down the aisle to leave, people wanted to help me. I told them that I live right behind their church, in a stairway in the alley. And that I have lived there for a long time.” This church was only a block from where we were staying in downtown Austin, so my friend, David, and I went to look for him. 42

Three hours later, we tried again. Still no luck.

After arriving home, I emailed a church in Austin where he said he was getting baptized that weekend, giving them a small part of the story, hoping they knew where he was and could give him a message for me. Sadly, a week went by, and still no reply. That same week, my daughter had been BEGGING me for a smoothie from Smoothie King, all while hearing the stories I would tell of Alan. Sometimes I wondered if she was even listening to me.

“Momma, I want him to have my smoothie.” It caught me off guard. I asked if she was sure. She said yes. I honked the horn, called him over, and told him that my daughter wanted him to have her smoothie. He said he didn’t want to take it from her, but she smiled her sweet smile and said, “It’s ok”. Now, I don’t brag about my kids on Facebook much, but this time, I DID. And by the likes and comments, it was apparent that it touched many people. I am so proud of her. My daughter WAS listening. And she DID understand. (Oh God, what else has she learned from me when I didn’t think she was listening?)

School was starting soon, so I was busy trying to find school supplies. Doing the mad dash through Walmart looking for 3-prong folders before they were all gone, or the 12 x 18 construction paper that doesn’t exist. When we were heading back home, my daughter reminded me AGAIN that she wanted a smoothie. Giving in, I pulled though the drive-thru, bought the smoothie she wanted, and headed back out of the parking lot.

So, did the love stop there? Nope.

While waiting to turn, an older man that frequently walks up and down Gause Blvd with a limp was about to pass in front of us. I sat there for a minute, looking at him. It made me think of Alan.

The lesson is never meant to stop with us. Because, like Alan said, We are all here on earth to learn from one another… to teach. One big family is what we are.

My daughter looked at me, noticing something in my eyes. I mentioned it being so hot outside, kinda talking to myself, as I do. Once he was out of the way, I started to make the turn home. But before I could, these unexpected words made me hit the brakes…

The next morning, I saw a strange car stop in front of our mailbox, then drive off. I went to check it out, and inside was an envelope with my daughter’s name on it. I opened it. It was a thank you card. The inside read, “Thank you for showing the adults how to do it”. And with it, a gift card to Smoothie King.

I may never see Alan again, but he certainly won’t be forgotten. The message DIDN’T stop with him. It was heard, LOUD AND CLEAR. And frankly, I think that was all he ever wanted.

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When I think of sports, I think of fun and competition. Not being a pro athlete myself (obviously), I take comfort in knowing that I can “participate” in sports from the comfort of my own couch or in my own back yard, safely, and without any kind of fear. However, not all athletes enjoy this kind of laid back, buffalo wing filled, comfy participation. No, there are thrill seekers who aren’t satisfied watching from the sidelines. Which kind of participant do you consider yourself? If you are a thrill seeker looking for your next adrenaline rush, start saving for a plane ticket. That is, if you enjoy the thought of death chasing you. Picture your thrill-seeking-self in Pamplona, Spain. The Running of the Bulls, or Encierro as the locals call it, is an annual event during the eight-day festival of Sanfermines in honor of Saint Fermin. Bulls are set loose on a specific path of the city where they chase runners to the pens that will then house the bovines until they spar with the bullfighters later in the day. Sounds like a blast, right? Who wouldn’t want to tempt

ring by adults and children who used sticks and shouts to guide them from behind. See, now THAT sounds like a much safer sport. I’d much rather be on the opposite side of the bull, despite the uh...rear view. Today, steers “steer” the bulls towards the pen. See what I did there? They “steer” the bulls? HAHA! I am dying over here! How can you stand it? Just put the magazine down now, put it down and walk away. Oh my goodness. *Breath in, breath out*. Ok, I’m back.

six torro bravos, a very dangerous breed of fighting bulls, to run their very pointy, very dangerous horns through a part of the body that typically avoids housing an angry bull horn? What started this crazy tradition? And why would anyone try this crazy stunt? Let’s go back to the 1300’s, when this whole thing started. It began as a way to herd the bulls from Pamplona’s corral to the bullfighting ring. At that time, no one ran from the bulls. In fact, the bulls were spurred towards the

More people started joining the herd in the 1800’s. Since then, the bulls have had a chance to revenge their ancestors. International popularity of this sport didn’t really begin until 1926 with Ernest Hemingway’s brilliant novel The Sun Also Rises. Since then, thousands of foreigners have flocked to the event. Unfortunately, not all come home safely. While only a sparse 15 have been killed in the event since 1910, the fear is very real and injuries are very common. In fact, the people most likely injured tend to be Americans. The only American to be

killed, however, was Matthew Tassio in 1995. Witnesses said he was knocked to the ground by a bull, then got up again and was struck by a second one. He violated the axiom that runners should remain on the ground if they get knocked down. Having said that, there are plenty of security and medical personnel on hand in case (when) something gets out of hand. There are also barricades that offer a narrow escape opening that allows runners to take cover without fear of a bull following them. Which is good, because, you know, it’s probably best NOT TO BE ON THE ROAD WHEN A BULL COMES RAGING AFTER YOU. Come on, it’s craziness! I can’t say I endorse this sport, folks. At least football players can try to stop when they think they might seriously hurt someone, NASCAR drivers try to avoid causing crashes (for the most part), and you don’t see baseball players swinging bats at each other on purpose. To make matters worse, there is a possibility of runners falling and piling up at the entrance of the bullring because it is much narrower than the previous street. When this happens, injuries can come from asphyxia, contusions to those buried in the pile, or from goring when the bulls crush into the pile. Perfect, let’s give the bulls a “bullseye” to aim for... I AM ON FIRE!!

I don’t think these people are looking for death. They are looking for life, testing the boundaries of what is safe and sound. From their perspective, it’s a way of truly living a life by knowing the entirety of the human condition. In their experience, the clichés “life is short,” and “you only live once,” pale in their description to the actuality.

Come to think of it, though, it is the ultimate competition. The prize, besides bragging rights, is LIFE. And, while I think it is irresponsible to knowingly choose such a dangerous situation, if there is one prize worth fighting for, life is a pretty important one. In those terms, it is easier to understand why some people run with the bulls. They feel more alive. While I don’t completely understand it, I do know that things like skydiving and bungee jumping help people feel that “edge” - the feeling that things could end at any moment. Some call it being an adrenaline-junkie, a risk-taker, or a daredevil. But it’s that feeling of “almost” that gives a completely different perspective on life. (Though, in my opinion, a similar feeling can be had over a delicious bowl of ice cream.)

The Running of the Bulls is a unique event. It has a tremendous impact on the culture of Spain and is an event unlike any other in the world. You may never see me running with the bulls, but if you offered me a cold beverage and turned on the channel covering the marathon of bovines, I’d be much more likely to sit down. It’s a much better situation for my bottom, after all. _

UPDATE: Since the writing of this article, seven more people have been gored to death in the Running of the Bulls events. This is an unusually high number of deaths, almost half of the total number of deaths since 1910, and is certainly a wake up call to thrill-seekers looking to participate in this event. My opinion on the matter has not changed, but I send my condolences to the families of the runners who have passed.

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The History of Slidell High School

Slidell by: Ronnie Dunaway

Part Two: 1924-1941

Prelude:

round the mid-1920’s, Slidell began taking its first steps toward modernization. Our population was around 3000 and Slidell High School was well beyond its capacity. Several industries such as ship building, the lumber yard, and brick making caused the town’s population to increase. During Mayor Canulette’s and Mayor House’s terms (1924-1928), Slidell began to annex more land. This was also the time when the Watson-Williams Bridge was announced.

“

The “new” Slidell High School, located between Third St. and Maine Ave., where Slidell Jr. High is today. It was in use from 1924-1961.

Automobiles were becoming popular and people began to travel more often. More and more people began to discover the quaint little town of Slidell. Given the fact that Slidell had always led the Parish in education, the time had come for the location that had educated so many kids to have more space. Under Superintendent Elmer E. Lyon, a decision was made to build a new Slidell High School just north of its present location. In the spring of 1924, the new two-story Slidell High, located where Slidell Jr. High School is today, held its first classes.

“

I would like to dedicate this story to all of the Slidell High alumni who are now deceased, but took the time in their life to tell their stories to their loved ones. I would also like to dedicate this to those who are still living. With these stories, and being an SHS alumnus myself (1974), I will preserve these memories for many future Tiger fans and students alike to enjoy.

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Now, before I say another word, let me tell you that the history of Slidell High from 1924 to present will be told in a different format from my last story, courtesy of a long-time friend. Adrian graciously loaned me her prize collection of books about Slidell High School. They are incredible, to say the least. So, sit back and enjoy the early years of Slidell High through the eyes of those who were there or through the loved ones of those who have passed. All of the excerpts are somewhat paraphrased, just for space, so I can tell as many stories as possible. Pay close attention because each excerpt is a history lesson that is truly priceless.

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Note : Because of all the new material that I have, I decided to stop around 1940-41 and pick up there next month... From the Class of 1923 Henry L. “ Pete” Mayfield One of my father’s stories that I remember was the way he made the long difficult daily walks into Slidell to attend school. In those days, the only ways to school for most were walking or a horse. When my father became a teenager, his dad bought a Ford Model-T so he and his siblings could get to school easier. When Granddaddy bought the car, the best road from the farm to Slidell was a mud and corduroy road (made of logs laid side by side and bound together). Because the Model-T could not handle the road, my grandfather and my dad built a paved road into town along the Old Spanish Trail (Hwy 433). It is believed to be the first paved road in the area. by: Adele Mayfield Davenport CLASS OF 1924 Eloise Arnold Janet Dumesville Gladys Nell Duham Viven Dunston Heratio Fogg Lydia Gauders Hatly Harrison Genevra Hover Robert Long Beale Minturn Forest Pearce Lloyd Pearse Florence Piert Layfette Snider Roy Taylor Helen Taylor Lilly Terrel Willard Varnado Vernon Wharton Lena Whitfield

CLASS OF 1925 H.C. Cleveland Jr. Clyde Crawford J.Y. Crow Eather Foy Lula Mayfield John Mayfield Evelyn Henderson Alexander S. McKean Bessie Moran Audrey Murphy Maggie Mae Murphy Lolita Pichon Nadine Simmons Alva Iona Snider Leona Sollberger Elton Yates

From the Class of 1929 Fritzie Lockfield Hursey Fritzie Hursey was a happy person who loved to laugh and, at times, could be quite the prankster. One day, while in Miss Briesinger’s class, Fritzie and some of her friends decided to place limburger cheese on their teacher’s apron, her desk chair and the radiator. (If you are too young to know, that would be the classroom heater.) As the class began to complain that it was cold, the radiator was turned on. The stench was unbearable. The class soon exploded with laughter. Quickly, the class was in chaos. Miss Briesinger ran to the principal’s office and returned with Mr. Ratliff. Needless to say - no more class that day. by: Suzanne Hursey Strahan, Class of 1959

From the Class of 1931 Elinor “Nootsie” Baker McGinty My fond memories of Slidell High School began in 1927 when my 8th grade class moved from the elementary school to the new two-story on Third Street. School always began after Labor Day and ended at the end of May. My memories of SHS did not end with my graduation in 1931. They continued until 1976. In the fall of 1932, my brother, W.A. Baker (Buster), a member of the newly formed SHS football team, introduced me to his coach, a young man from north Louisiana who had been hired that year to teach Math and Science and to implement a football program at the school. That teacher and coach was L.V. McGinty. We married in December 1933. He soon became principal and remained in that position until his retirement in 1976. From the Class of 1935 Isabel Porche Badon We had no school cafeteria, so kids who took buses had to bring bag lunches. Those of us who walked to school often walked home for a hot lunch. I ate, washed the dishes, and walked back to school. We had no lockers at school so we carried all our books with us from class to class. Since I went home for lunch , I carried books for the morning classes and swapped them for the afternoon classes when I went home for lunch. I can’t remember anyone driving to school in those days. There were no school uniforms but my parents made sure I was dressed properly before I left the house. Mom made me wear cotton stockings and I hated them. One day, I cut a pair and rolled them down like socks. Mom said, “You’d better not let Papa see you!” CLASS OF 1935 Eugene Alexander Bernice McKean Gatha H. Anderson Rhea Nunez John Marvin Badon Mildred Oliver Helen Ballm Isabelle Porche Dominick Bruno Robert Rugan Selma Craddock Amiee Sandoz Norman Faciane Elbert Sandoz Albert Gauley Lois Schneider Cora Guilliot Casper Stephens Elaine Hamilton Irma Villarrubia Alvin Lampley Fred Wilson Booth Marshall Irma Wilson

Mr. L.V. McGinty THE FACULTY OF SLIDELL HIGH 1934-1935 Fleet Cooper Ratliff - Principal L.V. McGinty - Math, Science, Athletic Director Raphiel Teagle - Biology, General Science Mary Alice Boyett - English, Librarian V.L. Wharton - History, Latin Louisa Hall - English Myrtie Cason Henderson - Home Economics Mercedes C. Lions - Commercial Instructor Amelia E. Gaulden - Mathematics Henry L. Mayfield - Supervisor of Parish Schools Glynn H. Brock - served nearly 10 years as a teacher Walter L. Abney - Elected as School Board Member for Eighth District in 1933. (Due to Mr. Abney’s efforts, this school district remained debt free.) Agnes Crawford Todd - First woman to be elected to the school board. From the Class of 1939 Helen Panks Rugan A COW IN THE CLASSROOM Imagine my surprise when we approached the school and there was a crowd of people on the school grounds as well as in the street. The whole crowd was looking toward the school. It did not take long for someone to tell us there was a cow on the second floor, placed there by some of the upperclassmen. Needless to say, many people tried to get the cow down , but to no avail. People were using food, water, flowers, and anything they could think of to entice the cow to come back down the stairs. Nothing seemed to work. Mr. Ratliff was the principal and he summoned Peter Mayfield to help get the cow down. Mr. Mayfield was the Supervisor of Schools and Mr. Ratliff knew he was raised on a farm. When Mr. Ratliff ’s efforts failed, they called the police and the fire department. None of those efforts worked either, so somebody from the fire

Girls wore full skirts and blouses and boys wore pants and shirts. No jeans or golf shirts. During this time, World War II was declared and many Slidell High School graduates fought in the war. From the Class of 1941 Julius “ Pete” Ouder

The first motorized school bus was introduced in 1925. Pictured: William Welch, Little William and Mary Welch Broom.

department called the shipyard to see if they had a hoist that could be used. It took many hours of preparations to get the cow out of the building. A portion of wood framework had to be removed from the window over the principal’s office to make room for the sling. They also had to wrap the cows legs to keep them from breaking. Of course, the cow was very upset. She was mooing and going nuts. When they got the cow down, they loaded it in a truck and took it to join the Kennedy’s herd. We were all told to go back to class but hardly anybody did. Even though almost everyone knew who done it, no one ever told.

Other than the everyday life in high school, there were three things that left a lasting Slidell High Gymnasium as it was in the early years. impression on me. The first of these impressions included the The growth of Slidell High School from its humble construction of the first gymnasium, which is beginnings have been remarkable. It has been still there today. Construction of the first football one of Slidell’s most valuable assets. It certainly stadium, which included lights. What also stands played a significant role in changing the little out in my mind was the fact that the stadium was community of Slidell to the great city it is today. built as a government W.P.A. Project. Franklin Roosevelt was President at the time. Among other memories was the introduction of brand A Very Special Thanks Adrian Innerarity, who kindly helps me when I new band uniforms. Wherever we went, we were get confused. The Slidell High School Centennial the best dressed band. We may not have won the Committee. Several Slidell High School year football game, but the band looked good. Fashion in school? Whatever your parents could afford. The beginning of World War II was talked about some in History class. Though it did not affect Slidell High directly, six months after graduation it did: December 7, 1941

books, Slidell High Commercial Department. I also would like to thank all of the alumni’s loved ones who brought these stories to life. I could not conclude without a special thanks to the Guardians of Slidell History (GOSH) who are working so hard to keep Slidell’s history alive and available for many years to come.

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

s big smile ess has n ) a e s M a C ra end ohn Editor K Storyteller” (J is soon-tofor “T he g pictures for h to F lats” C hit viewin while re ed book, “Bogue s a be-rele

SAINTS SEA SO Dawn Sharp N HAS START ED! e-Brackett , CE with the C hamber gir O, Anita Brun ls: o, Jamie Daki JoBeth Kavanaugh, a n at the C hamber’s Fa nd n Up! Pep Rally

SH OW TH EM YOUR HIGH KIC KS! The incomparable Dawn Rivera with Saints “Super Fans” at the Chamber’s Fan Up! Pep Rally

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HERE WE ALL ARE! The AMAZING staff of Slidell Magazine: (l-r)

Back row: Charlotte Lowry Collins (EFOP), Leslie Gates (Crimi-Mommly Insane), John Case (The Storyteller), Mike Rich (Making Cents of Your Money), Kendra Maness (Editor/Publisher), Donna Bush, Kim Bergeron, Rose Marie Sand (Go Beyond). Front row: Zac McGovern (Illustrator), Sarah Landry & Eric Barnstein (distribution), and Corey Hogue (Jockularity). Not pictured: Dr. Jeff Perret (Pet Points), John Felsher (Nauti People), Devin Reeson (Graphic Artist), John Maracich (Slidellicacies) and Ronnie Dunaway (Once Upon A Time...in Slidell)

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