Slidell Magazine - 64th Edition

THE OFFICIAL MAGAZINE OF SLIDELL

Vol. 64 November 2015

ON THE SET AND BEHIND THE SCENES WE KEEP IT FRESH

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Editor’s Letter

Kendra Maness, Editor/Publisher, Slidell Magazine

Cover Artist

ADAM SAMBOLA Adam Sambola, the creator of “RedBean” the Crawfish, is a born native of Louisiana and lives in Slidell.

I received a letter from a friend of mine for my birthday that affected me deeply. It was a heart-warming and humbling tribute to me and Slidell Magazine, and spoke of the positive impact that we have had on the community.

I’m almost embarrassed to write the words you just read. I feel like every word in that beautiful letter should be said by me TO ALL OF YOU. The writers, artists, and photographers of Slidell Magazine share in my dream and passion for our community.

In his paintings, he represents “RedBean” and other New Orleans residents engaging in traditional Louisiana activities and enjoying the vibrant lifestyle of our region.

They breathe life into these pages each month by opening their hearts and using their talents to bring all of us their unique perspective of our beautiful city.

Adam’s paintings are inspired by Jazz and Blues, his background in masters and religious paintings, and his love for southern seafood.

As I celebrate my 44th birthday today, I am honored to know that, forty-four years from now, people will look at this publication as a snapshot in time of life in Slidell and beyond, as it was today. And they will know that life was good.

Of this month’s cover painting, Red Bean’s Pirates Alley, Adam says, “Night time pictures with all the lights are awesome. I like making things jump off the canvas. That’s one of the reasons I’ll over-do the lighting on some things.

So that when you stand and look at it from a distance, it jumps out at you.”

That thought has given this little girl the best birthday ever.

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

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With his paintings and prints collected by locals, tourists, and being shipped across the world, and countless murals commissioned and completed, Adam is Slidell’s finest artistic ambassador. “I just want to make Slidell proud. I want the people that have one of my paintings or prints or see one of my murals to feel proud.”

Adam’s artwork is available at his Sambola Gallery in the Chamber Martketplace or visit: www.SambolaArt.com

Graphics@SlidellMag.com

Illustrations by: Zac McGovern www.HalMundane.com Contributing Writers EFOP, Charlotte Lowry Collins The Storyteller, John Case Jockularity, Corey Hogue Pet Points, Jeff Perret, DVM Crimmi-Mommly Insane, Leslie Gates Nauti People, John Felsher www.JohnNFelsher.com Once Upon A Time...In Slidell, Ronnie Dunaway Ronnie@WhoDatShoppe.org Making Cents of Your Money, Mike Rich MikeRich@MyPontchartrain.com Go Beyond, Rose Marie Sand Rose@RoseMarieSand.com Donna Bush Donna.Bush@yahoo.com Special Guest Writer, “4692”, Col (ret) Cal Jumper

COVER ART: “RED BEAN’S PIRATES ALLEY”

BY ADAM SAMBOLA

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The

Sponsored by

Storyteller From the

“Greatest Generation” All-American Boy

Editor’s note...

“The Storyteller”, John Case, has always stood firm in his rule, “I don’t write stories about living people.” For more than four years now, John has spoken of writing the story you are about to read. Although he’s known Floyd for decades, John’s research and conversations with Floyd and those who know him brought him a fuller appreciation for his friend, compelling him to make this one exception and bring Floyd’s story to life.

Upon hearing that John was writing about Floyd, Slidell Magazine’s EFOP writer, Charlotte Lowry Collins, encouraged us to name Floyd Slidell Magazine’s November Extraordinary Fascinating Ordinary Person as well. We couldn’t agree more!

We are honored to offer you this special double feature about one of Slidell’s greatest citizens and heroes, Floyd Fogg.

God bless our Veterans.

On a spring day in 2015, an elderly Marine, accompanied by a younger Marine, visited the Iwo Jima exhibit at the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. When the doors of the exhibit hall opened, the two stepped into a replica of a Higgins boat. A Higgins boat is the New Orleans built vessel that carried so many soldiers to foreign beaches such as Normandy and, for the purposes of this story, to the lava sand beaches of Iwo Jima. Standing in the boat as it was mechanically tossed and rolled, imitating an actual invasion, they watched a video of an authentic Iwo Jima battle that took place in 1945.

Many who boarded those boats, if they returned at all, would return a different person. They came back with pride, and they came back with guilt.

They came back with memories so atrocious that after seventy years they still weep. They came back with relationships so firmly established in trust that the friendships would last for the rest of their lives. They were and are Marines.

For my story, the older Marine, approaching ninety, is named Floyd Fogg. The younger Marine had known Uncle Floyd, as he called him, all of his life. He can see in Floyd’s eyes the exhibit may be too real. He could see that it brought back memories that Floyd may have suppressed for years. This is Floyd’s story.

If the name Floyd Fogg is not familiar, I can understand. However, if you were a sports fan from Hopkinsville, Kentucky; Memphis or Nashville, Tennessee; Slidell or New Orleans, Louisiana, and you were at least ten years old in the late 1940’s, then you knew him. You may not

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Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” People have known him as a Marine, but as a Cracker Jack baseball player. You see, the late 1940’s and early 1950’s were a time when baseball was undisputedly America’s favorite pastime.

Of course, there was the big league where Stan Musial, Ted Williams and other legends applied their skills. But, in addition, many small towns had their own teams.

These teams were staffed with starry-eyed young men who, since childhood, had dreamed of being on the field at Yankee Stadium or Wrigley Field.

Floyd was one of those, but he was a far cry from being average; he had the whole package.

Floyd was born in Lacombe, Louisiana, as the sixth of seven children in 1926. When he was four years old, his father took advantage of a job at the local creosote plant and moved to Slidell. They lived near the plant in one of the company-owned houses. Across the street from the house was a baseball field.

Parents with the last names of Ezell, Gomez, Broom, and McQueen provided enough young boys for at least two teams. And play baseball they did, every available minute, year ‘round.

Baseballs were castaways from more affluent sportsmen. They were held together with black friction tape. The bats were in similar condition, only coming into their possession after they had been broken and repaired with nails.

Here, with this primitive equipment, Floyd would learn the skills that would take him to the next level. In grammar school and especially in high school, he would compete with such Slidell names as Decker, Cochran, and others, who proved worthy teammates, as he etched his way into local stardom and beyond.

It seems that Floyd was destined for success in everything he attempted. I am sure Floyd would tell you it was the will of the Lord. You see, Floyd is a very religious man. You will see

that his faith was forever carved in stone in a pledge he made to the Lord on a beach in the Pacific Ocean.

Floyd lettered in baseball, basketball, and football.

Baseball was always his favorite sport, but after a successful high school career during which he became Slidell’s first All-State basketball player, and just after graduating high school, he became the varsity basketball coach at Slidell High. The reason - all eligible coaches were at war.

This could have proved difficult as some of the players were older than he, but he had the skills and Mr. McGinty, the principal, would apply the discipline to make a good thing out of a bad situation.

The season started with a loss. The loss could be attributed to the fact that he had to bench a player, prior to the game, for disciplinary reasons.

He did not lose any more, racking up fifteen straight wins and winning his conference title.

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He was one of the first to put in a press defense. This could be an inkling of things to come for Floyd and his athletic endeavors.

At seventeen years old, he joined the Marines. The day he finished coaching the high school team, he was called to active duty. Goodbye, Slidell. Hello, Uncle Sam. After basic training, he was sent to Maui, Hawaii. There they trained some more. Then he was sent to a place that, a year prior, he had never heard of, Iwo Jima. Geographically, it was a world away from Slidell and a universe away from baseball.

I feel history is best told through the writings and publications at the time the event happened. The following article appeared in The Times Picayune on March 23, 1945 by sportswriter Wm. McG. Keefe and it sets the stage for what would come: It was just a year ago that the Slidell team came into the office for a group picture. Leading its team as its coach and former star, was a handsome 17 year old youth named Floyd Fogg, a Slidell boy. The school had been unable to get a coach, and Fogg waiting to go into the Marine Corps, to which he had volunteered, coached the team to a championship.

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One year later..., Mr. and Mrs. Edward Fogg of Slidell received word from the office of war information that their son, Private Floyd Fogg, had been wounded in action on Iwo Jima. No soft touch - Iwo Jima.

So this fine lad, whose dash and courage on the court were echoed in his quick enlistment in a branch of the service that gives quick action, carried this courage to a distant land where in less than a year from when he changed his civilian clothes for a uniform that promised him a speedy chance of fighting his country’s enemy—a uniform that takes its wearer “from the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli” — he became a hero.

The many friends and admirers of Fogg will anxiously wait to hear how badly he is wounded. Needless to say they are pulling for him, just as they are for a million like him.

Floyd finally saw combat on February 19, 1945. That is when he stepped on the landing net and descended to the Higgins boat.

Like most 18 year olds, Floyd had never been shot at before. I am sure it crossed his mind, just as it did for thousands of others over the next few days, that this may be his last boat ride. A long way from Bayou Liberty, Bayou Bonfouca, and Lake Pontchartrain.

I could write a book on Floyd’s war experience, another book on his sports adventures, and then finally conclude with a volume based on his service to God and community. I have not the space; therefore, I must be brief. ***** It was the assignment of the 23rd Marines, 4th Division, to secure a Japanese-held airport. After this was successfully accomplished, a stand of woods had to be crossed. This provided a great place for enemy snipers, and they were there. His unit had to temporarily pull back a few hundred yards. In relative safety, Floyd noticed that a buddy of his, Dick Freeby, was not accounted for. He had to find him. He disobeyed his superior officers and, under fire, went back to the hot zone for the rescue. He found Dick, who was seriously injured. He was bleeding profusely and Floyd new his chances of survival were slim. Floyd fashioned a tourniquet to slow the bleeding. He twisted it tight with a pencil and told Dick not to let go of the pencil. It was Floyd and this pencil that saved Dick’s life.

In all branches of the service, you are taught to never leave your weapon behind. Floyd could not manage the weight of the seriously wounded Marine and his weapon, a heavy Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR). Floyd had to threaten his friend with leaving him behind if he did not drop the BAR. Finally, Floyd convinced him that, if they were to have a chance, he had to leave it. Again, under heavy fire, Floyd made his way back, running zig zag, to relative safety. The corpsmen took over the medical treatment of Dick, evacuating him to the hospital ship. Floyd had no idea whether his friend lived or died.

Cutting Edge Theater presents

During the early part of the invasion, Floyd was wounded with shrapnel. He was evacuated to the hospital ship, and ordered to the hospital in Hawaii. He did not want to leave his unit and his Marine buddies. He convinced the commanding officer to let him return to battle.

Floyd has a fond attachment to the hospital ship that he, Dick, and another Marine you’ll read about later were sent to. The ship’s name was the U.S.S. Solace. It was, and is, a symbol to Floyd of hope and a chance to live on. Iwo Jima taught Floyd and others the meaning of life.

On March 8, 1945, for the fifth time, Floyd and his fellow Marines had taken Hill 514. Basking in their victory, they peered below into what could best be described as a crevasse. In the side of the adjacent hill, there was a bunker that was occupied by the Japanese.

At first, it was believed it could be eradicated by machine gun fire. Unfortunately, the machine gunner was shot and killed.

Next, it was decided that a large TNT bundle, called a 17-pound satchel charge, if hurled appropriately, may also work. There is a difference between a baseball and a 17-pound satchel but, with Floyd’s baseball skills, he was the best choice.

Just prior to being chosen for the task of throwing the satchel, Floyd teamed up with a fellow Marine named Felix Aucoin. They had something in common - Felix was from Algiers, Louisiana, some 30 miles from Slidell. Felix was to dig the foxhole for both of them, while Floyd threw the satchel.

As it turned out, Floyd pitched a strike and the bunker was silenced.

He then returned to assist in digging the foxhole which would serve as their shelter for the night. Before it could be completed, a mortar shell struck nearby. Floyd was rendered unconscious by the concussion, but awoke to someone reaching for his dog tags. Collecting one of your two dog tags was done as a record of your death in combat. Floyd regained consciousness, and vehemently denied he was dead. The corpsman reaching for his tag was none other than fellow Slidellian Joe Koll, who later became a well-known jeweler in Slidell.

He then noticed Felix, his foxhole buddy. He had not fared so well. Floyd could see that his leg, for all practical purposes, was missing. Felix was taken away and, again, Floyd would not know if he lived or died.

Floyd, himself, was also injured. He had two dislocated shoulders and two ruptured eardrums. Blood was pouring from his ears.

This would be Floyd’s last military battle. He would be sent to the hospital, first in Hawaii and then to Oceanside, California. Six months later, Japan would surrender and Floyd would come home.

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CUTTINGEDGETHEATER.COM 9

tell the baseball part of Floyd’s life as effectively. ***** If you ask Floyd about his military life, he will tell you, but only in a matter-of-fact way. It was an obligation, a patriotic duty, one he would have never avoided. But now, he wanted to move on.

Today, if you ask him about baseball, his face lights up. He is twenty-four years old again, playing third base for one of the farm teams of the Chicago Cubs.

To this very day, Floyd can name many of his teammates, give you the season record, give you scores of important games, and quote his RBI, homeruns and batting average. If you want to enjoy being with Floyd, ask him about baseball.

While in high school, he was approached by a man named Bruce Hayes. Bruce was a scout for the Nashville Vols, a farm team of the Chicago Cubs. He, coincidentally, was a relative of the local Abney family.

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“Son, I’ve been watching you play baseball, and you are good. How would you like to play this game and get paid for it? You have what it takes.” Floyd could hardly believe his ears.

Unfortunately, this dream would have to wait as his military obligation occurred at just the wrong time. Eventually, the war did end, and Floyd came home.

Enjoying Slidell and Mama’s cooking was short lived. Prior to the war, Bruce told Floyd that when the war was over, he would be calling him. He did, the very day Floyd came home.

The next day, Floyd was off to another chapter in his life. Ten years of baseball. Ten years that would see him with half a dozen teams and a temporary resident of that many cities. Ten years that would see his wedding to Shirley McDaniel and the birth of his first son, Larry.

Floyd played in all divisions of baseball as he worked his way toward the majors. If batting averages of 327 and RBIs of 144 impress you,

The 1951 New Orleans Pelicans. The original stadium was on Tulane & Carrollton. Floyd is pictured far left.

then you would want Floyd’s baseball card. Floyd modestly tells the story of a young reporter in 1948, coming into the locker room and informing the team that Floyd had 144 RBIs. This was more than the great Smokey Burgess had the prior year.

Years later, when statistics were published, they may not back up that story. Floyd is quick to point out that he was sorry he had been under the wrong impression. I see no reason for an apology.

Who knows? Maybe Smokey’s numbers were incorrect also. The official record is 127 RBIs. Players were traded frequently among other teams in the league. Occasionally, cash would be exchanged along with the trade. In 1951, New Orleans sold Floyd to the White Sox. As a token of the respect the team owner had for Floyd, Floyd was given $5,000. That was a tidy sum in those days. Also about this time, the citizens of Slidell, primarily four prominent citizens, took up a collection and bought Floyd a new 1950 Oldsmobile. A nice gesture for a favorite son.

A humble and grateful Floyd Fogg is gifted a new 1950 Oldsmobile from the citizens of Slidell.

Opposing page, top left: The 1941 Slidell High baseball team.

Floyd, a sophomore, is bottom row, second from the left Opposing page, top right: The 1944 Slidell High basketball team, with 17 year-old Floyd as their coach (top row, center).

The man in the suit is a very young Frank Cusimano, before he became Slidell’s mayor.

Above, left: The Slidell Cardinals, an independent baseball team Floyd joined after his return from WWII. Floyd is pictured in the center.

Above, right: The 1952 New Orleans Pelicans. Floyd is standing, back row, fourth from left.

It looked like 1953 would be his year. He was to report to the Chicago White Sox training camp.

Shortly after arriving, Floyd broke his finger.

He was sent home to rehabilitate and join the team later, but when later came, the offer was not as good as expected. He would spend one more season in the minors, then he was forced to make a decision.

Being self-employed gave him other opportunities.

It gave him the time and freedom to return something back to his community, the community that had loved and supported him. You remember the pledge he made to God and himself on the beach in 1945? Part of that pledge was to help other people. Floyd was not the type to not honor a pledge, especially one that he had made to God.

if they could get land donated, the parish would attempt to sell bonds to construct a hospital.

*****

Far from the final chapter of his life (in fact, in the prime of his life), Floyd became a leading voice to make his community better. You see, Slidell did not have a hospital. People had actually died waiting for the drawbridge to close so they could get to New Orleans and the medical facilities it offered. Remember, there were no interstates then, and New Orleans was the better part of an hour’s drive.

If you thought Floyd would never give up baseball, he didn’t. He coached youth teams for most of his life. Even today, at 90 years old, he teaches batting at his home in Pearl River. He has a batting cage and a pitching machine, and offers his services free to those who cannot afford it.

His baseball career was over, but it would never be out of his system. This would partly lead to the next phase of Floyd’s life. After baseball, Floyd returned to a town who appreciated what he had done. They appreciated his war effort, and they appreciated his putting their small town on the map. He was, and would remain, a favorite son.

Floyd had known that someday his baseball career would end. Wisely, he had taken steps, along with his wife and brother-in-law, to establish an insurance agency. After all, his name was a household word.

As a leading member of the Kiwanis Club, Floyd and his fellow club members approached the parish about funding a hospital. Floyd was the main thrust in the movement. They were told that,

It was not easy, but Floyd was successful in persuading Mrs. Brugier and Mr. Jahraus into donating several acres. Slidell would have a hospital, thanks to Floyd and his club members. If Floyd did nothing else, I cannot help but think about how many lives this one good deed has saved.

Like most people, life has not always been a bed of roses. A hometown hero is not immune from tragedy. First, his only daughter, Cheryl, passed away from a sudden illness when she was thirteen years old. Later, his wife Shirley, a victim of cancer, would pass. Reflecting on Floyd’s deep religious faith, I can recall, at Shirley’s funeral, Floyd telling me, “John, she is finally with her daughter. I know she is happy.”

Floyd learned a lot from baseball. He learned early on if you lose a game, you don’t give up.

After each tragedy, he rebounded. Later, he would marry a wonderful lady, Maribeth, who is such a complement to him still today. ***** Occasionally, Floyd will go to a Zephyrs game.

He is self-conscious when people point to his

left: The marble plaque given to Floyd at his 2009 induction to the Zephyr’s Hall of Fame.

The picture on it is hung at Zephyr Field. right: In 2015, the Marine Corps invited all living Marine veterans from the Battle of Iwo Jima to Washington, DC to honor them.

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picture by the elevator, denoting him as a Louisiana Hall of Famer. Then they play the “Star-Spangled Banner”. The memories flood his mind.

For just a few minutes, his mind takes him back to the 1950’s, when his fellow townsmen drove hundreds of miles to see him play. He remembers a certain game or certain player. He can smell the game and the boys of summer.

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Yes, he likes to go to the Zephyrs games. Total enjoyment for him, until the fireworks start. That is when the noise, the explosions, take him back to the beach. He puts his head in his hands and says, “Let’s go. Get me off the beach and back to Maribeth.”

Epilogue: Old-timers still talk about watching Floyd play ball. Some say they drove to Memphis to see him, others say they saw him in Chattanooga. His stats are all over the internet.

One day, a stranger knocked on his door. There stood a man that looked familiar but, if Floyd knew him, it was from years past.

The stranger reached down and tapped an artificial leg.

“Hello, Froggy, it’s me.”

It was Felix Aucoin. Froggy was Floyd’s Marine nickname.

At some point, Floyd and Dick Freeby, the Marine with the BAR that he rescued, also made contact. They have visited each other, and there remains that Marine bond between them. ***** Of all the true stories I have written, I have enjoyed this one the most. I had made a rule. I would never write about living people.

I think you can understand why. But, you know, rules are made to be broken. If ever Slidell had a hometown hero, it was Floyd Fogg. I could not resist this story. Yes, we both cried and we laughed together. Neither Floyd nor I are ashamed to admit this.

I should tell you that Floyd is a very modest man. He will tell you the real heroes are the ones whose bodies still lie beneath foreign soil, or who came home in boxes, and not to parades of laughter. He will tell you that, in the scheme of life, baseball is just a game.

In this Veteran’s Appreciation Month, let us honor the “Greatest Generation”.

 John Case

November 2015

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4692 Story by: Col (ret) Cal Jumper

It is Slidell Magazine’s privilege to bring you this story from Col (ret) Cal Jumper USMC in honor of Veteran’s Day.

Dear Reader: Almost 22 years ago, I ejected from an F/A-18A Hornet aircraft about 145 miles southeast of Okinawa, Japan. While there had been higher ejections from other aircraft, at the time it was the highest successful

ejection from an F-18, at approximately 37,000 feet. I have been hesitant to write this story because one of my Wingmen didn’t make it home. He has a family and friends that still miss him dearly. Time does not lessen the

loss. I wrote it for the grandchildren I hope to have someday and a very precocious two-year-old little girl that calls me Papa Jumpy. I want them to know about a very significant day in my life and read it in my words. In the process, I’ve found that it has been very cathartic to capture these events in black and white. Below is my story. I am able to tell it because of the good work and dedication of many folks. Thank you for reading further...

My Martin-Baker registration number is 4692. I received that number over 21 years ago as a survivor of an ejection using a Martin-Baker ejection seat. My seat was in an F/A-18A Hornet aircraft. God bless the Martin-Baker engineers, the seat and flight equipment mechanics in my squadron, the parachute rigger who packed my parachute almost 6 months earlier, and the American and Japanese Airmen who searched until they found me. There is an old jingle among fighter pilots, “You will meet your Maker in a Martin-Baker”. Luckily for me, fighter pilots aren’t always right.

December 17, 1993: My son, my youngest child, was eleven days old. I was home on leave for his birth, but returned to my squadron, VMFA-115, about a week before the accident

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to finish our six month deployment to the Western Pacific.

I was flying as part of an exercise to train USAF pilots on adversary Mig aircraft tactics. We were flying from Kadena Air Base, Okinawa, Japan. I was dash 4 in a flight of 4 aircraft, called a division formation. Call-sign for the flight was Blade 63. We briefed early and walked to our jets for a 0930 take-off.

The weather was marginal with a large weather front in the area. Cloud bottoms were about 1200 feet. Cloud tops were ragged from 15,000 to about 34,000 feet. There were storms embedded in the clouds. The front was also causing heavy sea states in our operating area, about 150 miles southeast of Okinawa. We were flying over deep water, approximately 16,000 feet deep, in the South China Sea. Reports varied that the sea state was between 12-15 feet, which means waves could be 24-30 feet high. The fishermen among you will tell you, that is rough water.

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Take off was fairly routine with 4 aircraft streaming off the runway with about 2000 feet of separation and joining up in formation as we climbed through the cloud layers. Our scenarios were heavily scripted. Blade flight was basically supporting as training aides the 12th Fighter Squadron, flying F-15’s. Call-sign for the F-15’s was Knife 01. Knife flight was also a division.

After we checked into the working area, known on maps as the W-185, the flight leaders of Knife and Blade flights determined that we would limit maneuvering to 180 degrees of turn because of the high cloud tops. We were still able to fly the scenario that we briefed, but we were limited in our maneuvers, which gave Knife flight a decided edge.

We began the first engagement of the scenario as two divisions with about forty miles separation between Knife and Blade flights. Both flights were above 30,000 feet because of the cloud tops. The first engagement went pretty much as briefed with all four Blade aircraft (Mig simulators) being kill removed by Knife flight. The scenario called for all kill removed aircraft to fly through a southern point and regenerate as single bogeys (still simulating MIGS). The big change from the first engagement was that Blade flight was no longer in visual support of each other. As I turned North for the second engagement of the scenario, I could see one Blade aircraft in front of me about 3 miles, and one at about my 7 o’clock trailing contrails about 5 miles away.

I knew from a radio transmission that the 4th Blade aircraft was at least 15 miles away. The F-15’s of Knife flight were coming south as two sections (2 aircraft in each) with about 10 miles separation, lead and trail, between sections. The lead section of F-15’s attention was on the Blade aircraft that was in front of me and I was able to make a beam entry on the lead section and slid to their 6 o’clock at about 3 miles. I trailed them for about 20 seconds to get closer before I locked my radar on the F-15 on the left side of the formation. Their formation was what is called combat spread. They were flying abeam each other with about 3000 feet of separation. As soon as I targeted the left F-15, both started maneuvering in a hard right descending turn.

I thought they saw me and were reacting to me. I closed the distance and simulated launching missiles on the F-15 I had targeted. I was about to kill remove him with a radio call. I scanned my HUD (Heads Up Display) to confirm altitude for the kill call. It was 38,000 feet.

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There was a tremendous impact on the right side of my airplane, somewhere aft of the cockpit. I remember saying, “Goddamnit, somebody hit me.” The sound was a sickening crunch. My airplane flew straight ahead for a short time, then tumbled and rolled. My warning, caution, and fire lights were lit up like Christmas trees. I sensed fire, clouds, and clear sky as the airplane tumbled. I did not know if my airplane would explode, thought it might, but knew with certainty it was un-flyable. I grabbed my lower ejection handle with both hands and pulled hard when I thought I was pointed at blue sky. I guessed right, I suppose. The canopy blew off and the seat fired with 32 G’s of force. When I got to the top of the ejection arc, I opened my eyes and saw my airplane falling off below me with the tail end on fire. I sensed aircraft parts from the other airplane around me and thought, this is the end.

I was sure one of those parts would hit me.

It was cold. I was at approximately 37,000 feet and ambient temperature that high is normally about -40 or -50 degrees Fahrenheit. I was wearing only my torso harness, flight suit and a t-shirt. It’s odd what goes through one’s mind at a time like this. Remembering my first reaction to the impact, I said out loud “Jesus, I am sorry I said that.”

Later, when thinking about my state of mind during the ejection, I remembered thinking my Great Uncle, a WWII Marine Corps pilot, was with me. He passed away a few years earlier and was a big part of why I joined the Marine Corps in the first place. The change from being warm and comfortable and in complete control of my environment to being cold, alone, and hurtling through a violent piece of sky is a shock to the system, to say the least. It is an incredibly isolated feeling. Believing that I wasn’t completely alone provided much comfort. A lot has been written about the “third man” and how your mind plays tricks on you in extremis as opposed to actually having a helping hand close by. Even so, I like to think he was there.

My ejection seat worked flawlessly. A small drogue parachute deployed to slow my rate of fall a little and stabilize the seat. I saw my aircraft and the loose parts beginning to fall away from me into the clouds. The cloud tops were at about 32,000 feet. I fell into the clouds sitting in the seat.

With the drogue chute deployed, I was facing straight down, still connected to the seat by my lap and shoulder straps connected to my harness. That’s when I made my second decision since the impact - to remain with the seat until automatic seat-man separation so that I would have enough oxygen to survive. There is a bottle of emergency oxygen in the seat pan that is supposed to last about 20 minutes. Our ejection seats were set for automatic seatman separation at 11,000 feet (plus or minus 1500 feet).

Anybody that thinks clouds are soft hasn’t fallen through them. It was cold and turbulent. My face was pelted - first with ice, then water, as I fell through the freezing level. The wind seemed to hit hard. I had little sensation of time and no way to know what my altitude was in the clouds. I was hoping the seat would work as advertised. I held onto the lower ejection handle with both hands to keep my arms from flailing. I fell through the storm for about 26,000 feet.

My seat worked like it was supposed to and kicked me out at what was probably the right pre-set altitude. I was still

in the clouds so I had no way of knowing for sure. When the seat pushes you out, it releases your connections to the seat and deploys your parachute. The parachutes are packed in a box that acts as a head rest during normal flight.

Connected to me as the seat fell away was my seat-pan that held survival gear, a small raft and that oxygen bottle.

My parachute opened with a strong tug. I looked up to see a perfect round intact parachute and thought I might make it home. I was still in the clouds and had no idea how high I was, so I went through the drill for immediate water landing that we had been trained on since flight school. That was a mistake. When I inflated my life preserver, my head and neck were pinned between my parachute risers and I realized I had something painful on my neck. (The pain later turned out to be burns.) About this time, my oxygen bottle ran out. My oxygen mask was tight against my face.

I took a breath and nothing happened. It felt like somebody had wrapped plastic around my nose and mouth. I tried to release the fittings that secured the mask to my helmet, but my hands didn’t work so well - they were like blocks of ice, my fingers were numb. The fittings were also covered by the inflated life preserver. I fumbled with the fittings and began to panic as I tried to breath and no air flowed. I finally grabbed my oxygen hose below the mask with both hands and yanked it loose from the mask. Gratefully, cold ambient air flowed through the opening into my mask and I could breath again. After I calmed down a bit, I managed to take my mask off and throw it away - wouldn’t be needing it again. I looked at my watch and it was 10:20 AM. (It was a Timex, for those that are old enough to remember the commercials about “taking a licking…” And, I still have it.)

I had been falling for about 16 minutes.

The wind was howling. I went through the rest of my water entry preparation and released my survival raft from my seat pan. The raft falls to the end of about a 30 foot lanyard and inflates by activating a CO2 bottle attached to the lanyard. The rafts we use are about the size of an average bathtub, maybe a little smaller. Our survival instructors tell us in training that it will act as a pendulum and stabilize our descent. They were wrong. Actually, on a clear and calm day, they were probably right. Today, the winds in that storm system were approximately 50-70 MPH at 10,000 feet. The raft hit the end of the line, inflated, and started swinging crazily in the wind, which meant I swung with the raft. I almost got seasick suspended between that raft and my parachute. I was able to pull the raft up to me and the motion slowed down. I felt better and slowly lowered the raft back to the end of the rope. I was getting lower, the winds weren’t as bad, and this time the raft did what the instructors said it would.

There was nothing left to do at this point but wait for the water. It seemed to take a lot longer than it probably did. I was still in the clouds. When I finally started seeing water, I was almost in it. Cloud bottoms were about 1200 feet. When I hit the water, I went deeper than I expected. It ripped my helmet off. My parachute was automatically released by the harness fittings when they sensed salt water. I tried to beat the fittings and release them myself, but my fingers were still too numb. Once again, the engineers saved me. My life preserver brought me back to the surface. My helmet was close enough to reach and I put it back on.

The waves were throwing my parachute over me and I

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worked to get away from it and over to my raft, still attached to the lanyard. I grabbed the raft and pulled myself onto it. I was face down, spread eagle across it and wanted to sit. Sounds like an easy thing to fix, but the water was very rough, with waves up to 30 feet high, parachute cords were still tangled around my legs, and I had half the seat pan with most of my survival gear strapped to my butt. I unfastened one side of the pan, rolled into the raft, and then cut the parachute cords that were still entangled with me and the raft. From water entry to sitting in the raft only took a few minutes.

As one would imagine, my adrenaline was pumping pretty hard. I looked at my watch again. It was 10:41 AM. My raft was being pushed sideways by the waves because half of my seat pan was dragging below the raft. The motion was causing a lot of seasickness. I was able to pull up my seat pan and deploy a sea anchor attached to the raft that aligned me with wind and waves. The waves were still big and breaking over me from behind me, but no longer beating me side to side. I drank a

little fresh water carried in my survival gear and felt a bunch better. I remember thinking, I finally had a better-than-even chance of living and getting home.

I had been a ball of adrenaline since the impact and remember feeling it leave my body. With it came an overwhelming need to pee. Since I was basically in a wash cycle in that raft, I let it go. I then had a strong urge to vacate my bowels, but held fast. Again, it’s funny what you think about in extremis.

I decided I hadn’t gone through the last 40 minutes or so since the impact only to be eaten by a shit-eating shark. I was not about to put out a chum line.

Once I got settled into my raft, I inventoried my gear and turned on my survival radio. It was small, with very little power. The joke among us about the radio was that if you could see somebody, you could talk to them.

The good news was that I was able to hear radio chatter long before they were close enough to hear me, so I knew they were looking. I tried turning the raft Emergency Locator Transmitter (ELT) on and off, on 15 to 5 minute cycles, in an effort to let somebody know that I was alive and making changes. I later found out that nobody ever picked up the ELT. A little after 11:00 AM, I was able to hear aircraft talking over the radio on the emergency frequency. It was about another 30 minutes before anybody could hear me, though. I first talked to a KC-135 tanker aircraft that was coordinating the search effort. They were able to triangulate my rough position from my transmissions and the Tanker vectored an F-15 from the 67th Fighter Squadron, Hook 01, down to me.

While this was happening, and before anybody could hear me, I saw a Japanese

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Self Defense Force (JASDF) Search and Rescue (SAR) aircraft - a small, slow, twinengine propeller plane, about 5 miles away under the clouds. By the time I saw him, he was turning away from me and it did not sound like he was on the frequency we were using, so I was unable to get his attention.

It’s probably not hard for you to understand what it’s like not to be able to get anybody’s attention when you can hear and see them and need help. He would be back.

I finally saw Hook 01 drop below the clouds about three miles away. I was able to talk to him and tried to talk his eyes onto me. He was looking for a black raft with me wearing a white helmet in the middle of a rough black sea with white caps. No Joy. He asked for a flare and I shot one of my pen flares. He asked for another and was able to find me in that ocean. It was a good feeling. Hook 01 circled me until he was low on fuel and departed back to the tanker. His wingman, Hook 02, quickly arrived and we went through the flare drill again until he found me. He circled me until the JASDF SAR airplane that I mentioned earlier came back to the area. That plane had always been part of the effort, but had just not heard me earlier.

Once the SAR airplane was established on site, Hook 02 departed. Hook 01 and 02 two more folks that I am forever grateful to.

The SAR airplane was capable of flying very slow. He flew at wave top level and, once he saw me, flew directly at me. I was amazed to see somebody stick his head out of a window with his arms over his head. He threw something at me and, for a second, I thought he was trying to hit me. As it turns out, he was throwing a smoke buoy that landed about 15 yards away. After that, we waited for my ride home. I can tell you, when you are in a spot like that, it’s comforting to

have somebody waiting with you, even if they are circling a mile or two away from you.

The first helicopter that made it out to me was a JASDF CH-46 SAR helicopter with extended range gas tanks. They needed the extra gas tanks because they picked me up 146 miles from Kadena. They flew over me, hovered, and deployed a rescue swimmer. It was sure good to see him. The helo lowered a cable with a horse collar at the end of it. The swimmer didn’t speak much English and I spoke no Japanese, but we figured it out pretty quickly. I wrapped the horse collar around me, and up I went.

The swimmer followed shortly after. Reports conflicted a little on how long I was in the water. My Timex told me it was about an hour and forty-five minutes in the water. The time from ejection to pick up was approximately 2 ½ hours.

The crew pulled me into the helo and quickly unhooked me. After we were both recovered, they started helping me off with my gear.

Somebody handed me a soft drink in a can.

It was a carbonated apple drink popular in Japan at the time. Somebody offered me a smoke, but like my decision about the shark earlier, I decided not to accept. I didn’t need a new bad habit, as I already had plenty.

Besides, I could smell jet fuel and see the extended range fuel tanks in the helo bay about 5 feet away. They offered me some dry clothes. I’m a big man, close to 6’4”. The pants came down to just below my knees and the t-shirt didn’t quite cover my belly button, but I was happy to have them and a very warm blanket.

We looked for the other pilot involved in the mid-air for a while. I still had no idea who it was. After about 20 minutes of looking, the crew got excited and we thought we found him, but it turned out to be my empty raft when we got close enough to see. I think that is when I first realized, somebody probably hadn’t made it.

The pilots of the CH-46 decided they didn’t have gas for any more searching, so they took me to the U.S. Hospital at Camp Lester on Okinawa. When we landed, I got up to get off the helo, but the crew would have none of it. They evidently needed to carry me off.

I obliged and laid down on the stretcher. A crewman grabbed each end. They counted to three in Japanese and lifted. Don’t think they were expecting to have to pick up a Wookie, my nickname/call sign. When they felt the weight, they groaned loudly…..it was almost funny. They carried me off the helo and helped the hospital staff get me on a gurney.

As I was rolled into the hospital, my Wingmen

met me at the door. One was missing, Henry.

That’s when I knew who wasn’t coming home.

We were still working on what his nickname would be: Henry, Hank, or Pokey. He was one of the newer pilots in the squadron and was working hard to establish himself among a cocky and irreverent crowd. The day before the mishap, he made a big step forward when he passed his qualification as an Air Combat Tactics Instructor. That probably doesn’t mean much to the reader, but it is a critical qualification for an aspiring USMC F-18 pilot.

A couple of days after the accident, the squadron executive officer (XO), a good friend, suggested we go over to the barracks and visit with the squadron Marines. I’m glad we did. They wanted to talk about Hank and look at my injuries. I really got off not too badly, considering my odds. I had burns on my neck and forearm, baseball-sized whelps on my shins (where, evidently, they slapped something in the airplane on the way out), a strange bruise inside my ear that was bright purple, and a very sore back and neck from the 32 G’s when the ejection seat fired. Not sure how long we stayed but it was a good bit of the afternoon. The heartfelt concern from the Marines meant a lot.

The Marine Corps conducted three investigations into the accident. We lost a Marine and two multi-million dollar airplanes. There was a safety investigation to try and discover why the mid-air collision happened, so we could prevent it from happening again. A JAG (Judge Advocate General) investigation was conducted to determine if there were any legal issues to resolve. A Field Flight Performance Board (FFPB) was conducted to determine if I should fly again. (An FFPB is a jury of one’s peers.) They returned me to flight status and, about thirty days after the mishap, I climbed into my next F-18.

The Marine who launched me the day of the accident made it a point to be my Plane Captain for my next flight. He helped me strap into the plane. When you fly a plane like an F-18, you don’t just get into it. You are strapped in and just as much a part of it as the motors, hydraulic systems, and fuel.

He made a point to tell me that I needed to bring this plane back in one piece. I agreed.

It was a glorious winter day in Beaufort, SC. Blue skies with small white clouds that looked like popcorn on the sea. My flight was very uneventful, with one exception. A fly had hitched a ride in the cockpit. It crawled into view on the inside of the canopy and all I saw was a big black dot. I thought I had another airplane bearing down on me. To say I puckered up is an understatement. If

your pucker factor was on a scale from 1-10, with 10 being so puckered that one couldn’t drive a needle up one’s arse with a sledge hammer, then that bug got a 4.5. When I realized I was alone with that fly, I was much relieved. I had to get the fear and anxiety out of my system. I realized that, just because it happened once, it didn’t have to happen again. Life is like that. When the realization occurred so quickly, it was a blessing. That such a small creature can have such a positive impact is a wonder. (BTW, I was a full-on pucker factor 10 during the ejection.)

I continued to fly a variety of Marine Corps aircraft until I retired in July 2008.

Let’s move to Henry, Hank, or Pokey….

Hank was an only son, devoted to his mom.

Hank also had a fiancée that he was crazy about, and they were to wed shortly after we returned from this deployment. Pokey was our squadron mate, our friend. I only met Henry’s mom and fiancée once. Shortly after we returned, we held a memorial service for him that they were able to attend. They wanted to plant a tree onboard Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS) Beaufort, SC in his memory and the squadron helped them do it. It was a beautiful service, but a bit awkward for me. They were very gracious, wonderful ladies, but it was difficult to get past the reality that I lived, and Hank didn’t.

We never did decide on his call sign, and someday I’m going to visit that tree again.

I’ll bet it’s grown some.

Epilogue: The night of the mishap, when I was released from the hospital, I went to the Officer’s Club.

It was a Friday night and there is usually a crowd. I had one wet hundred dollar bill and put it on the bar. It had a tear in it where my wallet had caught a rivet as I was leaving the airplane. The Squadron was so down, there was still money left on the bar at the end of the night. That is unheard of for a Marine Fighter Squadron. We left the change for the barmaids as a tip from Hank. About 10 days after the accident, Hank came to see me while I was sleeping. I know it was a dream, but he was as real to me as he had been the last morning we briefed for the flight. He was happy and in a good place.

He wanted me to know it and, in doing so, he lifted a burden from my soul. Hank was a good man. As we would say in the squadron, he was a Great American.

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Victorian Steampunk Lady

Of Your Money

By Mike Rich, CFP® Pontchartrain Investment Management

The best gift you can give your grandchild…ever!

Here is a picture of my newest grandchild, Posey Jane.

She surprised us when she was born in September by deciding to arrive about three weeks early. Mary and I had to cut two days off a long-awaited vacation on the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my brother and his wife so we could see Posey Jane on the day she was born (that little girl owes me one). However, the shortened trip and marathon drive (1,069.5 miles, but who’s counting?) were worth it when we finally had our chance to hold her in

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our arms and witness the miracle of the newest member of our family. You can probably guess that her Mimi and Poppy – along with the rest of her family – are showering Posey Jane with a lot of love.

In the not-too-distant future, my granddaughter is going to get a nice gift. I am going to purchase a life insurance policy for her, which I’ve already done for her four cousins. I’m going to buy whole life insurance, and I’ll tell you why. After more than seven years of working as a financial advisor (and now as a CERTIFIED FINANCIAL PLANNERTM), I have yet to find a better financial gift to give a child. I’ve written before about the value of whole (also called permanent) life insurance, and I could probably spend all day telling you about it. Here’s why I think it’s so great for Posey Jane, and, maybe, for your grandkids, as well: First, it provides funds for final expenses if tragedy should occur. I’d rather not think about that right now, so let’s move on.

Second, her policy will give Posey Jane guaranteed insurability in the future. Here’s the big deal about insurability.

In a nutshell, it means that she can purchase additional insurance, even if she becomes uninsurable due to health factors, avocation, or occupation (even if she chooses to become a race car driver, although I can think of better career paths for her). The insurance company generally makes this coverage available upon certain dates during the life of the policy. Posey Jane will have seven or eight opportunities to purchase more insurance. She’ll simply tell the company that she wants it, and they have to give it to her. She’ll have to pay a premium that’s based on her age when she buys the additional insurance, but can you imagine how valuable this benefit will be when she is an adult, has a family of her own, and wants more life insurance to protect them?1 Third, whole life insurance has what are called living benefits. For example, if Posey Jane wants to borrow some money (maybe to buy that race car she’ll need for her job), she won’t have to go to a bank. Instead, she can access her cash value through a policy loan. She won’t have to answer any nosy financial questions, sign a mountain of forms, or jump through loan committee hoops. She’ll just

pick up the phone, tell the person at the other end that she wants some money, and then wait for her check to come in the mail.

The insurance company will expect her to pay the money back, of course, but she can take a long time to do it (she’ll have to pay interest and a loan will affect her policy’s benefits, including the dividend, if payable2).

And, there’s more. Posey Jane can take advantage of another living benefit in her policy by using the cash value for additional income later in her life. As long as she pays her premiums, her policy will build up a lot of cash. I have clients today who are taking cash out of their own policies – tax-free, mind you – to use for retirement money, and they love this additional source of income. If my granddaughter chooses to do this, it’s sad to know that I won’t be around to see her face as she is getting a tax-free retirement check every month that the foresight and generosity of her grandparents provided for her. What a great gift!

Finally, Posey can use her life insurance policy to pay for long term care. As a newborn, she’s a long way from the nursing home, but, when she’s old like me, the cost is likely to be in the stratosphere. Her policy will have something called an accelerated benefit rider3

that will pay a portion of the death benefit in advance for any type of long term care she might need. Any cash that’s left after she’s gone will go to her spouse or her kids as a death benefit. It will be a powerful tool for Posey Jane’s senior years. Mary and I are dealing with long term care costs for my mother-in-law right now, and it’s not pretty.

I am happy to help relieve that potential burden for Posey Jane and her family.

Now, my guess is that it’s going to take my granddaughter a long time to realize that my gift to her is better than a bunch of toys. I’m OK with that. I also know that I’m making a lot of assumptions about how she will use her policy. However, I have the satisfaction – right now – of knowing that I will have given her a fantastic financial tool and a pathway to provide security for her family. No, it’s not like a new bike under the Christmas tree, but her mom and dad can take care of that part.

Here’s a thought for you grandparents out there. Many of my clients don’t need all of the Required Minimum Distributions from their IRAs for living expenses. So, some of them are using the extra money to purchase life insurance policies for their grandchildren.

There are lots of other ways to pay for it, too.

Do you think it might be time to give your grandkids something other than a worthless toy that will too soon be forgotten, and instead give them something with lasting benefit that will be there long after you are gone?

The best way to make a decision about life insurance is to work with an expert (that’s me), so call me for an appointment.

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story and photos by Donna Bush

“Let Eric know that Donna Bush is here when he’s done with the take.”

I tiptoed in, not wanting to cause any disruption, afraid that I would be evicted if I did. I quietly stood by while everyone viewed the large TV monitors of the scene being filmed.

THE SETTING: An undisclosed location in a hazy, smoke filled room.

THE CREW: A half dozen people dressed in comfortable summertime attire, wearing headsets, with microphones and carrying handheld radios, sitting in director’s chairs and huddled behind two large TV monitors.

THE SCENE: I hear a polite voice, “Nice and quiet folks!

Work people pause.”

“Rolling, ROLLING, ROLLING,” reverberates through the room as it is repeated 3-4 times.

Then a loud bell, like a school bell rings. The slate clapboard snaps Scene 14, Take B3.

“ACTION!” is bellowed from the front row. The cameras roll.

The actors speak.

“AND CUT!” again from the front row. “One more time! Awful good, folks! Awful good! One more and we got this!”

26

Enjoy this latest installment from award-winning outdoors photographer and writer, Donna Bush.

Inspired by life...

Curiosity seeker...

Inviting all Slidell Magazine readers to join her.

W

hen I last wrote you about Hollywood South just over a year ago, I teased you about a visit on the set for filming of a show. Did you guess where I was? If you guessed NCIS: New Orleans, then you were right!

YES, I WAS ON THE SET OF NCIS: NEW ORLEANS CBS’ MOST WATCHED NEW SHOW OF THE 2014 SEASON!

On a Friday afternoon in August, I was lucky enough to go on-site for the filming of an episode! I still can’t tell you where I was, sorry.

For that detail, I am forever sworn to secrecy.

Everyone that I talked to made me feel welcome - from the people in the parking lot that helped me find the correct place to park, including the guy walking across the lot that gave me his bottle of Perrier when I asked for directions to the set - all the way through the directors, producers and actors/actresses.

Second Assistant Director (2nd AD), John White, took it in stride when I told him his boss, Eric, had arranged to allow me on set.

John walked me to the set, calling Eric’s assistant on the handheld.

After “CUT!” was yelled, Eric walked towards me and enveloped me in a big bear hug, making me feel more welcome than any words possibly could. Suddenly I was at ease and I understood why he is called the “Please and Thank You” Assistant Director!

While welcoming me, Eric whispered into his headset asking for a chair and headset to be brought for me. Within minutes, I was sitting in a “guest” director’s chair labeled NCIS: New Orleans with my own headset and a copy of today’s scenes to be filmed, two rows behind Director of Photography Gordon Lonsdale, Director James Whitmore, Jr, and Marta Goldstein, the Script Supervisor.

This is unbelievable, I thought.

Director James Whitmore, Jr. has also directed numerous episodes of NCIS and NCIS: Los Angeles, among many other well-known shows and is the son of veteran character actor, James Whitmore. His son, Handel, is the other 1st AD.

TV TID-BIT:

Every TV show has two 1st AD’s and two 2nd AD’s so that, while one episode is being filmed, the other pair is prepping for the next episode.

Script Supervisor Marta Goldstein packed up her dogs just two weeks earlier and moved to New Orleans from Los Angeles when she got the job on NCIS: New Orleans. She complains that she is gaining weight since moving to her home on the St. Charles streetcar line and became armed with a list of the 31 best restaurants in New Orleans.

As a script supervisor, she must track the number of hours at work during the day and number of minutes filmed for the day.

TV TID-BIT:

Often, it might be 16-18 hours of work for only 4 minutes of usable film time!

As I looked around, Eric dropped a bottle of water in the drink holder of my chair. I observed the two large TV monitors and started to figure out the pattern. There are two cameras, labeled A & B, providing two different angles. The best I can figure out, takes that have an ‘A’ in front of them are wide-angle. Takes with a ‘B’ or ‘C’ indicate a tighter angle on one of the actors/actresses.

‘D’ takes can be for another actor/actress or to focus on an item in the scene, such as a monitor or interrogation photos.

B

eing on a TV set is not at all like I imagined. Of course, I’m not sure what I really expected. I guess I thought there would be a lot of really serious people, yelling through a bullhorn. (Haha! Yes, you can tell I am in my 50’s!) In actuality, there were a lot of people dedicated to doing a good job and taking their work very seriously. But they also laughed, cracked jokes and had a great time.

And, no, I don’t think it was an act because I was there. That is truly how they do their job and probably one of the reasons they are so successful at what they do.

Everyone was super friendly, walking up and introducing themselves, asking if I knew where to find food. And there was lots of food! Around 3:30, Eric whispered, “There’s quesadillas. Help yourself.” Wow! I took a walk to see what was there. There were at least four different flavors of quesadillas – black bean, chicken, spinach tortillas, whole-wheat tortillas and all the fixings – sour cream, salsa, and guacamole.

TV TID-BIT: The snacks on TV and movie sets are legendary: Donuts, chips, crackers, cookies, candy bars, power bars, coffee, tea, soft drinks of every kind, protein drinks, energy drinks, Emergen-c in every flavor, Perrier water, bottled water, and more!

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Why is there is always so much food? A lot of these people are working long and unusual hours. Some come in early in the morning to perform set construction work.

Some have worked long into the previous night. People are always coming and going; not just actors/actresses, but grips, construction workers, special effect techs, makeup artists, hairstylists, costumers (wardrobe), and the list goes on and on.

As I settle into my “guest” director’s chair to watch the action and observe, I realize the set looks like a scene in the French Quarter. Knowing that I can’t take any photos on this trip, I kick my creative writing juices into overdrive to describe the scene set before me...

I look beyond the big TV monitors and see a 2011 sterling gray metallic Ford Explorer with wheeled dollies under each wheel against a brick (or brick-like) wall appearing to be in a French Quarter alley, with a light fixture mounted on the brick wall. To the left is an open doorway that leads to the local NCIS: New Orleans office outfitted with a mishmash of wood and metal desks on a concrete floor, red brick walls with forest green doors and windows. There are several larger-than-life monitors with weather, maps, sailors’ files, etc displayed. Walls of the office are lined with book-filled shelves and local art while lazy ceiling fans stir the air.

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If you look past the Ford Explorer, there’s a wrought iron gate leading to a replica of St. Ann Street, recreated inside the movie set by taking high resolution life-size photographs, stitching them together and hanging them up on the walls of a set. It realistically recreates the street within the studio, complete with wrought iron balconies, wrought iron chairs set against a red brick building, and forest green shutters framing the balcony windows.

TV TID-BIT:

Details behind authentic life-size backdrops: The film industry obtains a permit, choreographs with the local police to block off the street, and stages crew members with walkie-talkies to control foot-traffic while the photographer shoots high resolution images with his tripod mounted camera from one end of the street to the other. The shots are stitched together using computer software and blown up to huge proportions then printed on large inkjet type printers, using the same process as printing large outdoor billboards.

Just to the outside of the office is an authentic French Quarter courtyard with wrought iron tables and chairs, vine covered brick walls, complete with uneven pavement, just like a real New Orleans courtyard, with a set of stairs leading to lead character Dwayne Pride’s living quarters.

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There’s also a small kitchen where the characters can cook, eat lunch, make coffee, etc. Amazingly, this set was built in just 4 weeks!

Eric gives me the grand tour, then we go to the next set where the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office look-alike morgue and forensic office have been created. Instead of being a drive to another building as is portrayed in the show, it is a few steps from the office set. Amazing!

If possible, this is more impressive than the French Quarter scene and was built in a mere six weeks, complete with cold, hard steel tables, state-of-the-art computers, microscopes and monitors against hospital green ceramic tile and cream sheetrock walls with blue and cream checkered floors. In this same building, there’s a big cafeteria area where the full crew can take catered meals. Upstairs is a workout room and play room for children of the stars.

After two takes of the office scene, a crew comes in and slides the Explorer over toward the brick wall. They remove the two driver-side wheel dollies. A lady comes in with a ladder, props it against the brick wall where the streetlight is mounted. Climbing the ladder, she works on the fixture, changing out the mount and then painting the coupling black; all attention to detail.

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The next takes are from inside the office, shooting as the agents leave to go to a crime scene.

They wrap on the office scene and move to the interrogation scene. There is a wardrobe change for Lucas Black (Special Agent Christopher LaSalle) and Zoe McLellan (Special Agent Meredith “Merri” Brody) and a break while the cameras are moved to shoot the interrogation room, only a few steps from the office set.

A wall needs to be erected and, in less than 15 minutes, the new wall is built, cables run and cameras are ready to roll. Smoke machines kick into overdrive, setting the smoky, sultry atmosphere for the interrogation room. Cameras check for color, microphones check for sound, and actors/ actresses run their lines.

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Meanwhile, Marta, the script supervisor, makes some corrections. D’Wayne Swear, the onset technical advisor for NCIS: New Orleans, keenly watches the scene.

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Zoe, aka Special Agent Brody, asks a question about interrogating the ensign.

“In a real interrogation, would we divulge the information about how they were killed?”

D’Wayne says in this situation it wouldn’t make a difference.

Jim, the director, tells Zoe, “I want you to slam the photos down on the interrogation table!”

Zoe answers with a smile on her face, “I love it when I get to slam things!”

TV TID-BIT:

D’Wayne Swear, former Chief of the real NCIS: New Orleans is the basis for Scott Bakula’s character, Dwayne Pride.

such overwhelming talent. They work hard, are focused and motivated. Their timeline is critical and they pull it off every time in a professional manner. They put this show together in locals’ backyards, making the storyline authentic and realistic.”

That’s where D’wayne comes in as onset technical advisor. His job is to review the script from the time it is a one-page concept, until it is a full final edition of the show ready to be viewed by the public. He verifies that the terminology, the police signals, the uniforms, every minute law enforcement detail is accurate and exactly as it would happen in a real-life investigation.

There’s a pause in the interrogation scene shooting and the second teamers come in.

TV TID-BIT:

Second teamers are the standins for the actors/actresses.

They look very similar in coloring and build and sit in the position of the actual actor/ actress, running lines. The cameras will set color based on the second teamers.

In his 25 years of federal law enforcement experience, D’Wayne Swear was responsible for oversight of all of Louisiana and Mississippi and 14 counties in Alabama, and singlehandedly ran the New Orleans office after Katrina. When D’Wayne was an NCIS agent, the agency was relatively unknown.

Now, with the popularity of the show, along comes notoriety. A recent job announcement for NCIS produced 5000 applicants.

As demonstrated in the show, with this office being much smaller than the D.C. and Los Angeles offices, it must interact more closely with local law enforcement agencies. Swear’s office’s role was a lot less glamorous than that portrayed on TV. The heart of the mission was to protect Naval personnel focusing on the current NCIS mantra: “Prevent Terrorism, Protect Secrets and Reduce Crime.”

In my much-anticipated and long-awaited interview with the real D’Wayne, I asked him what it felt like to have the main character on the CBS hit series modeled after him and his career.

“It’s humbling. My family and I are truly blessed. CBS and the crew are like a family to us. I’m extremely proud to be a part of such a phenomenal operation infused with 30

When the director says, “We’re ready to roll,” a 1st AD says, “Thank you 2nd teamers.” A call is issued for the cast. When the Director asks, “What are we waiting for?” The 2nd AD answers, “Inviting the cast, Sir.”

We wrap on the interrogation room scene when I hear, “Let’s move.” Being new to all this, I don’t immediately realize what is happening. People are jumping up, picking up cables, grabbing carts, people in the director’s chairs are gathering personal items – some are leaving for the day, but others are moving to another location. Marta clues me in, “We are moving to the other set. Come with me.” We are headed to the forensic lab to shoot the next scene.

Unfortunately, it is time for me to leave. Sadly, I find Eric and tell him, “I hate to leave, but I have to go. If you ever need someone to come and watch what you do, please call me! I was so excited to come on site and watch what happens - thank you, thank you!

Can I give you a call tomorrow afternoon to discus my article?”

Eric replies, “Glad to have you. Come back anytime. Yes, lets talk tomorrow!”

I

nspired by my time on-set, I was excited to find out more about television show-making magic. While waiting for the next opportunity to return to the NCIS: New Orleans set, I contacted as many behind-the-scenes crew members as I could!

Eventually, I will get a handle on the positions and titles, but it can be a bit confusing. Ever watch the credits at the end of a movie or TV show and read all of the titles? Well, here’s one for you: I met a second-second assistant director, Gregory Carr, a local from Gretna.

He’s in charge of background logistics and running the set.

I asked about logistics when filming in a public place and he explained to me that the folks from California didn’t quite understand the unique circumstances of filming in the French Quarter. The film industry might be big in Louisiana, but tourism is bigger.

“You can’t control the Quarter. You got to roll with it! Use it to your advantage,” Gregory said. “We put up cover release signs that state what we are doing, when and where. It says that if you want to watch and be a part, you are agreeing to be in the show without compensation. If you don’t want to be in the show, avoid the area on these dates and times. We plant a few of our own people in the crowd that know what to do and the crowd mentality takes over. They follow the others and it’s a success.”

In an interview with Producer Joseph Zolfo and Locations Manager Evan Eastham, I learned that Gary Glasberg, creator of the show, and his partner, Mark Harmon of the original NCIS series, made the decision that NCIS: New Orleans should be its own series rather that a 2-part sweeps piece of NCIS. They felt that New Orleans was as much a part of the show as any actor. The flavor of New Orleans comes through in each episode like the crowning spice in a gumbo. It is the realness of the location scenes, combined with local New Orleans music and character, that brings the show to life.

LaFarge manager, Jim McKnight, gave me the grand tour of the 2200-acre location, bordered by Honey Island Wildlife Management Area and the Bogue Chitto National Wildlife Refuge, where they dredge sand and gravel from the Pearl River. With the huge piles of sand, it makes an ideal location to turn into Afghanistan.

Art Department crews were onsite for two days to build the set and another two days to return the plant to its natural state. Luckily, the plant was down for maintenance the week of shooting. Dredging is governed by the Mine Safety and Health Association (MSHA), who can show up at any time for a surprise inspection. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the inspector showed up during the setup. By law, each person who goes past the office must watch a 10-minute safety video and be trained on personal protection equipment (PPE). I’ve got my card! Jim was on top of things, with a signed safety and training statement for all 222 people!

“After watching the operation and how efficiently they handled the building, shooting and removal, I have a whole new appreciation for what filming a TV show entails!” Jim said.

Photo courtesy of CBS

TV TID-BIT:

It takes 8 days to shoot each episode, with 5-6 of those days on location and the remaining in their studio for the office, interrogation, morgue and forensic scenes.

As I learn more about the magic behind the scenes of NCIS: New Orleans, I eagerly look forward to my next visit on set. Wait till you see what I have in store for you in December!

Joseph says, “We love shooting on location in New Orleans and the many locations utilized around the Slidell area. We’ve given away over 50,000 NCIS: New Orleans Mardi Gras beads.”

For the episode “Stolen Valor”, LaFarge Aggregates’ Honey Island location in Pearl River became Afghanistan, complete with a Chinook helicopter, deuce and a half trucks, Humvees, M4A1 carbine rifles and a total of 222 TV show personnel on site for the full day and night of shooting.

Photo courtesy of CBS

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My Grandmother once told me, “You know what’s strange? I still feel like I’m the same 18-year-old girl on the inside, but all anyone can see is this wrinkled old woman.” She wasn’t happy about that. This month marks the four year anniversary of her passing, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and the legacy she left behind. The older I get, the more I see her spirit within me.

She loved to drink sherry, so the day of the funeral, when it was time for “The tribute from her grandkids”, we all went up to the front of the church with a bottle of sherry and shot glasses in hand. We toasted to her, took our shot (even though it’s the nastiest stuff on the face of the earth), and said our goodbyes.

We knew she would like that, and it was our generations’ wacky way of dealing with the loss. Little did I know at the time that, although her body was gone,

her spirit would still stick around, giving me answers in my own life from her 98 years of wisdom.

Now, with that said, my initial thought on an article this month went straight to Veterans Day. I had a great story (so I thought), but someone else’s strong, wild spirit told me differently.

I was locked in my “Art Room” aka, the detached garage, surrounded by the inner workings of my mind. Whether it be a Mardi Gras bead wall, Emerald City in green wine bottle form (complete with lights), or inappropriate sayings painted on boards that I found on the side of the road, this is the place I go to THINK. Across from my chair is a pallet wall that was built to hide the garage door, and on it, the shrine of my Grandmother’s paintings that I often stare at for inspiration. Yet, this day, none was coming to me.

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Four hours, one paragraph, and many doodles later, I accepted defeat, and gave in to my first true writer’s block. I texted Kendra, Slidell Magazine Editor, and confessed my failure. Waiting for her reply, I stared deeply into one of my Grandmother’s paintings, the first one she ever gave me. I don’t know if I was looking for some sign within the swamp scene, or waiting for her to reach her arm out of the canvas and hand me this story, but I couldn’t stop staring at it. And I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

My phone dings, pulling me away from my thoughts… Kendra comes back with a text. “I have a great story for you.

You will be inspired.” Minutes later, she calls me, and reads me, of all things, an obituary...

“Bernice Nell Mayo Crowell made her last wildly inappropriate and probably sarcastic comment on September 9th, 2015.

A longtime resident of Slidell LA, a wildly adventurous traveler, flirtatious to the extreme, and accomplished spirit passed away Sunday, September 13th, 2015.

Passing on Grandparent’s Day, surrounded by three of her favorite grandchildren (all named Bobby if you asked her).

The men in her life were numerous. A

charmer in her own right, just ask her male nurses that assisted her up until the end!

She particularly fancied exotic men, exotic meaning anyone outside of Noxapater Mississippi where she was born to Vernon and Kerry Mayo, April 23, 1939. She is survived by her six siblings, older sister Arby Ozell Ashmore, and baby brothers Tommie Mayo, Dale Mayo, Glenn Mayo and Wayne Mayo.

All residing in the countryside of Mississippi where the sunlight is still pumped in.

She had three special loves of her life, all of whom she wore out and buried; Adolph Crowell, Curtis Yarbrough and Eli Stevens.

From these first two relationships she bore three children, Juanita N. Plescia, Glenn Yarbrough, and Anna Johnson. From these children she took great pride in most of the seven grandchildren she was blessed with.

Her first born and favorite, Bobby J Plescia, and the rest in birth order: Dusty Hodges, Angela Hodges Seal, Melissa Yarbrough, Stephanie Plescia-Bordes, Curtis Hodges, and Glenn Yarbrough. Out of these seven, she was blessed to see many great grandchildren and her first great-great granddaughter!

After working for many years at Winn Dixie in Slidell, LA , she finally decided to retire much to the relief of several young box clerks working there at the time. She settled down

with her dogs and great grandchildren and enjoyed the slower pace of retired life. She passed knowing that she was a prize to be sought after, that no inconvenient video tapes will surface of her later in life, and that guys dig chicks with tattoos… even though we never did get to see that Tweety Bird!

Although some would say a less than average life span, Bernice did not live an average life. She traveled where she wanted to travel, laughed inappropriately at every chance, learned what she wanted to learn, fixed what she wanted to fix and loved who she wanted to love.

Cremation will take place at the family’s convenience, and her ashes will be kept around as long as they match the décor.

A private beach side ceremony will be held for the immediate family. In lieu of flowers, please plant a plant or tree in her honor… she would have liked that!”

Inspiration FOUND! Four days later, the person responsible for this AMAZING obituary, was sitting in the Art Room with me. Her name is Stephanie, the granddaughter of Miss Bernice (or Gram, as they call her). Gram was there too, her ashes at least, in a locket around Stephanie’s neck. I was hoping she agreed that it matched the décor.

33

She told me that her Gram wasn’t your “typical Grandma”, which was just fine with me, being that we were sitting in a room with a sign over the door that says, “This is not a door”.

Bernice was also a “vivacious light”, one that Stephanie felt drawn to capture perfectly in this life legacy. She did pause briefly before sending the obit to the paper, but did it anyway. I’m guessing it would have been a big disservice to her Gram if she hadn’t.

Bobby was “the favorite” because he was the first grandkid and they had very similar personalities. Although, from Bernice’s voice in a 2am voicemail left for Stephanie’s son, I could tell her love went a lot deeper than she put on.

Hell, I wanted to be on the other end of that call!

Bernice rarely drank alcohol, there was no need for it. She was high on the better things in life… one-way plane tickets (returning whenever she felt like it), grabbing men’s butts, and spur-of-themoment cruises, to name a few.

She had a CB radio in her vehicle, and would frequently drive between two

semis on the interstate, talking the trucker slang. I’m guessing it kept her safe from cops. But mainly, she liked flirting with them. Her call sign… “SEXY MOMMA”.

sarcastically said, “Sure. I’ll be dead. I don’t care.” With some people, it’s all how you word it. A little sarcastic humor and honesty never hurt anyone.

The Tweety Bird tattoo? No one in the family has ever seen it. She went to show Stephanie once, pulling up her pant leg and pointing to her inner thigh. No Tweety there though. Bernice told her, “The cat must have got it”.

Stephanie, her mom, and Gram, took many last minute cruises together, but it won’t be their last. Basically, Stephanie and her mom asked each other, “Hawaii?” then saw a car with the license plate “GRANNY2” right after. That sealed the deal. So the three of them will be heading to the Aloha State this summer where Bernice’s ashes will FLY FREE IN THE WIND.

Bernice lived life how she wanted. It’s very admirable to be that ballsy, not afraid to “just be”, and if that’s not your cup of tea, well, then let her have hers.

She earned it after living through broken bones, cancer, emphysema, Parkinson’s, and burying the three loves of her life.

Towards the end of our conversation, I was shown a video of Bernice in the last days. She was sitting in a chair, showing some labored breathing and obvious shaking from her Parkinson’s. She was asked, “Do you want to be cremated?”

At first, I wasn’t sure if she heard the question, or if she was just ignoring it.

Then Stephanie said, “We can put it in a Ziploc if you want.” That’s when Bernice looked up, cracked a smile, and

Her strong spirit will live on, just like my grandmother’s has. And, every once in a while you will see them… Maybe in a painting, or a license plate, or in the tight pants of a box boy at Winn-Dixie.

Bernice isn’t worried about it too much, though. Right now, she’s all dolled up, dancing with her three loves, calling everyone “Bobby”, and giving a sarcastic grin at the stories she’s left behind.

Enjoy every moment of it “SEXY MOMMA”.

You deserve it.

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Story by Rose Marie Sand

I attended a conference last month in Orlando called “I Can Do It.” I took lots of notes, and knew I wanted to share some of them with readers of this column. Once I began, though, my words evolved into what you’ll read this October.

I had planned to give tips on how to survive a trade show or conference. Throughout

multiple careers, I’ve gone to Sales Training Seminars, Screen Printing Trade Shows, Writer’s Conferences and slipped into other trade shows whenever I found myself in Convention Centers.

A friend asked me why I like to go to lectures when YouTube brings every motivational speaker into your home. I love to watch TED

Talks and read books, blogs and essays.

TED stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, and watching these twenty minute talks by world-class speakers and intellectuals is one of my joys in life. I aspire to attend a TED convention someday.

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of a conference ballroom. (Here’s one of those tips I mentioned – layer clothes at a conference because they are always freezing, not unlike airplanes.)

That’s because, although I love watching the talks on my computer, there’s something about listening to a live speaker that makes a difference to their message.

It’s like hearing live music or attending theatre rather than a movie – there’s a real connection when you’re part of an audience.

I noticed most of the waiting herd also glued to the set.

It took a few minutes to grasp what I was watching. It was footage from a news set, and the crawler below talked of a live shooting on air. I was in disbelief, stunned and shattered.

Some of the lectures I attended at the “I Can Do It” conference were about things that some people would definitely call “touchy-feely.” Some would even think it new-agey, but my choice of speakers fell into categories of nutrition, positive thinking, and ways to speak effectively.

There were even discussions of how to publish your own books. All stuff right up my alley.

One of the speakers at the conference talked extensively about the placebo effect, which has always intrigued me. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept – two test groups are given a drug for a specific illness, and one of the groups’ medicines is actually what’s called a placebo, essentially a pill with no medicine at all.

Usually these tests conclude that the group with the placebo medicine has the same, or nearly the same, improvement as the one with the actual drug.

The speaker tied this all in to quantum physics. For the most part, the leap from quantum physics to how the mind works was complicated, fascinating, and sometimes beyond my grasp.

But his explanation of living in the future versus the past made a lot of sense. I bought his book, called You Are The Placebo; Making Your Mind Matter. This author poses the question, “Is it possible to teach the principles of the placebo, and without relying on any external substance, produce the same internal changes in a person’s health and, ultimately, in his or her life?”

I’m sure you were, too.

That’s when I heard a small group talking about the tragedy. Although I heard words of concern, I also heard one person say that the murderer had posted his own footage of the actual killings. And they pulled it up on their phone, as if they were watching a video game.

Is that how commonplace these events have become? I thought in horror. Since then, several more of these acts of terrorism have occurred. The nation, the world, is shocked and shattered.

One of the examples in The Tipping Point is the suicide of young men in the Micronesia. He states, “In the 1970′s and 1980′s, Micronesia had teen suicide rates ten times higher than anywhere else in the world. Teenagers were literally being infected with the suicide bug, and one after another they were killing themselves in exactly the same way under exactly the same circumstances.”

Now, the concept of mass suicide becoming an option for teenagers may seem as foreign to you as Micronesia itself. But the book sites several other examples of The Tipping Point, and my thoughts were full of these examples as we disembarked for a two-hour layover.

Now, let me tell you that I’m a rare breed who actually enjoys airports and most things about air travel. I love to watch people, imagine where they’re going and make up details about their lives from what one can observe.

I was loaded with books, notebooks, and thoughts of a positive future as I flew home. A John Kennedy quote was on my mind…“One person can make a difference, and everyone should try.” I knew it was a time to make a difference for myself.

I grabbed a drink and snack (one of the other weird things I like about airports, the proliferation of totally crappy food that I justify eating because I’m traveling), found a corner seat near the booth for the proper gate and plugged in to charge my phone and iPad.

I was deep into a book called The Tipping Point on the plane ride home from the conference.

In this book, the author explains his theory that ideas can be contagious in exactly the same way that a virus is. He uses examples to illustrate that behavior can be transmitted from one person to another as easily as the flu or the measles can.

I was looking forward to some serious people watching and the next chapter in the book.

The TV’s in airports are ubiquitous and intrusive, yet I’ve watched many a Saints game from an airport screen. So, I looked up to see what was going on in the world since I’d been in the sub-tropic temperature

That’s what they are, you know. Acts of terrorism.

The shooters are terrorists who commit murder for their own agendas. Whatever you think about gun accessibility and mental illness, these people act in ways I can never comprehend and are hateful terrorists.

I thought about The Tipping Point, and wondered exactly when this kind of violence became so commonplace. What was the tipping point for such an option to a deranged mind?

Can you envision a time when people will say something if they hear or see someone who may be a threat to others?

Can you envision a world where the idea of shooting innocent people, children, is not an option?

So, I bring you this, my readers. The only thing that’s given me peace of mind about this subject is an idea that more than changes the laws, more than prayer even. The answer is a belief that we can make a difference.

That’s what I came home with from the conference. Believe in the future, in the goodness of man, and make a difference in yourself, your community and your family. Be your own placebo. Let’s tip the future to the world we want. Let’s be about love, not hate.

We Can Do It.

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he vast majority of dog bite victims are children. They say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure; nowhere is this more true than with dog bites. When teaching children about dog bite prevention and how to be safe around dogs, it helps to broaden the discussion. Discuss animals and dogs in general, how we relate to them, and the role of animals in your family, not just how to avoid being bitten. If you have younger children, always supervise them around dogs

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and be mindful of how the child interacts with them, so they learn to be gentle from the beginning.

When the dog is with his owner, always ask for permission before petting the dog.

Never pet a dog without asking first.

Some advice that you can use to help kids understand the importance of respecting dogs and avoiding bites:

Teach children to confidently, quietly walk away if they’re confronted by an aggressive dog. Instruct them to stand still if a dog comes after them, then take a defensive position. It often helps to tell them to “be a tree” - stand quietly, with their hands low and clasped in front of them, remain still and keep their head down as if looking at their feet. This is a hard sell, I know,

Avoid unknown dogs. If you see a dog you don’t know and it’s wandering around at large and unsupervised, avoid the dog and consider leaving the area and alerting animal control.

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but it’s good advice. If they are knocked down, teach children to cover their head and neck with their arms and curl into a ball.

Teach children to avoid escalating the situation by yelling, running, hitting or making sudden movements toward the dog.

In the home, teach children that if a dog goes to bed or to his crate, don’t bother him. Enforce the idea that the bed or crate is the dog’s “personal space” to be alone.

A dog needs a comfortable, safe place where the child never goes. If you’re using a dog crate in your own home, it should be covered with a blanket and be near a family area, such as in the living room or another area of your home where the family frequently spends time. Don’t isolate your dog or her crate, or you may accidentally encourage bad behavior.

Educate children at a level they can understand. Don’t expect young children to be able to accurately read a dog’s body language. Instead, focus on gentle behavior, and the fact that dogs have likes and dislikes. Help them develop a better understanding of dog behavior as they grow older.

Teach children that the dog has to want to play with them, and that when the dog leaves, he leaves -- he’ll return for more play if and when he feels like it. This is a simple way to allow kids to be able to tell when a dog wants to play and when he doesn’t.

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Teach kids never to tease dogs by taking their toys, food or treats, or by pretending to hit or kick.

Also, never ever pull a dog’s ears or tail, nor climb on or try to ride dogs. And leave the dog alone when it’s asleep or eating.

As a parent, report stray dogs or dogs that frequently get loose in your neighborhood.

Sometimes, especially with smaller dogs, some children might try to drag the dog around. Don’t allow this. Also, discourage them from trying to dress up the dog -- some dogs just don’t like being handled that way.

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Don’t give kids too much responsibility for pets too early -- they just may not be ready. Always supervise and check on pet care responsibilities given to children to ensure they are carried out Remember: if you get your kids a pet, you’re getting yourself a pet, too.

I recently learned that National Dog Bite Prevention Week is the third full week of May each year. But it seemed like too important of a topic to wait 6 months to address. Take the time to teach children how to avoid provoking dogs, and follow the advice yourself when confronting dogs you don’t know. Many online resources are available for anyone wanting more information. The American Veterinary Medical Association (AVMA.org) has lots more good advice on its web site, and even some downloadable material for teachers or organizations.

Considering the potential consequences of a nasty bite wound, you really can’t be too careful.

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Picture this: you’re at the Saints vs. the Falcons.

The seats are great, the crowd around you is friendly, and the Saints are fired up! You go to get a snack before kickoff, though, and all they have are saltine crackers and water. Nothing else. Before you know what happened, the Saints are BLOWN OUT by the Falcons, you get home and your house has been graffitied, and your boss calls you to say your vacation is cancelled because that project you worked so hard on was not at all what he was looking for and he wants you to redo it. I think, already, we can learn a lesson from this story. Food rules everything!

And while some may disregard sustenance at a game, concessions can truly enhance an experience. Thankfully, they serve a lot more than saltines at the Superdome. I wonder... what are some of the best foods we have in NFL stadiums? What are some of the staples and the gourmet selections? And where can we find some of those same foods?

If you haven’t been to a sporting event, trust me, it’s something you can’t miss in life. The camaraderie is underrated. And, of course, the concession stand is not to be

forgotten. Nachos, hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, barbecued meats, and beer are all regulars. I am a fan of a hot dog, mayo, mustard, ketchup, pickle relish, chili, cheese, MAYBE sauerkraut, and sauteed onions and peppers. I call it the CKS, the Corey Kitchen Sink. Give me a beer and a bag of chips with it and I’m set for a great game!

If I’m sharing a snack with my wife, nachos are a classic. I wouldn’t make that cheese myself at home but at a sporting event, I HAVE to have it. The foods you expect at a ball game are cliche for a reason: they are perfect for the atmosphere. However, if your palate craves a more defined taste, there are many foods around the NFL that have piqued my interest.

Lambeau Field’s Pack n’ Cheese has me intrigued. Wisconsin cheddar, cream cheese, and jalapenos (to give it that “popper” feel) make me ready to sit and watch a Green Bay Lambeau leap! I can’t really find a comparable dish in Slidell, but I wouldn’t mind trying to make it from Rocky and Carlo’s baked macraoni. Oh yes, that sounds perfect.

For those who love chicken and waffles, Everbank Field, home of the Jacksonville Jaguars, serves a chicken and waffle sandwich.

Fried chicken breast, topped with a sweet and sour sauce, then topped with coleslaw, sounds like a sweet and savory dish filled with wonder. I have never understood the chicken-and-waffle craze, but I would jump on the bandwagon if I tried something like that. Finding a similar dish close by is hard, as I am not familiar with places close by that have chicken and waffles. But a good place to start is Big Mamma’s Chicken and Waffles in New Orleans. They probably have chicken and waffles. I would imagine.

Next up is Wagyu Beef Hot Dog with Pork Chicharrones. It even sounds fancy. Levi Stadium’s gourmet treasure shows off a heavier side of San Francisco. It starts with Wagyu beef, already a sinful meat, made into a hot dog and wrapped in bacon, topped with guacamole, pico, and pork chicharrones (pork rinds). It’s like a fancy version of going to a gas station and getting a bunch of things that are bad for you. It’s full of carbs, and full of love. But it’s not for me. Personally,

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I’d like to go to Bruiser’s and just call it a day. Can we? Lets.

It’s not all just about the meat, though, when it comes to gourmet stadium food. For example, you would think that philly steak is my food not to miss at Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

However, what caught my eye was the Spinach Taglio. A vegetarian-style pizza, loaded up with cheese and spinach, is one of those dishes that mixes it up, compared to hot dogs, nachos, and burgers. I would definitely try it. There are many places in Slidell that serve pizza but I would steer you towards BJ’s Brewhouse to find a pizza that might be similar to that.

Now, to balance that healthier suggestion, let’s talk about the Tailgater Burger at M&T Bank Stadium. Leave it to the Ravens to give you a dish that pushes the rules just a bit. Topped with cheese, bacon, kielbasa, Maryland crab dip, beer-battered onion rings and chicken wings, it’s like my entire week of dinner in one dish. My goodness gracious. I want to LIVE to watch the game, ok? However, I will try a very small bit, because then I don’t have to eat for a month. In Slidell, Times Bar and Grill has some interesting selections, but there is no way you are going to find a burger to replicate this. And that is a really good thing.

Anyone who knows me knows I am indecisive when it comes to food. I can’t decide whether to choose “this” or “that”.

If I ate at Paul Brown Stadium, where the Cleveland Browns play, I would be able to have everything I wanted. A hot dog, bacon, and mac and cheese makes this a hot dog not to be trifled with. Again, Bruisers might be the best place to go to be satisfied after hearing such a dog exists.

Edward Jones Stadium, where the St. Louis Rams roam, is home to a dish near and dear to St. Louis natives: Toasted Ravioli. Simple.

Marinara. Done. Fried pasta is ALWAYS a good idea. And if you want a Louisiana twist on it, get a plate of crabmeat ravioli from Copeland’s. It may not be fried, but it is delicious.

In Colorado, at Mile High Stadium, it gets a little tougher to breath than in most other places in the country. That’s when I would take a break, take a few breaths, and eat Italian Nachos. Fried pasta triangles (BRILLIANT!) that are then topped with sliced pepperonis, green onions, black olives, banana peppers and shredded mozzarella cheese. And the sauce? A mix of alfredo and marinara sauce.

Nothing more needs to be said. I want to go to Colorado. In the meantime, I will sate my urge for this dish with NOLA Southern Grills’ spinach and artichoke dip.

The best of the gourmet foods, I think, is saved for last. New Orleans is known for a lot of different types of foods, but I would have to say seafood is a world-wide known delicacy in New Orleans. And the Superdome puts it on display with the Superdome Seafood Nachos. Topped with fresh Louisiana shrimp, crawfish, and hot peppers, it does Louisiana proud. Obviously, this dish is pretty close to Slidell, but if you don’t want to travel across the lake, I think you can find some pretty good seafood nachos at the new El Paso restaurant. Their Locos Nachos are a great replacement if you just can’t make it to the Superdome on game day.

Louisiana is known for many things. But what we are proud to be known for is our sports and our food. And the concession stand is the perfect combination of the two. Whether it’s what we are familiar with, like hamburgers and hot dogs, or gourmet selections, like seafood nachos, there is never a hungry mouth in the stadium. Sports and food go together so well. Just make sure the next time you go see a game, go get a hot dog, a bowl of jambalaya, or something.

Because, as you well know by now, it can mean either a good time, or coming home to a graffitied house.

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The History of Slidell High School Part Three 1942-1974

Prelude: It’s around 1945, some 25 years before I make my debut at Slidell High School. That’s ok, because it would take that long to get ready for me and the rest of the Class of 1974. A lot of good things happened during this period that would make life a little easier for us soon-to-be-born Baby Boomers...

Slidell got its very first chain store, Western Auto Store on Cousin Street. Conversations about building the Causeway Bridge were being discussed around the parish. City streets were getting paved left and right. Slidell built its first outdoor recreation facility, named Carl Hickman Field. (It was built by the volunteer Bantam Baseball Association and, I can assure you, every kid in Slidell played baseball in that park at one time or another. It was located where the boat launch is now at Heritage Park.) Slidell also got its first real shopping center, Tammany Mall.

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However, the biggest and most exciting event to take place in Slidell was building a new Slidell High School, the third one since 1909. The new school was built on Tiger Drive and the first graduation class was held in 1962.

Mr. L.V. McGinty, who had succeeded Professor F.C. Ratliff as Slidell High principal in the early 1930’s, continued to head the school until 1976, when Mr. Joseph Buccaran took over.

walk to the train station and wait for a train to pick him up for a ride acrcoss the lake where he lived.

Cut described other aspects of his high school career. He learned many of life’s lessons while attending Slidell High. He learned to respect authority and to get along with his fellow classmates. Everyone in school knew everybody else and their parents. If there was any mischief, by the time the offending student got home, the parents knew about it.

Because I have OCD and God knows Shared by Ellen Nunez Lamarque what else, I couldn’t be satisfied just (Daughter) knowing that Miss Lena George, Miss Ella Scogins, Miss Violet Holdsworth, and Miss Mollie Guzman were the first Catherine Garrett Walker four graduates from Slidell High (in that Slidell High School, March 1961 Class of 1948 order). I needed to know what number Notice, there are no other buildings located anywhere around the I was. So, after painstaking research school or on Robert Rd. THURSDAY NIGHT PEP RALLY: and countless late night hours on the SLIDELL HIGH CHEERLEADERS computer, aggravating the hell out of After the first meeting, Cut went home and told Our high school experiences were so different the schoolboard as well as a few classmates, I his dad he needed $9 for a pair of football shoes. from the way things are today. As students, we finally got my ranking. I was the 4,825th person With most breadwinners making about $40 per had a healthy respect for our teachers. When our to graduate from Slidell High School. week in those days, his dad jumped about two group of girls decided that we wanted to form a I knew I could figure this out since I graduated feet off the ground, but Cut got his shoes. In team, we talked to Mr. McGinty who said ok, if with a stunning 4.0 average. (1.0 in freshman order to not lose them, each player tied knots we had a sponsor. Miss Sollberger agreed to be year, 1.0 in sophomore year, 1.0 junior year, and in the shoe laces and wore them around their that sponsor. We all loved her. Our coach was 1.0 senior year = 4.0! I love this new Common necks. They often practiced until almost dark Shirley McDaniel Fogg. In order to try out for Core Math!) and then ran laps. Mr. Mac would not light up cheerleader, we would have to develop a routine the field because it cost $50 to turn on the field and perform in front of the entire student body.

The following stories are excerpts from several lights, so they often finished in the dark. Another The students voted and the winners would remain Slidell High School Alumni. These stories best of Mr. Mac’s rules was that the boys could not cheerleaders their entire high school career. Every explain how school life was at Slidell High School drink cokes or smoke cigarettes. During practice, Thursday night there would be a pep rally down during its earlier years. They are just a few of the he would not allow the players to drink even a through Olde Towne. We started out from Slidell 200 stories that I have read in the last couple of drop of water.

High and ‘Snake Danced’ our way to the White months. I thought it would be fun, and maybe Kitchen. The whole town would turn out for those helpful in some way, if I shared a few of these During the years that Cut played football, only pep rallies and, by game time the next night, all stories. two boys drove cars to school. Those who lived of Slidell would be enthusiastic about playing too far would hitchhike home. One student would These stories will live in my heart forever. I hope they mean as much to you as they do to me. Enjoy.

Charles C. (Cut) Nunez, Sr. Class of 1947 POWER FOOTBALL: LIFE OF A SLIDELL HIGH FOOTBALL PLAYER IN THE 1940’S Though there was a football team prior to 1944, the boys had very meager equipment. With a war going on and no one to coach, there was no team in 1943. A group of parents appealed to Mr. Mac to re-organize a football team. He recruited 44 boys who were willing to play. He practically started from scratch to purchase equipment.

Team members played both offense and defense.

When he began their training, he pointed out a space each player would play. His remarks went as follows: “This is your space and no one on the opposing team should be allowed to get by you, whether it be over, under, or the side of you.”

They termed it “power football”.

1945 Tiger Champions

45

who ever was scheduled to play in Tiger Stadium.

During the pep rallies we were encouraged to stand on the chairs at the White Kitchen to lead the cheers. If the weekly games were away, we would meet back at the White Kitchen and wait for our parent to pick us up.

One of our favorite detours as we walked from school each afternoon would be to go by Cusimano’s Drug Store on Front Street.

Fredine Honaker Tranchina Class of 1957 THE GARDEN SNAKE ROLL CALL My English teacher, Miss Hoffman, who was in her very first year of teaching, always started her class by calling the roll. Miss Hoffman was very young and dressed very youthfully, if you know what I mean. She would always get her roll book out and sit on her desk in front of the class with her legs crossed. Then she would reach over backwards to get her picture from the middle desk drawer. Just before Miss Hoffman began calling the roll, the students would take their seats with some of the more energetic boys sitting in the first row of desks. One day, one of the boys placed a little green garden snake in the drawer with her pencils. When she reached back and picked up the snake instead of the pencil, she screamed.

We thought she was going to pass out! The two students in the very first row bolted to the back of the class and jumped out of the window. The two suspected boys were sent to Mr. McGinty’s office for a stern lecture and an attitude adjustment. Back in those days, we all knew what that meant. After that day, the class was on its very best behavior and Miss Hoffman learned to call the roll while sitting behind her desk.

Ronnie Dunaway, Class of 1974

1970-1974 All I can say is my experience at Slidell High School was one hell of a roller coaster ride. To say the least, it was bitter sweet. It was 1970, my first year at Slidell High, and I was trying to figure out what classes to take. In my previous years, I didn’t have a choice but, in ninth grade, I had to pick a couple of electives. So I picked typing and Vocational Agriculture. The perfect bitter and sweet choices.

For some reason, my typing teacher, Ms. B., didn’t like me very much. The first couple of weeks my typing went pretty well, until she came up with this brilliant idea to remove the letters from the keys. Needless to say, my typing abilities went south real quick. I told her that it was about the stupidest thing I ever heard of.

Because of that remark, I met Mr. McGinty for the first time. I had just left Boyet Jr. High School where Mr. Mackie Gomez forever used my butt for paddling excercise, so I was prepared for the worst. To my surprise, Mr.Ginty really was a nice principal. He gave me a lecture and told me not to ever say that again.

A few weeks later, guess who came shopping at the market? In order to get revenge, I coerced my little brother into helping me. Ms. B ordered a pound of ham and a pound of cheese. While Tommy was slicing her meat, I was wrapping some hogshead cheese and a stinky beef kidney.

OH YES WE DID! Tommy and I switched the packages. I bet when she got ready to make a sandwich, she had that same surprised look on her face as I did when she removed the letters from the typewriter keys. Every now and then, when I’m looking down at my computer keys, I think of her and LMAO. My best experience at Slidell High was being a member of the Future Farmers of America.

I took it all four years under the supervision of Mr. James Magee. This was one class I truly understood. I knew everything about cows, hogs, pigs, goats, lambs and chickens - as long as they were post-mortem. I was trained by some of the best butchers in the world, my dad and my brothers. Being an FFA member, I learned how

Instead of going back to my typing class, he gave me a note and told me to go see Coach Smith.

Just before I reached Coach’s office I opened it and read it. It simply said: Attitude Adjustment.

I knew that lecture was too easy. Coach told me to be at his office the next day at 1 o’clock and wear shorts and tennis shoes. He made me run five laps around the track and, when I finished, pick up trash under the stadium. Every Monday for a month he made me run five laps and clean up around the gym. Two weeks into high school, I felt more like a janitor than a student.

Slidell High School Gym, April 1961 Under one roof would be a cafeteria and kitchen on the south end, a stage and dressing room on the north end, and a basketball court with both permanent and folding bleachers.

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Then I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Al Saucier, the shop teacher. He was cool and I enjoyed the class. I actually learned how to repair small engines and how to weld. I did very well in his class.

Like I’ve said in many of my stories, just about everyone in town shopped at my dad’s meat market, including Ms. B. I thought payback was in order, it was just a matter of time. A few days later, I was summoned to my counselors office.

That’s when I met Mrs. Woodward. Shewassonice and seemed to understand my frustrations. She told me I was removed from typing and now I would be taking Auto Mechanics. I told Mrs. Woodward I was a butcher, not a mechanic, nor a secretary. She said my only other option was Home Economics.

Mr. Robert Merritt Mr. Merritt retired from Slidell High after many years of teaching and became coowner of the Driving Academy of Slidell.

He was an Air Force Veteran of the Korean War and afterwards, joined the Army. Mr. Merritt died on June 3, 2012. His legacy will live forever at Slidell High School. I will always remember our class on one side of the hall and Mr. Buccaran’s on the other side. One day, I was acting up a bit and Mr. Merritt made me go sit in Mr. Buccaran’s class for the rest of the hour. In retaliation, Mr. Buccaran sent one of his trouble makers to sit in Mr. Merritt’s class. This is just one of the crazy things that made Slidell High so much fun.

A Successful Rural-Urban Situation: SLIDELL HIGH VOCATIONAL AGRICULTURE DEPARTMENT, 1974

FFA’s finest l-r: Andy Fandal,Wade Landache, Marc Canal,Gus Lipscy, Lonny Garcia, Steve McKinney, Robby Gegendre, Ronnie Dunaway, and John Evans.

Planting trees on Gause Blvd. to take care of the animals before they made it to the slaughter house.

The first thing I learned was how to castrate pigs.

One day I was assigned to help another student castrate this poor little pig. I told the boy I didn’t think I had the stomach to do it. He assured me there was nothing to it. When we arrived at the farm (oh, by the way, Slidell High had its own farm. Can you believe that?), he said it was a three man job, depending on the size of the hog. One to hold, one to cut, and one to squeeze. Ouch !!

Yep, I was the squeeze man. Even though our patient was small, he wasn’t ready to be snipped.

He was kicking and screaming for us to let go.

As Paul held him down, Mike made the incision and I squeezed. The first testicle came out but the second one got stuck. Mike told me to squeeze harder and I did. Without warning, it flew out and hit me right on the chin. Now the pig and I were both screaming.

Mr. James Magee Sr. Up to the time I graduated in 1974, Mr. Magee received the Best State Chapter Award 14 times and the Gold Emblem Award 12 times on the National Level.

that thing laid out nice and neat on my table. He looked up at me (and I say that because I was at least a foot taller than him) and jokingly said, “This isn’t a butcher shop. You didn’t need to chop it up. All I wanted you to do is find the heart.”

I told him I got a little excited and wanted to show off my meat-cutting skills. All in all, we had a good relationship.

Then there was Mr. Miller, my Civics teacher.

The first thing he said to me was, “I taught both of your brothers and they did well in my class.”

I thought to myself, wonderful - now I actually have to study. He, too, was at the top of his game.

He knew civics and, before it was over, so did I.

Another thing I learned was how to cure and smoke meat. Slidell High had an incredible meat processing plant, complete with a huge smoke house. People from all over Slidell would bring meat for us to smoke. I leaned how to cure bacon, hams, and pork chops. We made some of the best smoked sausage in the state. Mr. Magee taught us everything we needed to know to become good farmers. However, farming wasn’t all we learned. Several of us FFA boys were responsible for some of the trees that you see on Gause Blvd today. We planted trees from Robert Blvd. all the way to the interstate.

I really was blessed with some of the best teachers in the business. I had Mr. Merrit for Biology. They don’t make teachers like him anymore. He really knew his Biology and how to teach it.

One day, we were dissecting some frogs or some other pickled critter. OMG, it stunk so bad, I thought I would die. I didn’t wait for instructions; instead, I cut it up like I would cut up a chicken.

When he made his way to my table, he looked at me like I was some kind of serial killer. I had

Mr. Wesley Miller Mr. Miller devoted his life to teaching at Slidell High where he touched countless lives.

Long after his retirement, he remained an avid Tiger fan. He also served his country in the US Army. Mr. Miller passed away Dec.16, 2009. He will be remembered by thousands of his students.

When one walked into the Vocational Agriculture Department at Slidell High, there was no question at all about which department you were in. The classroom and shop was painted blue and gold FFA colors. This resulted from a student project and they took a great deal of pride in what they have accomplished. Pride was an important ingredient in the total program of this department. This was reflected in the many banners and trophies that adorned the walls of the classroom. Our chapter also had a very active Booster Club that assisted with many FFA activities. In 1974, with a total student body of 1338, almost ten percent, 117 boys and girls, were in the Agriculture program.

Many students were turned away because we only had one teacher.

Slidell High’s successful FFA and Vocational Agriculture programs stemmed from the fact that the teacher, James Magee Sr., was an active and energetic person who held the welfare of his students as the most important factor in the program. His relationships in the community had been rewarding and had resulted in cooperation from many supporters. Over the years, some 38 champion animals have been shown at various events. In addition to the school farm, the department had a farm mechanics shop, a green house, and a food processing center. Students had the opportunity to be exposed to all phases of the field of agriculture.

Things were changing in the early 70s. Boys were allowed to wear long hair. In fact, I graduated with hair well below my shoulders. Girls were starting to wear pants more often. By the 1970s, many of us drove cars to school. Back then, it was ok to leave school, get in your car and go somewhere, as long as you were back for your scheduled class. Some of the guys who were big into hunting would come to school with gun racks in their trucks because they were going hunting right after school. When we went to the farm, we took our own vehicles. Sometimes we would stop at the store and get some snacks or cigarettes. Again, it never was an issue. I remember a few times when we were at the farm and were not able to get back for our next class. We would send word to Mr. Magee and he simply went and told the teacher we needed to be excused, and we were. That’s just the way it was back in the good ole days.

Resources and credits: Slidell High School, GOSH, Bonnie Vanney, Adrian Innerarity, Slidell High School Memory Books, Ellen Nunez Lamarque, St. Tammany News, The Slidell Times, and The Louisiana Agriculture Education Magazine

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Slidell Magazine was EVERYWHERE this month!

Here are just a few of our adventures!

ONE PICTURE -- SOOO MUCH TALENT! There are too many awesome people in this photo to name them all - let’s just say, a WHOLE LOT of artists and friends gathered at the Chamber Martketplace for Art & Coversation night and to greet artist KENNY BRIDGES!

hn Case!

Storyteller”, Jo Yes, that’s “T he for his t oo sh r the photo On location fo ats.”

Fl to it Ch , “Bogue upcoming book wig! that Beatle’s He’s ROCKING

ficer, ursing Of ’s C hief N at H n M io S t , in celebra Lynn Stra cond line nt e e s v e e h in t a s t oun lead king the F SMH’s Pin

The lovely Young Athena Award nominees: l-r: Kristen Stanley-Wallace, Rob in Marquez, Victoria Langlinais, Dawn Rivera and Megan Provenza no.

CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL OF YOU !

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