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Editor’s Letter

I wish this Editor’s Letter was vastly different from last month’s. But it’s not. Last month, I sat at my computer, struggling to find words of comfort after the Orlando shootings. Here I am, one month later, and I’m struggling with so much more than finding words. My feelings are probably the same as yours. I’m scared. I’m sad. I’m mad as hell. Mostly, I’m so very, very hopeful for the tomorrow that promises to be better, and all of these negative feelings to go away. How can these tragedies keep happening? And how can they happen in our own backyard? Crazy, terrible martyr-murderers only do terrible, crazy things in big cities like Los Angeles and New York, right? I have been naive and sheltered. I live in a bubble - a cocoon of safety and simplicity, courtesy of the amazing community that surrounds me. And our community is enveloped in the strong arms of the law enforcement who protect us. That’s why we love Slidell. And I want it to stay JUST LIKE THAT. A few weeks ago, Alex Carollo, my friend and City of Slidell Director of Cultural Arts & Public Affairs, texted me with an idea for the 2017-2018 cultural arts season. What did I think about an art show that highlighted all

of the amazing covers of Slidell Magazine? I loved the idea! An opportunity to showcase all of the awesome local artists whom have so graciously lent me their talents? Yes indeed! The August edition’s cover was originally a painting of Drew Brees, done by artist Matt Litchliter, specifically for Slidell Magazine. It would be a perfect addition, a shining star, for the future potential art show! It is a bright, beautiful profile painting of our football hero in action, celebrating the beginning of a bright new Saints season. Matt worked on the painting for months and we were super excited about it. We were all set for print. Then came the morning of the crazy, terrible ambush of our law enforcement in Baton Rouge. The next day, I called artist Matt Litchliter. Just like me (and you, and the entire country), Matt was shocked and saddened by the news coming from Baton Rouge. I cried on the phone with him, still trying to digest it all. We talked about the cover. We just weren’t in the feel-good-get-happy-for-Saints-season mood. The cover just wasn’t right. What IS right? It’s all so upside down and wrong. Then we thought about the losses our state and country have suffered. The love we have for our community. The respect we have for our law enforcement. And the potential art show we have next year. We wanted this cover to stand the test of time. To always remind us of this moment. As harrowing

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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 Making Cents of Your Money, Mike Rich MikeRich@MyPontchartrain.com National Parks, Donna Bush Donna.Bush@yahoo.com Once Upon a Time, Jacqlyn McGowan Go Beyond, Rose Marie Sand

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as it may be, we need to remember, for all time, the brave men who gave their lives protecting ours. If there is an art show of Slidell Magazine covers, I want all of Slidell to see this cover and remember the men who died protecting and serving our state. Matt and I designed this month’s cover to reflect the mourning that our state is in, making the image of Louisiana black. We honored our law enforcement with a blue ribbon across our state. There are six silhouettes seen in the ribbon, representing our injured and deceased heroes. And, there is light.... The outline of the state has a glow behind it. And blue and white and sunshine spots --- because tomorrow is a brighter day. Our state is in mourning now, but tomorrow will be better. And we will be stronger. The cover you see was decided upon by my friend, Adele Bruce Smith. I sent her multiple cover designs and asked her to make the final choice. It was the right thing to do. Everyday, Adele faces the fear of losing her husband and best friend, our Sheriff, to senseless violence. She has empathy and understanding for the families of the officers lost in Baton Rouge that only a family member of an officer can have. There has only been one other time in Slidell Magazine’s printing that we have deleted the “Keep It Fresh, Keep It Positive” motto from our cover. That was the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School. We deleted it from this month’s cover to show respect for this time of mourning for our state. Here it is below. Because tomorrow is a brighter day.

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AUGUST 2016

Extraordinarily Fascinating “Ordinary” People by Charlotte Lowry Collins

Albert Brignac “Always find the ability in a disability... if you do then you will do great things in life.” ~ Nyle DiMarco

I have a question.... Is there such a thing as a grandmother clock?

One

thing we all consider dear is time. We all want more of it, and keep track of it almost jealously. “If I just had one more hour… or one more day” is a phrase we utter frequently. Looking back in time, history teaches that the first inhabitants of our country saw time in terms of seasons, based on changes in nature. Our elders tend to view time through generations, and how much things have changed from “back in the day” to now. In contrast, my new nine-month-old nephew, Henry Thomson Case, sees time only in terms of the present moment, based on his internal needs. But in today’s hectic rat-race, most of us see time in terms of hours, and possibly even dollar signs.

However, I learned today to view the passage of an hour as a moment of wonder. Inside Albert Brignac’s store, NorthshoreSouthshore Clocks, Watches and Knives on Gause Blvd., the changing of an hour means sound, music, movement, and visual delight. Entering the front door, I was greeted by a row of cuckoo clocks. One has a child playing with a dog on the top of the hour to the sound of German

music. Another sports two goats butting heads at the chime, while another plays a romantic tune where couples dance. Beyond, I could hear deep tubular tunes from wall and grandfather clocks, sounding both classical and contemporary melodies. Albert Brignac met me in the next room and swung his hands to the music. He showed me his favorite tune, and explained that he was once a concert pianist. I spun around in awe, encircled by “Daliesque” motion clocks breaking apart, dancing, then eventually piecing themselves back together. This is how I realized my new EFOP was unable to hear me unless I faced him. He pointed to his cochlear implants, and explained matter of factly that he spent much of his life deaf. Of course I had many questions, but he led me to the second building where he could hear me in a quiet back office. Albert began at the beginning, warning me that he had many shocking parts of his tale. In a very pragmatic tone, he started at the beginning. “I was born in New York in 1944. My mother was told that I was born dead and I was given to

an orphanage. Her sister-in-law signed the death papers and hid the truth from the family. Back then, you could do stuff like that and get away with it. I lived at St. Vincent’s Orphanage for three years.” Quietly, he continued, “The nuns knew something was wrong with me because I never spoke. They would hide me behind a curtain when potential parents came for

Albert in front, with his new family

a tour. Apparently, I peeked out on at least one occasion when I was three years old. The woman who was on the tour asked to see me, and the nuns explained that I was not adoptable, as I had some sort of disability. But this lady demanded. As soon as she met me, she chose me over all the other children in that orphanage. Over protests, she persisted and promised to do whatever it took to give me a normal life.” It took over two years for the adoption process to complete, but Albert was immediately able to go and live with his new family in their Mississippi home. His new parents were Edmond and Eunice Brignac. Albert would find out many years later that his new mom and her mother were both adopted from orphanages in New York, explaining why his new parents traveled from the deep South to the East coast to find their perfect son. Albert’s parents owned Industrial Electric in New Orleans. Many of you may remember the company - it produced most of the billboards in our region when I was a child. Albert loves talking about his father and the success of his business. “He started his business in the Great Depression. He and my mother were so poor, they’d cut sandwiches in half to eat. One day, the doorbell rang and it was another couple who were even poorer, so they split the sandwich into four parts rather than two!” “My dad quit school at 13 to go to work. He worked in a broom factory in New Orleans, making 8¢ an hour. He learned a trade, borrowed $1000 from a bank and opened his business. It started as a motor repair company in 1929 but was primarily a sign business by 1932.” Edmond was recognized as one of the top 100 Business Men in Louisiana from 1900 to 1950. “He had integrity. Five of his employees stayed with the company their whole lives, some were with him over 55 years. He gave people the opportunity to do things themselves, and even loaned his employees money if they needed it. He listened to people.” Edmond Brignac had five different plants, and about 800 employees. “It was one learning experience after another for me,” Albert notes. “I learned how to build, how to weld from the people that worked for my dad. There were so many of them and they all knew a different trade so I learned a little bit about everything.” Albert told the story that would greatly impact his family’s life then, and still today. “My dad loaned a man $10,000 for a real estate development on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. It ended up becoming a huge success. So, years later, when the developer wanted to sell it, he offered it to my dad for pennies on the dollar.” Albert would now be a lucky boy. The family moved into a beautiful home on the beach in Bay St. Louis. It was said to be one of the most beautiful houses on the Mississippi coast, second only to Beauvoir, and was a historic home that held pilgrimage tours. As a matter of fact, it was the only home near St. Stanislaus that

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survived completely after Hurricane Camille. This home served as the backdrop to the Brignac’s closeknit family life. Tragically, it was lost to fire in 1994. “I had a home with two loving parents, an older brother and sister, and life was good.” Much as I discovered the direction of my face made a difference, Albert’s older brother, Eddie Jr., noticed the same. He told his parents of his suspicions, and they immediately set up an appointment with the best hearing doctor in the country, Dr. John Shea in Memphis, TN. At five years old, it was determined that this little boy had 75 - 80 percent hearing loss.

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“The best they could do then was to fit me with a huge hearing device in a big box that was strapped across my chest. I loved being able to hear, but I hated wearing that box. Soon they fitted me with a smaller device that fit in my shirt pocket. I went to a speech clinic three times a week in New Orleans. My mother was an amazing woman. She’d drive me from Bay St. Louis to New Orleans, 3 times every week for months so I could learn to talk and go to school with everyone else. Apparently I adapted quickly, because from the time I started school, I made straight A’s.” Despite his hearing deficit, Albert’s mother insisted he begin piano lessons immediately. He had a strict teacher, who would not let Albert’s hearing loss be an excuse. “I played from the time I was five years old until I was seventeen years old. My mother was a wonderful lady and she made sure I was involved in everything. I also excelled in every sport I played, winning lots of championships. I’m ambidextrous, and could kick with both feet, throw with both hands and was a switch-hitter. I loved bowling, basketball, football, baseball, handball, swimming, and especially diving. If I couldn’t be the best, I would run in my room and cry. That sounds bad, but that’s how I was,” he shrugged. Albert wasn’t told that he was adopted, so I wondered if being deaf made him so determined to prove himself. I thought of Nyle DiMarco, who was deaf and learned to dance in spite of not being able to hear music. He learned, and won Dancing With the Stars on national television to prove that deaf people could do anything. Albert was fourteen when his mom explained that both he and his sister were adopted. He didn’t recall that it upset him much, but he relayed that his mother cried when she told him. “Eddie Jr. was the only one not adopted. He used to say I saved them money because I got stitches out in the same visit to stitch up his next accident. I guess I was a roughneck, and into everything,” he laughed.

Then he grew serious, but his tone was still pragmatic when he finally described the next shock. “I was a great stunt diver, and was winning lots of diving contests in Louisiana, Arkansas and elsewhere. But one time at fifteen, I slipped and fell on the board. My right ear slammed into the board, and my left ear hit the water. With that, I became completely deaf, so the aids no longer worked.”

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Thankfully, some hearing came back three months later in his right ear only. As Albert says, “It was an act of God.” Once again, he was able to be fitted with a pocket device hearing aid thanks to Dr. John Shea. Albert went on to Ole Miss, majoring in Mathematics. He was practicing to play football for Ole Miss, but got seriously hurt in a scrimmage before the first game. In and out of a comma for three days, Albert was taken out of school and continued to have black-out spells for the next two years. Here was another twist of fate and his athletics came to an end as well. Determined to find another profession, Albert went back home and worked for his dad’s business, putting his love of mathematics to work in the office. As usual, Albert overcame his difficulties, and went on to get married, and have five children. Two of his children were born deaf, and this is how Albert learned that his lack of hearing was a hereditary trait. Of course, this made him wonder about his biological family. At some point, his dad sold the business, and Albert reached for another interest - clocks. “My father had collected clocks all his life throughout his travels, and I loved to tinker with them. So, in 1973, I traveled to Germany, and went to school to learn the trade.” Soon came Albert Brignac’s next shock, “When I was 42 years old, I got a phone call from a man who claimed to be my biological brother, who said that he was at the airport hoping to see me. I went immediately. Phil was six foot five, and told me I had six more siblings and our mother waiting to meet me if I so desired.” Now his demeanor softened and he laughed over remembering the trip to Hampton, Virginia and meeting them all. “It was very touching.” It turned out that the sister-in-law who had originally lied about Albert being born dead had followed Albert’s life. She had kept a scrapbook of Albert’s achievements through newspaper articles. She was diligent about cutting out the names. Then Albert’s daughter, who was deaf as well, won a singing contest. This time, the sister-in-law just folded back the name and taped it in the scrapbook. Albert’s oldest natural brother, Phil, was the one who found the scrapbook and discovered the folded back portion with the name Desiree Brignac.

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Albert, far left, with his HUGE biological family Phil was insistent to know more and learned the whole story. Phil informed the family that Albert was alive, and offered to bring him to meet the family. Albert marveled that, “Phil’s son, Michael Doleac, grew to be seven feet tall, and became a pro basketball player! He played back-up center to Shaquille O’Neal in Miami, and was on the winning team when they won the championship. I was there when they won that ring!” “Most of my biological family is hard of hearing or deaf, and I looked like all of them.” Again, Albert laughed. “They were also very athletic. Phil played for Coach Bobby Knight at Army Black Knights.” Back home, Albert was struggling in his business to hear telephone conversations, and a cochlear implant was suggested to him. “I had a successful operation at Southern Baptist Hospital on Napoleon Avenue. In 2000, my deaf ear, the left one, was finally able to hear for the first time since I was fifteen. Then in 2013, doctors discovered that I had a brain tumor. If it grew and had to be removed, I would loose the implant in my left ear. Luckily, the tumor was benign and hasn’t grown in size. I decided that I needed an implant in both ears. So, in 2014, I had a second operation on my right ear. Suddenly, I was better able to communicate with everyone. It was wonderful!” The bell rang again to indicate another customer, and Mr. Brignac turned back after his daughter answered. Now, he explained the history of his business. “I started working on repairs of clocks and watches from my home in Uptown New Orleans, then opened a storefront in Metairie. After losing that store to a divorce after 30 years, I eventually moved to Slidell in 2009. It seemed to be the best place for 12

a business that reaches the Southeast coastal area. I saw that Slidell is located at the juncture of three interstates. It proved to be a great business decision. My wife Nancy works right alongside me, and we thoroughly enjoy working together. Her daughter, Candace, is working with us also. I started in one building in 2010, and have grown to three buildings, all adjoined.”

“I had one particular, regular customer, and the wife would look at clocks for hours. The husband would stand outside smoking. After some thought, I decided to open a store that would cater to men.” He pointed out the office door and said, “This was another great business decision,” directing my attention to the knives store he added in the adjoining building. “I have over 2,500 knives, over 300 clocks, over 350 watches, and then we added curio cabinets. My customers come from all over the parish, Baton Rouge, St. Francis, and New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. We also deliver and set up the grandfather clocks. We travel all over doing repairs, and I guess my clocks have travelled all over the country.” When asked why he thinks he is so successful, he remembers his father. “He taught me how to work hard to get what you want. And always have a positive attitude.” Plus, he’s sure to note that his prices are the best you’ll find. “Nancy checks online

prices, and I even beat those, plus I pay the sales tax, not my customers. I have over 42 years of experience and that earns people’s trust.” We walked out to look at the knives and Albert picked one up and opened it with a quick flick of his wrist. “Men have carried knives for generations. They carry them as tools for anything that comes up, but also as weapons. And clocks speak to people. They are handed down for generations. Some people are so sentimental, they will do anything to keep their family clocks running. One customer said, ‘This is my favorite place because it has both of my favorite collectibles, knives and clocks.’” Albert opened his arms in a proud gesture, assessing his stock. He showed me hunting, automatic, ball bearing, butterfly, and neck knives. Then I saw machetes, seat belt cutters, skinning knives, shaving razors and swords. As with the clocks, I was overwhelmed at the choices. Albert explained, “There are hundreds of knife companies, but we research every company before we select them.” A separate room contained chef and kitchen knives. He said proudly, “I’ve had Christopher Case, Frank Davis and John Besh employees buying here. Frank loved cuckoo clocks, and I kept his clock running, too.” The repair shop was fascinating with pendulums, chains, weights, springs, tubular bells, woodwork and trim in separate areas. He opened file drawers and said, “We can research and can hunt down any parts we need. We’ve repaired over 30,000 clocks since 1973, even some from the 1700’s. I love clocks, and strive to keep every one of them working.” When I asked what he hoped to achieve next, Albert said, “I just want to keep doing what I do, and see what the future brings. In a changing world, if we don’t adapt we will surely disappear.” Immediately, I knew what I could do for my 92-year-old father’s birthday -- get his family clocks up and running again. I bet most of you have memories of simpler times, when family members stood and peacefully wound the clocks each morning, and you got the pleasure of hearing the beautiful chimes all day long. Time, precious time. Let’s enjoy it.

BUSINESS SPOTLIGHT

BY KENDRA MANESS, EDITOR

Join me in welcoming a new member to our locally-owned small business community! Fremaux Dental Care officially opened its doors to patients, family and friends on July 18, 2016. A New Journey The fulfillment of Dr. Britney Beard’s dream, Fremaux Dental Care was a much anticipated addition to the growing business and residential district surrounding the Fremaux Town Center. Dr. Beard is excited to offer dental services to a new area of Slidell. “One of the reasons we chose this location was because there are no other dental offices here, so we saw a real need. This is an up-and-coming population area, and we’ve been really well received. We’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback about our new location, with people just stopping in to see the new clinic. I love the people in Slidell, they’re friendly enough to come in and introduce themselves. We welcome that! We want to get to know our neighbors and show everyone our new office - it’s beautiful inside and out!”

Dr. Britney Beard, D.D.S. Family Dentistry

A New Level of Comfort

A New Level of Service

Dr. Beard’s passion for her profession and her patients is obvious the moment you meet her. “We’ve really looked at what makes people anxious about going to the dentist. One of the things we’ve invested in is patient comfort. We have electric hand pieces that are very quiet. We offer Dental Vibe – it’s an instrument that uses vibration to distract the nerve so that the patient doesn’t feel the injection like they would normally. It is for patients who have anxiety over the process of getting numb.” Better yet, it’s COMPLIMENTARY. How cool is that? Fremaux Dental Care also offers sedation dentistry, either through an oral pill (where the patient is conscious, but it lessens the awareness), or through IV sedation, which is offered by periodontist Dr. Caesar Sweidan, Dr. Beard’s husband. “We want to make it as comfortable as possible for our patients,” Dr. Beard says reassuringly.

Fremaux Dental Care’s office is nearly 100% digital. Other than being good stewards of our environment, it also offers availability and convenience to the patient – and the latest in technology. “We have software that analyzes digital x-rays. It picks up on early stage cavities and you can actually reverse them!” Dr. Beard stresses that 6 month exams and x-rays are key to cavity prevention and reversal. Also, Dr. Beard is available for emergencies for her patients. “I do after hours and weekend calls; the calls are forwarded to my phone.” How’s THAT for service! Above all, Dr. Beard and her staff look forward to meeting new people. “We have an amazing staff. They know their job and they’re really good with the patients. Our patients will be comfortable here, that’s so important to us. I treat all my patients like they’re my family and friends. Like I would treat my mom or my kids - that’s the way I view them. I want them to know they are cared about.”

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Storyteller Clear Creek If the old man called his name at all, and he seldom did, he called him Boy. Likewise, if the boy called the old man anything, which he seldom did, he called him Mister. The boy never gave a thought as to whom the old man was or how he fit in. It didn’t matter; and calling him Mister was not meant to be respectful or disrespectful. With few exceptions, every Saturday afternoon, they would go to the creek. The old man fished. The boy scuttled about, obeying the commands of the old man and making him comfortable. He had even brought a chair so the old man could sit. Mister was old, stiff, and could not get up once he sat on the ground.

floating cork when there was a nibble from a fish. He would alert the old man, and the old man would put tension on the fishing line. The boy was his eyes. Most of the time, the fish was so small that the man could not feel its tug on the line and, when the float sank, the boy would tell him and he would pull it in. Regardless of size, he would always say, “That’s a nice one.”

The boy baited his hook, as the man’s eyesight and lack of finger nimbleness prohibited him from doing so. The boy also watched for the ripple that would originate at the

They went on Saturday afternoons because in the morning, the boy had chores to do. Of course, if the weather was too cold or raining, they wouldn’t go. The more time passed, the less the boy enjoyed going to the creek with the old man. The boy was growing up.

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From Saturday to Saturday, nothing seemed to change. The old man wore the same clothes every time - baggy overalls. He had once filled them out with muscular thighs, large chest, and well-tuned biceps. That was long ago, when he worked in the oil field for California Oil Company. Now, the threadbare garment from years gone by held just a bag of bones.

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Even the conversation was routine. Without fail, every Saturday, the old man would talk about the fine pasture and his cows that used to be across the creek from where they sat. The boy doubted that there had ever been a pasture there, but he did not question the old man. The old man believed that fish could hear, and he would call them as if they were a dog or some other pet. He said loud noises scared the fish, but talking to them in a low voice made them hungry. Always, late in the afternoon, just before leaving, he would tell the boy that he remembered when that creek was crystal clear, so clear you could see the fish. And clean, so clean you could drink right from the creek. It was not that way now. It was muddy. The boy again doubted the old man. He knew that creek was most likely never clear, but he didn’t say anything. Usually, the boy would arrive at Mister’s house about 2 pm. He did not know who lived there other than the old man, if anyone. Mister was always on the porch. The boy was never invited inside. Then they would walk the half-mile over the hill and down into the bottomland where the creek crooked back to the right as it outlined the foot of the hill. That is where they fished. Always there, nowhere else.

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The boy had seen the man from time to time, but the day he saw him on the creek was the first time they had ever spoken. The man was old, even older in the eyes of the boy than in reality. The boy had fished the creek alone before meeting the old man, and he had his favorite spot. It was located downstream, around the crook in the creek and out of sight of the man. One day the boy decided to explore the creek in search of a better spot. That is when the two met.

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The man was alone. On that day, a friendship of a sort was formed. It is difficult to say what each offered the other. Of course, the boy aided the old man due to his disabilities; but what the boy got out of it is not known. At first he enjoyed the old man’s company. His own father just disappeared before he was born, or that is what his mother told him. She gave no reason, and told him it was better if he didn’t know. He quit asking long ago. Maybe he looked at Mister as a male role model. Maybe the boy was lonely too. The boy was an only child. His mother was a single parent, and there was little money. She worked long hours for low pay at a garment factory in town. In time, he came to learn that the house he and his mother lived in belonged to the old man, and he let them live there mostly rent free. This

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bothered the boy. Now he felt obligated. If his Saturday visits had ever been fun, they were not fun anymore. They were a duty. The boy resented that. He gave no warning of his intentions. The boy just didn’t show up one Saturday. No one was there to observe the old man’s reaction. It is believed he never fished again, as he would not go to the creek alone. The boy did not come back. He had planned to visit, but one Saturday led to the next, and still he did not see the old man. As time passed, he felt guilty; and soon he was ashamed, too ashamed to go to the creek, too ashamed to visit the old man. Too ashamed. Besides, he was growing up. Saturday afternoons were more fun in town. He met and made friends easily, both male and female. Having lived basically as a loner, he was pleased at his social acceptance. Without guidance, he was not the best judge of friends. He drank, mostly beer, but often too much. His friends did too. He was eighteen. The testimony indicates he was sleeping in the backseat of the car when two of his friends decided to rob a service station. The service station attendant was armed, but to no avail. The bullet struck the attendant in the head, killing him instantly. There was little money for a defense, just the court-appointed attorney. That lawyer was of some benefit, however, as the boy was sentenced to 20 years, a much lighter sentence than the friend that did the shooting. He got the death penalty, and the other guy got life without parole. During his first few years in prison, his mother came to visit him only once. That was the first year. It was a five-hour drive, one way. That was too far to drive in one day, and she had no money for a motel. The trip was just too hard. One day, in the beginning of his eighth year, he was in the exercise yard. The guard called him. “Glen Humes, you have a visitor.”

saw $20,000. The driver proceeded with his conversation. “Yes, and there are sizable royalties to be paid if they strike oil.”

He learned the old man had died and left his entire estate to him. His mother reasoned that since he would not be coming home for at least another 12 years, he might deed the property to her. It would make her life easier. She told him that he had been left the land and the two houses, and there was also a little money in the bank. She left the paperwork with him.

Glen returned to the old man’s house, which he now occupied as his own, and put the gun in the dresser drawer. In a few weeks, the lease check arrived.

Two weeks later, he signed and had notarized a release to give whatever money was in the bank to her, but he kept the land. He reasoned that the land and houses were probably worth more than the little money he might have.

In the papers left in the old man’s home, he found the deed documenting how the man had come to own to the property. There were other records that he found also.

Two years later, after serving ten years as a model prisoner, he was paroled. On returning home, he was surprised to find that his mother was living on the land that he owned, but had built a new home and drove a nice car. He also learned she no longer worked. In a short time, he would learn that the cash assets had been almost $500,000. The land was only 400 acres, which in those days was worth about $80,000. To add insult to injury, he learned that his mother only had about half the money left. She had spent over $200,000 in less than three years. That was a lot of money in 1957. Glen was now land rich but cash poor, and the probability of getting a good job as an ex-con was minimal. He needed cash. Yes, it crossed his mind to sell some of the land, but robbery also crossed his mind. He had learned a lot about that trade while in prison. He tucked a revolver in his pocket and went out to the highway to hitch a ride into town. He had made up his mind that, if the car was appropriate, he would just rob the driver and take the car. The first car that came over the hill was a shiny Packard. It pulled over to the side of the road near where he stood. The driver leaned over and rolled down the window. “Are you Glen Humes?”

Who would visit him? The guard volunteered the answer before he asked. “Do you know Elizabeth Humes?”

Those might have been the luckiest words that man ever spoke. In fact, they saved his life.

“Sure, that’s my mother.”

“I represent Seismic Energy, and I am here to make you an offer to lease the mineral rights on your property.” All Glen heard was $50 per acre. Quickly, in his mind, he

“Well, she is here, and you have been approved to visit with her.” 18

Glen, the boy, had never been close to his mother. There was no reason for him to be. She had basically let him raise himself.

Glen answered, “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

Seeing that check was the first time Glen realized the value in what the old man had done for him. It was the first time in a long time that he had felt the guilt of abandoning him. Who was the old man anyway?

He was able to put together that the man was named Robert Jones and that he was originally from Sevierville, Tennessee. The deed also indicated he had been married once to an Elizabeth Shivers, but they were divorced some 30 years ago. He found stock certificates that his mother had not known about. Robert had purchased the property where he lived from the proceeds of the sale of his Tennessee property. He had then had twenty-five percent of his salary diverted to the purchase of California Oil Company stock. He may have invested in some drilling with a local group once or twice, but that is not certain. He had to know more. He purchased a new Dodge pickup truck and headed to Tennessee. It took about three days of asking everyone who would talk to him to find someone that remembered Bob Jones. Finally, he was directed to the home of a gentleman who had been the former sheriff in the county. The ex-sheriff was old now, but he remembered Robert, or Bob, as he called him. He also remembered that he had married the Shivers girl. He remembered him mostly by the fact that she was much younger, even less than half his age. She was a young troublemaker. He remembered having arrested her for public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and, on more than one occasion, prostitution. They were divorced about six months after they got married. The sheriff remembered investigating her disappearance. She vanished about a month after he left town. He remembered dropping the investigation when her family told him they had heard from her and she was safe.

The old sheriff said, “As far as Robert, he lived north of town on Clear Creek. He fished on that creek every Saturday until he just up and left. Went down to Mississippi and worked for an oil company, I was told.” “Can you take me to the property?” “Sure, it’s about a twenty-minute drive. Let me get my jacket.” In a few minutes, they pulled off the main road. “Up there was the house,” the sheriff said, pointing up a hill. “Where did he fish?” “Down there at the bottom of the hill.” “Let’s go down there.” Glenn could not help but think how similar the spot was to the place he and the old man had fished. All except the water. “The water sure is clear.” “Yeah, they call it Clear Creek. You can drink this water - well, you used to be able to. That used to be a fine field over there, across the creek. That is where he raised his cows.”

That night, Glen was preparing for bed. There was a large, full-length mirror in the motel room. It occurred to him that in prison he had seldom seen a mirror. Prison had not been kind to him. He looked much older than his 29 years. Then he saw him. The old man was in the mirror. He could also see his mother. There would be no sleeping that night, and he started for home at daybreak.

him that you were his child. It turned out you were. He really didn’t want anything to do with me, but felt some obligation to support you. That is why he gave us the house to live in.” A few weeks later, the drilling rig moved in. The boy made a point to open the envelope containing the first royalty check at their old spot on the creek.

He stopped at his mother’s house before he even went to his own.



“Mother, I should have known, and you should have told me.”

August 2016

John Case

“How did you find out?” “Look at me. I look like him.” “Yes, you sure do. To be honest son, I did not know if he was your father or not, but I had no place to turn. I had been with him shortly after the divorce, because I needed some money. When I found out I was pregnant, I came down here and convinced

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Go Beyond Fuquay-Varina

Story by Rose Marie Sand Do you know what a Fuquay-Varina is? No? Wanna guess? A - Could it be a Mediterranean dish? “I’ll have the Fuquay-Varina and an order of Moussaka.” B - Or perhaps a Yoga Swami? “Tonight we are honored to welcome Swami Fuquay-Varina. He’ll guide us gently into Hanumanasana, or Monkey in Falling Rain, pose.” C - A small town in North Carolina, about 18 miles from Raleigh? If you guessed “C” you’ve probably been there; this 12.2 square mile town is a bestkept secret. My good friend, Gloria, moved to Fuquay-Varina from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. I was blessed to visit her recently for a much needed respite and retreat, to see the sights and meet her friends. I found all of the Fuquay-Varina residents I met to be warm and welcoming. With a population that’s more than doubled in the past 10 years, a charmingly beautiful downtown, a colorful history, and modern amenities mixed with vintage charm, Fuquay-Varina could be Slidell’s Tar Heel State doppelganger. Fuquay-Varina was first made famous (sort of) when visitors from near and far traveled to the quaint town seeking the healing powers

of the Fuquay Mineral Spring. Frenchman William Fuquay settled in the small farming town of Sippihaw, named for the original Native American tribe that inhabited the area. At that time another Sippihaw resident, J. D. “Squire” Ballentine, was returning home from the Civil War. Ballentine had been the town’s schoolmaster before going off to fight for the Confederate Army. During his tour of duty, he received letters from many southern ladies who wrote to the troops to improve their morale. One such letter, from “Varina”, Virginia Avery, led to love and marriage. When Ballentine became the first postmaster at the new post office in a neighboring town in 1880, he named it “Varina” in her honor. Fuquay Springs and Varina merged in 1963 to create Fuquay-Varina. These two distinguished sounding names is one of the few in the nation officially blended together with a dash. In fact, the NC residents of FV adopted the slogan “F-V, a dash more.”

Fun in F-V... Gloria showed me many of the things her adopted town has to offer. We spent a couple of days at a hotel spa, and watched the Battle of the Blues basketball game between the University of North Carolina and Duke with

Mayor John W. Byrne and his wife, Patty, at their historic Bed and Breakfast. We drank local beer at Aviator Brewery and Tap House, ate amazing food at Sassool Restaurant, and even practiced Yoga. Now that’s my kind of R & R. Our weekend at the Umstead Hotel & Spa in Cary, North Carolina, was other-worldly. If you want to be pampered in a 5 star hotel and spa, this is your place. The attention to detail was impeccable, with top notch service and dining. We had spa treatments and then relaxed in the huge hot tub, where the spa concierge made sure our every whim was met. We listened to jazz music next to a beautiful outdoor fire pit, ate an extravagant four course meal at the Heron Restaurant and, for a little while, found out how “the otherhalf lives.” I really could get used to that. But food or hotel snobs we’re not, and there was plenty of elegant and entertaining things to do closer to Gloria’s home in F-V. Tops on that list is the Fuquay Mineral Spring Inn and Gardens. This local landmark features gardens that are recognized as a National Wildlife refuge, resplendent with azaleas, camellias, crepe myrtles, canna lilies, wisteria, four o’clocks, Elizabethan

lace capped hydrangea, roses, and geraniums. A lovely fountain and a gazebo make this Inn a tranquil haven. Owned and operated by Fuquay-Varina Mayor John W. Byrne and his wife, Patty, the historic colonial revival Inn hosts events including wine tastings, chocolate tastings and cooking classes; and the Inn is directly across from the Fuquay Mineral Springs. Inside its walls lies art that captures the spirit of the area. The grand living room, fashioned in the 1920’s, features an original oil painting of President Andrew Johnson and original paintings of International Wildlife artists Terry Isaac and Robert Bateman. Byrne’s father was Tommy Byrne, a New York Yankees fan, and there is baseball memorabilia from 1940’s and 50’s on display. Another cool fact is that Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio were friends of Tommy Byrne, and once baby sat for Mayor John! Patty and John treated us to some tasty morsels as we cheered on their beloved University of North Carolina Tar Heels. I do believe they were (almost) as enthusiastic as Who Dats.

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Shopping and more food... Gloria and I shopped the quaint stores in old town Varina, and then lunched in Cary at the Sassool Restaurant. I enjoyed the best Lebanese food I’ve ever had at this impressive eatery. The centerpiece of the restaurant is a huge gas-fired dome oven that continually turns out home made pita and artisan breads. This area seems to enjoy interesting names, and we learned that Sassool is the nickname of family matriarch Cecilia Saleh, who immigrated to Raleigh from Lebanon in the 70’s. Her Lebanese recipes have been expanded to include Mediterranean-inspired dishes, all in a cafeteria-style offering. Choosing between Lahem B’Ahjeen (meat pies) and Spinach Fatayer (spinach and other goodness in a fresh pita dough triangle) was the toughest thing I had to do that day. So, I got ‘em both. (And no, Fuquay-Varina wasn’t on the menu.)

Yoga... Gloria teaches yoga at the “One Heart” yoga studio; so I took one of her classes, although I’m not exactly yoga material.

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Here’s my former knowledge of yoga - What did the yoga instructor say to the hot dog vendor? “Make me one with everything.” The instructor hands over a $20 and asks for his change. The hot dog vendor replies, “Change comes from within.” I figured I could do better and welcomed the idea of what Gloria called “relaxing seated chair yoga.” Was I in for a surprise! “Happy Baby Pose” did not make me feel babyish or happy, although cat pose and extended puppy pose were kind of neat. Downward facing dog made me dog-tired. I got nowhere near Pachimottana or Vriksana – pass me a Mocchanino-sana instead, please. The relaxing part was the end, Savasana, or corpse pose. Lying down dead still, I can do. Namaste, very much. Several of Gloria’s friends attend her classes, and we ended up at Nil’s Bakery & Café for baklava, stuffed cabbage, and spinach pie after the class. You see? No matter where you go, good food and good friends are a common bond. You know what’s interesting about visiting new places or relocating to new towns? You can find your tribe anywhere you go. Especially through food. Just like in good ole Louisiana.

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

Your financial life is no joke (just ask Grace). The cute little girl you see here is my granddaughter, Grace. She’s eight years old. Not only is Grace cute, she is quite a comedian. She loves to tell jokes, especially following our family dinners, when she stands on a chair at the end of the table and entertains us with her humor. Here’s an example: Grace: “Why did the little boy bring a ladder to school?” Family: “We don’t know, Grace. Why did the little boy bring a ladder to school?” Grace: “Because he wanted to go to high school.”

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Grace really knows how to keep us laughing. During our annual family trip to the beach in June, she brought her joke book with her. One afternoon, while we were enjoying beautiful Fort Walton Beach, Grace excitedly said to me, “Poppy, how can your clients double their money?” Rubbing my chin and gazing out at the spectacular blue-green water of the Gulf, I said, “I don’t know, sweetie, how can my clients double their money?” With a delighted smile on her face, she said, “They can hold it up to a mirror.” LOL, I wish it were that easy, Grace. There’s an axiom in the financial world called the Rule of 72. It tells you how long it will take for the value of an investment to double. It works like this: divide the number 72 by the interest rate you expect to receive, and the answer is the number of years it will take to have twice the amount of your initial investment. For example, if you expect to receive a rate of return of 6% (and you receive that rate of return every year, which, you might guess, is not guaranteed), your original investment will double in approximately 12 years. I can show you on a calculator how it works. Just give me a call and set up an appointment. Back to Grace. Unfortunately for her and her joke book, the Rule of 72 does not involve mirrors, or smoke, or any other tricks. It’s just math. I could have started a long conversation with Grace about how working to achieve financial success really happens, but, hey, she’s eight years old. So, I’ll share my ideas you, instead:

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1) Harness the power of compounding. You might not be able to double your money according to the Rule of 72, but you can still use the gift of time. It’s not fast, but, given enough time, it can work like a dream. Think about this: a 25-year old who invests $300 a month at an average 6% rate of return can amass about $600,000 in 40 years. That’s real money, and $500 a month makes her a millionaire. It doesn’t happen overnight, and there are no guarantees. Also, you have to be consistent, and it helps a lot if you have an advisor to help you manage risk. No matter the amount of money you have to work with, practically anyone can use this strategy, and the best time to start is today.1

2) Don’t focus on the short-term. When it comes to building assets for financial security, the short-term is pretty much meaningless. Wealthy people have known this “secret” for generations. Unless you’re a stock

day-trader (bad idea), ignore the daily gyrations of the financial markets and focus on the long term. For example, in your IRA, 401(k), or other investment plan, try to increase your rate of savings bit by bit, rather than chase rate of return. Also, be sure to have some cash on hand for emergencies, even if it’s only a few hundred bucks. If you want to crunch some numbers, call me for an appointment.

supplement your Social Security benefit. Warning: the media is full of so-called “experts” who will tell you to steer clear of any and all annuities. They are woefully misinformed, so ignore them. In your portfolio of financial tools, an annuity can be powerful. To learn more about how it can work for you, let’s meet.

3) Set goals. If you don’t know where your financial target is, you can pretty much bet you won’t hit it. Your goals need to be SMART: Specific, Measureable, Achievable, Realistic, and Time-bound. For example, if paying off short-term debt is your goal (Specific), decide on the monthly amount you’ll devote to your cause (Measureable), make it the first check you write (Achievable), start with the small accounts (Realistic), and set a target date (Time-bound). SMART goals can work for almost any financial dream you have. If you would like to do some goal-setting and what-if planning, call me.

These are everywhere, and people who have everything but your financial welfare in mind will use these falsehoods to confuse you. One of my favorites is “You don’t need life insurance after you retire.” You know what? The myth vendors are right: you might not need life insurance after you retire. However, what these folks never tell you is that life insurance might actually let you significantly increase your cash flow in retirement by giving you a “permission slip” to spend some of your assets more freely. What a great idea! In that case, do you think you might want life insurance as part of your financial plan? To find out if this strategy can work for you, call me.

4) Establish a source of guaranteed income for the future. If you don’t have a pension, you can build one, and a fixed annuity might be just the ticket. It’ll be your personal pension plan for retirement. It provides guaranteed income2 and can be used to

5) Don’t fall for financial myths.

6) Hire an advisor. The time and money you spend with your advisor will be more than made up in peace of mind, knowing that you have an expert, a personal

Chief Financial Officer, to help you sort through the ever-increasing amount of financial information that bombards us every day. To sort through the fluff and get to something that’s meaningful for you, let me be your guide. I can’t wait to hear more jokes from Grace, and maybe she’ll come up with more about money. However, when it comes to YOUR money, I think even Grace would agree that it’s nothing to joke about. So, call me, and let’s get serious about your financial future. I’M NOW ON THE RADIO! Listen for my advertisement on The Bridge Radio, 88.7FM This is a hypothetical example and is not representative of any specific situation. Your results will vary. The hypothetical rate of return used does not reflect the deduction of fees and charges inherent to investing. Investing involves risk, including loss of principal. 1

Guarantees are based on the claims paying ability of the issuing company. 2

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

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THANK YOU. GOD BLESS AND KEEP YOU.

“POLICEMAN”

individuals so that each will think he won.

If you hit him… he’s a coward. If he hits you… he’s a bully.

A Policeman is a composite of what all men are, I guess. A mingling of a saint and sinner, dust and deity.

But… If the Policeman is neat, he is conceited; If he’s careless, he’s a bum. If he’s pleasant, he’s a flirt; If he’s not, he’s a grouch.

What that really means is that they are exceptional, they are unusual, they are not commonplace.

He must make instant decisions which would require months for a lawyer.

The Policeman, from a single human hair, must be able to describe the crime, the weapon, the criminal and tell you where the criminal is hiding.

Buried under the froth is the fact; and the fact is that less than onehalf of one percent of policemen misfit that uniform. And that is a better average than you’d find among clergymen.

But… if he hurries, he’s careless; If he’s deliberate, he’s lazy.

What is a Policeman? He, of all men, is at once the most needed and the most wanted. A strangely nameless creature who is ‘sir’ to his face and ‘pig’ or worse behind his back. He must be such a diplomat that he can settle differences between

He must be first to an accident, infallible with a diagnosis. He must be able to start breathing, stop bleeding, tie splints and above all, be sure the victim goes home without a limp. The police officer must know every gun, draw on the run, and hit where it doesn’t hurt. He must be able to whip two men twice his size and half his age without damaging his uniform and without being “brutal.”

But… if he catches the criminal, he’s lucky; if he doesn’t, he is a dunce. He runs files and writes reports until his eyes ache, to build a case against some felon who will get “dealed out” by a shameless shamus. The Policeman must be a minister, a social worker, a diplomat, a tough guy and a gentleman. And of course, he’ll have to be a genius… because he’ll have to feed a family on a policeman’s salary.

~ by Paul Harvey

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATIONAL PARKS!

------- Story and photos by Donna Bush -------On August 25, the National Park Service turns 100 years old! The birthday is not just to celebrate the achievements of the last 100 years, but also to invite the nation to get out and enjoy all that our National Parks have to offer.

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

hen formed in 1916, the National Park Service was responsible for thirty-five parks and monuments. Today there are 411, with over 84 million acres in the United States, the District of Columbia, American Samoa, Guam, Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands. This includes national parks, monuments, battlefields, military parks, historical parks, historical sites, lakeshores, seashores, recreational areas, scenic rivers and trails, and the Whitehouse. The difference between a National Park and a National Monument is the reason for its designation. National Parks are labeled because of their scenic, inspirational, recreational and/or educational value. National Monuments can be quite varied in content, but always contain something of historical, cultural or scientific worth. They protect wilderness areas, fossil sites or ancient ruins, military forts and buildings with historical significance.

National Heritage Areas (NHAs) are designated by Congress as â&#x20AC;&#x153;places where natural, cultural, and historic resources combine to form a cohesive, nationally important landscape.â&#x20AC;? NHAs are not a unit of the National Park Service and involvement by NPS is strictly in an advisory capacity. Local residents and organizations handle all decision-making. We owe a great deal of thanks to President Franklin Roosevelt and his creation of the Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC) in 1933 as part of his New Deal program. The CCC initially employed 25,000 men, but grew to employ three million workers to build roads, bridges, trails and buildings, and plant trees in parks across the country. Today, Secretary of Interior, Sally Jewell has an initiative, known as the 21st Century Conservation Corps, through a public-private partnership with donors, businesses, and individuals. They will provide funding for youth crews to work in parks, spruce up existing trails, add new ones and refurbish buildings.

In our state we have three National Historical Parks, two National Heritage Areas, one National Monument and one National Historical Trail. In the New Orleans area, we have Jean Lafitte NHP, which is comprised of six sites in south Louisiana. I’ll tell you about each in order of proximity to us. The closest is Chalmette Battlefield, which commemorates the January 8, 1815 Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812, celebrating the decisive American victory of General Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson over Great Britain’s General Edward Pakenham. The visitor center offers films and exhibits about the war, where you can learn such things as how pirate Jean Lafitte aided the American success. There is a 100-foot monument honoring the troops open to the public, with a climb of 122 steps to the viewing tower. Downriver from the Battlefield is the Chalmette National Cemetery, providing a final resting place for soldiers from the Civil War, Spanish-American War, World Wars I and II, the Vietnam War and four gravesites from the War of 1812. Each year in mid-January, both locations host Battle of New Orleans anniversary events, including a reenactment of the Battle at Meraux Living History Park, musket and cannon firings, plus demonstrations of hide tanning, wool spinning, cloth dyeing, knot tying, basket weaving, making powderhorns and much more. A short drive away is the Barataria Preserve of Jean Lafitte NHP. Located just outside of Marrero is 23,000 acres of Louisiana’s wild wetlands offering alligators, nutria, turtles and more than 200 species of

birds. Depending on the time of day that you visit, you may catch a glimpse of a coyote, white-tailed deer, a mink, or a nine-banded armadillo. The preserve is teeming with reptiles and amphibians – alligators, tree frogs, anoles and water snakes. The Preserve’s prime location along the Mississippi Flyway makes it a birder’s paradise, showcasing several species of herons, egrets and ibis wading along the banks and in the swamps. Numerous songbirds inhabit the area, often easier heard than seen. Keep an eye out for the colorful prothonotary warbler and painted bunting. Local birding clubs offer guided trips throughout the year. A free ranger-led wetlands walk is offered at 10am on Sundays, and WednesdaySaturday through August 31. There are numerous self-guided walking and hiking trails within the preserve, ranging in distance from 1/4 to 1.8 miles,

some wheelchair and stroller accessible. Of course, you can take multiple trails, increasing your distance and wildlife viewing opportunities. Experience the wildness and beauty of the swamp from a swamp tour or airboat tour, both offering different viewing possibilities. Airboats are a unique way to skim across the marsh just like an alligator glides through the marsh, only faster. However, you’re not likely to see as much wildlife since it is hard to sneak up on anything in an airboat because of their loud sound. A swamp tour allows you to get much closer to the wildlife and enjoy the views, minus the adrenaline rush. Jean Lafitte’s French Quarter Visitor Center located at 419 Decatur Street provides exhibits and a film depicting the history and traditions of the city and the lower Mississippi River delta. Open Tuesday Saturday, take part in a ranger-led walk to the Mississippi River and learn the history of the city. Twenty-five free tickets for the day’s tours are given out at 9am on a first-come, first-served basis. Next up on our tour is the Wetlands Acadian Cultural Center in Thibodaux where you can learn about the lives of Cajuns and others who traveled to Louisiana’s bayou country. Learn about their homes, way of life, cuisine and fishing. Each Monday from 5-6:15 pm enjoy a free Cajun music jam with local musicians. Tuesday - Thursday, join a free ranger-guided one-mile walking tour of historic Thibodaux. Each Tuesday from 5:30-7pm you can brush up on your French or Cajun. Boat tours on Bayou

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Lafourche are offered spring and fall for a fee. Bayou Lafourche was once known locally as “the longest street in the world” due to the towns and homes located along its banks. Your tour can take you to historic Madewood Plantation, including lunch and a guided tour of the house and grounds or visit the E. D. White plantation home, birthplace of U.S. Supreme Court Justice Edward Douglas White. The Acadian Cultural Center, located in Lafayette, depicts the origins, migration, settlement and culture of the Acadians (Cajuns) and other area groups through ranger-led programs, films, exhibits and events. Share in local traditions of music, storytelling, dance and food. Learn the mysteries of Louisiana’s wildest place, Atchafalaya Basin. Join a free talk on local history and culture or view the film, “The Cajun Way: Echoes of Acadia” depicting the history of the Acadian people since their deportation from Nova Scotia Canada to their settlement in southern Louisiana. In spring and fall, ranger-guided tours take place on the ship “Cocodrie” on Bayou Vermillion explaining about the area’s history as it was first settled by American Indians and later became home to farmers, trappers and traders. The last part of the Jean Lafitte complex is found at the Prairie Acadian Cultural Center in Eunice, north of Lafayette. Local experts give accordion, fiddle, guitar and dance lessons in June. Inside the Center, learn about the life of Louisiana’s prairie Cajuns via ranger-guided programs, exhibits, artifacts and films. Each Saturday from the end of May through the end of August offers opportunities to practice your Cajun French language skills, hands-on fun teaching kids how to create unique crafts from ordinary objects and folklife demonstrations on the Cajun way of music, dancing and cooking. At 6pm don your dancing shoes and enjoy an evening of live Cajun and zydeco music at the historic Liberty Theater. Only New Orleans would have a National Historical Park for jazz (New Orleans Jazz NHP). Check out the visitor center at the Old U.S. Mint to see the jazz exhibit and find out about upcoming musical events offered on the third floor of The Mint and at Perseverance Hall in Louis Armstrong Park.

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I first visited Jean Lafitte Barataria Preserve shortly after launching my photography career. I was hired by the swamp tour company to take photos of their huge alligator snapping turtle for a new brochure. That led to a job shooting pictures for an upcoming airboat tour. Not such a bad job, riding around in an airboat. The pontoon swamp tour is well worth the trip, with an abundant wildlife-rich venue that always delights outof-town guests. While prepping for this story, I visited the Barataria Preserve, Chalmette Battlefield and Chalmette Cemetery. The ranger-guided trips were extremely well done and informative as were the subjects of the walks. In the Barataria Preserve we hiked the Bayou Coquille trail,

approximately 2 miles round trip. Sightings of alligators, a little green heron, black vultures, a water snake, caterpillars, anoles, applesnail eggs (invasive species), red-winged blackbirds and beautiful scenery along with a commentary about the area and the infamous pirate, Jean Lafitte. As part of the Centennial celebration, the campaign Every Kid in a Park allows fourth graders nationwide to obtain a free entry pass for them and their families. Simply visit the website www.everykidinapark.gov, select Get a Pass, answer a couple of questions and print your pass. You can also access information on planning your trip and reserving NPS lodging. Teachers can use the website to gain passes for their 4th grade students. No worries if you are not in the 4th grade or don’t have a 4th grader in your family. Children under 16 are admitted free. If you are between the ages of 16 - 62, you can purchase an annual pass for $80 that entitles you, your vehicle and 3 other people to enter all parks for a year. Each annual pass can have up to 2 owners. If you’re over 62 years old, purchase a $10 senior pass, valid for your lifetime and able to admit yourself, your vehicle and 3 other visitors. Don’t feel that you have to limit yourself to NPS locations in Louisiana. There are many parks in the most beautiful places. I don’t have enough time to tell you about each and every park I’ve visited, but I’ll share a few of the highlights. The first Park I visited out west was Yellowstone NP where portions of the park are located in Idaho, Montana and Wyoming. Coincidentally, Yellowstone was America’s first national park, formed March 1, 1872, containing a unique collection of active geysers, colorful hot springs, smelly mudpots, fumaroles or steam vents, majestic waterfalls and the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. The wildlife is incredible with herds of bison, coyotes, wolves, bears, elk, pronghorn antelope and more. Just south of Yellowstone is Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, offering fantastic hiking, wildlife viewing and incredible scenery. My favorite hike is to Lake Solitude, about 17-18 miles round-trip, considered a backpack trail with at least one overnight. I didn’t have backpacking equipment and was determined to make it a day trip! Yes, a bit ambitious! I had seen photos for years and determined that I had to hike it. I pulled out my topo map, trail guide and began to plot out a route with the least uphill elevation change. I discovered that I could hike in one route of Cascade Canyon with minimum elevation change uphill and hike out a different trail that was mostly downhill. I was there in October with fewer hours of daylight, so I determined that it would have to be an early start, before daylight, and a late finish, just after sunset, with only short pauses for photos, breaks and snacks. Well, I MADE IT! Although, I did come down in almost darkness, using a flashlight to guide my way. But, dang it, I did it!

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It is so hard to choose just one favorite park. If you read my article in the July issue you learned about my adventures in Zion National Park, one of my all-time picks. To keep my Editor happy, I’ll narrow down to two states at the absolute ends of the spectrum – Alaska and Hawaii. In Alaska, I’ve enjoyed the splendor of Denali, Katmai, Kenai Fjords, Lake Clark and Wrangell-St. Elias. The Denali entrance is about a four-hour drive north of Anchorage, with six million acres of amazingly wild beauty, bisected by one narrow ninety-two mile road paralleling the magnificent Alaska Range. The first fifteen miles of the park road are paved and open to private vehicles as far as the Savage River Campground. Only buses and work vehicles are allowed to traverse the remainder of the dirt road. Park shuttle buses require a fee based on your final destination but offer the flexibility of getting on and off the bus anywhere you choose and hopping on another bus later. They do stop for wildlife viewing. Several tour bus companies offer trips driven and narrated by a trained naturalist providing detailed information about the history, geology and wildlife viewed. Additionally, lodges located near the end of the road offer private vans for your transportation from the entrance to their lodge complete with naturalist narrated information and stops along the way. Denali, formerly Mount McKinley, is the highest mountain in North America at 20,310 feet and a beauty to behold! Locally known as “The Mountain”. Don’t be surprised to hear locals ask, “Did you see The Mountain?” 32

I hardly know where to start to describe all that Denali has to offer – the spectacular beauty of the mountain scenery of the Alaska Range, vast valleys, amazing wildlife, artic tundra and boreal forests. I’ve been lucky enough to travel into Denali four times; and each time was unique in the wildlife viewed, the experiences and the adventure. I’ve been in Katmai National Park at least 6 or 7 times where I lived on a 65-foot boat and photographed bears and eagles for 6 days. There’s something to be said for the solitude of living on a boat that is accessible only by a 45-minute floatplane ride or a 2-day boat trip from Kodiak Island. Needless to say, there is no cell service. Each time I make this trip, I come back a different person, especially when I was still working for the federal government. I would come back relaxed and rejuvenated. I spent the entire time totally immersed in nature – watching and photographing bears, eagles, foxes, whales and beautiful scenery, plus eating the best and freshest of seafood. We caught halibut, occasionally salmon, and pulled a snow crab pot! Can’t get much fresher than that! Brooks Falls is one of the places on Katmai where you see photos of bears fishing for salmon in the falls. They are only in the falls for the first salmon run in July. Unfortunately, I was there in late August when the fish don’t make it to the falls, but I certainly saw a plethora of bears eating salmon!

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3 MONTH AGREEMENT Then there was the girls kayak trip in Prince William Sound in Kenai Fjords NP that I wrote about in the October 2014 issue. And then another girls trip to Orca Island Cabins in Humpy Cove of Resurrection Bay, Kenai Fjords. I’ve been to Great Alaska Bear Camp in Lake Clark NP and I’ve driven the McCarthy Road to the old Kennicott mine in Wrangell-St. Elias NP. I’d love to tell you more about each of these spectacular locations but each is an article of its own. Stay tuned for a future issue to learn more about my adventures in Alaska. Now for a little bit about our 50th state – Hawaii. Since the state was formed by active volcanoes in the ocean, it’s easy and correct to assume their national parks

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Now you’ve heard about some of my favorite National Parks and hopefully you will be inspired to visit some near or far. Pick a park or get more information at www.nps.gov. Happy Birthday NPS!

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would be built around volcanic activity. Haleakala NP houses Maui’s highest point and the park’s namesake at 10,023 feet above sea level which can be seen from almost any point of the island. Even though the last eruption was in the 1700’s, it is still considered an active volcano and is expected to erupt in the future. Haleakala means “house of the sun” in Hawaiian, and legend has it that the demigod, Maui, lassoed the sun from its journey across the sky as he stood on the volcano’s summit, slowing its descent to make the day last even longer.

Hawaii Volcanoes NP is home to Kilauea and Mauna Loa, two of the world’s most active volcanoes. In fact, they are still adding land to the Hawaiian Islands. Often you can see active lava flows and steam erupting. When I visited, sections were closed due to volcanic activity. One of my favorite spots was the Thurston Lava Tube, a 500-year old cave created by a river of lava flowing downhill. It’s only about 50 yards long but gives you a wonderful perspective on the force and power of molten lava.

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Reflections through the Pane I worry a lot. I worry if I’m on the right path in life and if I’m raising my kids good enough.

do get caught up in comparing my life to others at times. Don’t we all?

I worry about what I’m supposed to be when I grow up, making me envious of people with great careers and the ones that seem to “have it all together”.

On that note, I decided to do something different for this article. Mainly, because it’s summer and it’s hard for me to hear myself think, but also, I thought it would be a good challenge.

I worry about my marriage… thinking we need more date nights, becoming envious of couples that do.

I googled a “writing prompt generator” and told myself whatever comes up first, I would write about.

Yep, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I

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This was the writing prompt: “What do you see out of your window?” Uhhh…. Ok, let me look. I saw trees, and some houses… a bike on the ground. Yeah. Not very interesting. I thought about the different windows I have collected over the

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years, kinda a hobby of mine… Does that count for something? Probably not. Windows, windows, what about windows?? Maybe this was a stupid idea.

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I grabbed a pencil and paper to see what would come of my thoughts on this simple subject, and this is where it went… One evening, years ago, during supper, I left the table to go in the backyard. I can’t remember why, but I know that someone had pissed me off and I needed to take a breather. It could’ve been something my husband said, maybe one of my kids complaining about the food I cooked, or I could’ve just been hormonal. I stepped out back in the dark, walked around to work off my anger, then sat down and cried. Whatever had happened, I DID NOT want to go back in there. I felt unappreciated, misunderstood, and honestly, I wanted to be anywhere else but in that house. And I wanted to be anyone else but me. As I sat out in the dark, the light from the house shined a little brighter. My mind settled down some as I wiped away my tears. I sat a little longer, staring into my thoughts and decided I would grab my keys and take a ride, anywhere. Heading back towards the house with my mind set on “running away”, I was stopped dead in my tracks. In front of me was the bay window to our kitchen, shining of warmth and comfort. And through the glass was the table where my little family was still sitting. They couldn’t see me in the darkness and I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. But I’m sure they wondered where I was, and if I would return in a bad mood. They sat there eating the food I prepared, each face less happy than before. The anger I had felt, although validated to me at the time, now seemed so small and stupid. Because, through the silence, I could see my life right in front of my face, like a beautiful picture framed by that bay window. After snapping a picture of this with my phone, I headed back into the house to become a part of something I hadn’t realized was so perfectly imperfect. That quickly, I was grateful for the blessings in my life. When we lived in Alabama, my husband told me

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the best part of his day was after work, when he walked up the back stairs of our home and saw my face in the kitchen window. I hardly ever knew he was there, whether I was washing dishes, starting dinner, or banging my head on the sink. But there were a few times I caught him standing outside the window, smiling at me. He said many times he would stand there a few seconds longer because, somehow, that picture through the window comforted him and made him appreciate his life a little more. (I’m also sure it mentally prepared him for the crying babies and my bombardment of desperate adult conversation as he walked in the door.)

Looking through the glass one day, I saw another land,

When I was younger and in nursing school, I lived with my grandmother.

I jumped a ditch and climbed a hill to reach this other land

After class, and my drive from New Orleans, I would come through her front door, grab a can of Vienna Sausages, and plop down on the couch next to her chair.

I sat down in the grass and wiped the sweat from off my face

On the days she could tell my mind was racing, she would turn the TV off and have me sit there with her in quiet to watch the hummingbird feeder. She had placed it outside the window in front of her chair. At first, I found it painfully hard to shut my mind off and stare at something so simple, so, BORING. That was until one flew up, and I heard the happiness in her voice. So much peace radiated from her. When my first patient died, I came home and told her. She turned the TV off and we watched the hummingbirds. When she got the call that her last sibling died, she turned the TV off and we watched the hummingbirds. And the day she took her last breath in that same home, I sat in her chair and watched the hummingbirds through that window, trying to find that same peace, without her. Not realizing until now, how profound the view through a window can be, I felt led to write a poem too...

It was a place I’d like to know and wished to understand. All the things from where I sat around me in my chair Didn’t seem as interesting as all the things out there. The grass looked so much greener in the land outside the glass My eyes grew big and envious as all the people passed. My heart was led to go to it as my feet walked out the door Not even looking back at all the things I knew before. I ran so fast to get there, to this land outside my glass That I think I may have hurt someone as I was running past. That, when I finally got to it, I couldn’t even stand.

Then opened up my eyes and wondered what it was I’d chased. I didn’t seem as beautiful, and wasn’t quite the same I thought it would be better than the place from where I came. Through the windows of your soul where all is calm and still There is an empty chair inside that only you can fill. So when you want to change your view and you do not know quite how, Remember that your life begins from where you’re sitting now.

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One of the things I like about writing this article is the opportunity it affords me to explore and research different sports and activities that I would not otherwise have ever really paid attention to. My previous summer sports articles were so fun to write, and learning about things like the waboba have impacted my own life during the summer in my own backyard. I feel that there are no sports I wouldn’t like to explore and learn more about. Except one. Golf. I don’t get it. Never have, never will. I feel like it’s elusive and exclusive to a particular type of person and I just don’t fit in. Because, ya’ll.....golf is hard. You have to wear certain clothes, and invest a lot of money, and repeatedly buy balls and clubs and little wooden sticks in order to get up super early

and go walk around in the heat with very little shade and aim at flags by way of digging through brush and sand and water to obtain the lower score and win. I’m sorry...what? It’s not that I’m judging the avid golfers out there. Quite to the contrary, I have mad respect! But I truly, honestly, just don’t get the appeal. It feels like it would be long and drawn out and, at some point, it just wouldn’t be fun anymore. But there’s gotta be something to it, right? Something besides the cold draft beer in the clubhouse after the round. Something besides the bragging rights around the water cooler at work with the rest of the guys (and gals). Something so worthwhile that it brings hundreds of people to hundreds of courses around our region every day and prompts dozens of tournaments and contests and charity events.

So, being as I am off for the summer, I figured, this is the time. Bite the bullet. Call your avid golfer father-in-law, schedule a session, and do this. I went golfing. STEP 1: Wake up at 7:15am on July 4th, kiss your snoozing wife goodbye and head out the door. All of a sudden, I’m seized with anxiety! Am I dressed ok? I better rethink the flip flops...they don’t seem right. I don’t have proper shoes for golf, but tennis shoes seem like they should be ok for a first timer. And my jeans seemed right a few minutes ago, but already they seem stifling. I have always seen plaid in golf magazines, maybe these plaid shorts would be alright...yes, yes, I’ll go with that. Ok. Out the door. Wait! Sun screen! Gotta apply ALL the sunscreen. Ok, sunscreen, check. NOW. Out the door. Here we go!

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STEP 2: Arrive at the course. Luckily, my father-in-law, Joe DiGiovanni, is one of those people who comprehends the joys of golfing, so he’s got us all set with clubs and balls and all that good stuff. We unload at Pinewood Country Club, and I have to say...I’m getting excited! Sure, it’s hot, but it’s a beautiful Independence Day, and I’m not here to win, I’m here to enjoy myself and learn. Plus, I’ve been promised I can drive the golf cart, and what 30 year old kid doesn’t get excited about that? I’m ready to head off to hole one, but forget about having to pay first. A rookie mistake. So we get that business out of that way. Now, here we go! I’M GOLFING! Something I have NEVER done. That’s pretty big, if you really think about it. So ok. Here we go. STEP 3: Ok, get the keys to the cart, grab a scorecard, load up the clubs and...wait for the people ahead of us to go. That’s right. Hurry up, and wait. That’s ok, lesson #1, golf can be a waiting game sometimes. Be respectful. Can’t have everyone play hole 5 at the same time. That just sounds like chaos. Anyway, up to hole 1, I’m standing a respectable distance away from Mr. Joe, ready to watch him take the first swing, and slowly he looks at me with a smile: “You know, you don’t have to bring the scorecard with you.” Evidently, I thought you had to carry this thing with you wherever you go. After putting the card on the steering wheel of the cart (really nifty!), I finally see a drive, in person, towards the hole. Very nice. The sound the club makes as it whacks the golf ball is a distinctive sound. Watching it soar with shielded eyes, I took a moment to take it all in. But golf isn’t about taking moments. Lesson #2! Back in the cart and on to where the ball lies. STEP 4: The game starts to relax a little the further we get from other golfers. We have time to breathe and take our time. So I start to notice the little things. Like the fact that we are in the middle of nature. Golf grounds can be so beautiful. Of course, being in nature, with grasses, roots, mud, and anything else you can think of, means that there are a lot of ways to lose balls. I could be staring at it and not see it. Mr. Joe says he is even convinced that sometimes animals move the ball before you can get there. I’ll take his word for it.

As we keep moving, I realize there is a lot of stamina needed to golf. Yes, there are carts, but that doesn’t mean the cart grabs the correct club for you, or helps you to walk where the cart is not allowed to go, or cools you down on a hot day. You have to do a lot more bending down, walking, and hitting than I would normally have thought. But the carts are REALLY fun, and I enjoy every moment driving it along the path. Or out onto the fairway, or the rough, or through geese. (No geese were driven into, over, or harmed in the making of this article). As we keep playing, I enjoy the company, the day, and the sport. I realize that golf is different than I thought. I am actually having a good time. As I learned with baseball, it is all about who you watch or play with. Mr. Joe knows a lot about golf and showed me some great experiences. As we move along, I learn that trees are scum, but great shade on a hot July 4th day. That you “drive for show, you putt for dough” and that a stroke can be “ugly but useful”. I learn what an eagle is, what a birdie is and that being subpar is exactly where you want to be. I learn that when you putt the ball short of the hole, it is exactly as frustrating as cartoons, movies, and tv shows humorously paint it to be. I learn that, as in life, if you take the sport too seriously it can ruin the fun. That doesn’t mean you forget it’s golf you are playing, but that there are certain ways to play golf to enjoy it within the framework set forth over the years. Terming himself a “hacker”, Mr. Joe and I enjoy some liberties that Phil Mickleson would not approve of. Nothing radical, just enough to make the game fun. Eventually, Mr. Joe hands me a golf club, drops a ball, and tells me to tee off to the next hole. Excitedly, I grab the club and prepare my stance according to Mr. Joe’s instructions. And then I actually TRIED to hit the ball. Thankfully, we didn’t count those pitiful attempts at swinging the club. Wow, did you know that you are supposed to hit the ball, not the ground in front of, behind, or to either side of it? Or that you can’t just

grab it like a mallet and go to town? Or that there is a way to hit the ball where it doesn’t skip off the ground and straight into a small pond? Yes, I admit it, that was not the best start to golfing. But, the next time I get asked to take a whack at it, it is with a putter on a green. Which I have a lot more experience with. Thanks puttputt! Two strokes on a green and the ball is sunk! Which is VERY satisfying after my lackluster attempt at striking the ball for some distance. Having tried and failed and succeeded at hitting the ball gives me a MUCH different perspective on just how hard it can be to play this game. No wonder there are teachers and driving ranges. STEP 5: Enjoy a great game finished by food and conversation back at the club. What a day. I would never have imagined that golf could be so much fun to watch. It is a great way to spend some time with people you enjoy to be around. I end the day relaxed, talking about my experiences with my wife. I was asked to sum up what I thought of golf and the experience. Because I can never give an easy answer, I said that it was a lot of “workfun”. No one is going to make you have a good time out there, you are going to put forth some effort. But you are going to have fun doing it. As long as the people you are playing with are fun to talk to. I can understand why people invest so much time and money into this sport. I would definitely go again. Not to play, mind you. I will probably never play myself, because, ya know, golf is hard! But I would watch. And maybe understand the game a bit better. And if someone asked me what I thought of golf, my first thought wouldn’t be of a professional golfer, studying the same putting shot for 15 minutes. It would go to driving a cart, being in nature, enjoying conversation. Because that is what it SHOULD be about. I hope everyone will give golf a chance one day soon. I know I will.

Slidell

Story by Jacqlyn McGowan

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

Prelude: They say scent is the strongest sensation tied to memory. I say music is a close second. Music is probably the number one thing that brings back memories of the days at the skating rinks, and everyone has a different memory for a different song. I’m listening to a playlist I made of those songs (“Rhythm Is A Dancer”, “Be My Lover”, etc..) as I am writing this and I can see it clear as day, as if I am right back there again. You would never believe it for all of the trauma I’m about to describe, but all of my memories of Skater’s Paradise are very fond ones... Seeing the big red letters of the Skater’sParadise sign... Struggling to park in that small parking lot with no specifically lined spots... Waiting in those long lines on the cigarette-butt-andempty-soda-can filled sidewalk. All trips to Skater’s Paradise started off the same. No one could ignore the wall of skates to the left as you walked in. Large cubbies lined with dark blue carpet housed all sizes of roller-skates and rollerblades. Scanning the skate sizes from smallest (whose feet are THAT TINY?) to largest (what, is a clown coming in to skate?) before selecting a size and running off to find a table. 44

The arcade games always had someone on them. Ms. Pac-Man, Skee-Ball, and Asteroids could keep you entertained for hours (or until you ran out of money). Fortunately, if a game ever stole your money, you were refunded a “red quarter.” It was just a regular quarter, but it was painted red so that you could only use them for the arcade games, and not go buy something from the snack bar. Speaking of… Popcorn, nachos, candy, soft drinks, any junk food, they had it all! It was the only place you could make a “Suicide” drink. No other place would let you mix every flavor of soft drink together like that. Everyone was always waiting for the next lock-in, because lock-ins were AWESOME! A bunch of friends getting together and staying overnight (hyped up on sugar the whole time, until the inevitable crash) made for a great weekend and fun stories to talk about at school the next week. The skating floor always looked so inviting. The ever-shrinking spiral pattern of the thin wooden planks looked even more magical with the black lights and disco balls suspended above. Their illumination scattered rhythmically across the

well-worn floor and the skaters upon it. Anything white would glow from the black lights. I always giggled at people’s eyes and teeth. The black lights certainly made the “Rink Refs” more noticeable. Remember them? They were the skating GODS. They were dressed in either black & white vertical stripes or a black shirt with a white stripe down the side of their sleeves, black pants, black skates, and a whistle around their necks. Whenever someone broke the rules, they’d blow that whistle, causing everyone to look. Sometimes they would have to escort people off the rink (embarrassing). As well as enforcing rink rules, they were also saviors for people like me. They would put down cones to block people as they helped up those who had fallen. When we weren’t playing games or munching on junk food, skating around in the same circle over and over could get pretty boring. Inevitably, some of us would try to entertain ourselves out on the floor in other ways. Three of us would hold hands around the turns to build momentum for the skater on the outside. Once we were going fast enough, we’d let go of them to send them off at warp speed, usually running them into a wall!

As a child, I visited Skater’s Paradise more times than I can count. From summer outings, to school field trips, to endless birthday parties, I always had an excuse to go. I’ve never been graceful, I’m so clumsy my dad used to tease that I could trip over a cordless phone. Be that as it may, it never stopped me from getting really excited for a trip to Skater’s Paradise. After lacing up those old heavy leather skates (completely oblivious to the musty foot smell) I’d take a test glide to figure out which way the wheels pulled me. If I was lucky (I’m not), they’d just go straight. Most of the time, however, aiming directly for the entryway to the rink resulted in me kissing the dark wooden panel wall. If I had really angered the skating gods somehow, I would find myself headed straight at a table. My awkward clumsiness and demoralizing lack of grace, to any spectator, must have looked like something right out of a cartoon. There I was, frantically trying to just stay upright, but never quite figuring out how to balance. Before I was ready to make my way out onto the floor, I tiptoed around on the brakes on the front of the skates. I felt like everyone was staring at me as I clack-clack-clacked across the cold tile. But it was still better than the clacking thud I’d be making if I was trying to walk on the wheels. My mom, seeing my apprehension, would gently grab my shoulders, facing me towards her, “Your center of gravity is here,” she would inform me, pointing towards her own lower belly and hips (I would start wavering as she let go). “Just lean forward a little and you should be fine.” And she’d give me a gentle nudge onto the warped boards of the skating floor. Her advice was lost on me. I had no idea what she meant by “center of gravity,” and every time I leaned forward, I knew for sure I was just going to fall. What in the world was she thinking? I wobbled onward, wavering this way and that, wildly flailing my arms around like a windmill. I sought stability via the railing on the wall. Then I made the fatal mistake of trying to stop myself. I just wanted to stand still for a moment, but my feet didn’t quite translate the message properly to the skates which rudely continued forward without the rest of my body. Next thing I knew, my butt met with that hard, unforgiving skating rink floor. The fall knocked the wind out of me; I landed right on my tailbone. I awkwardly tried to pull myself back up, noting how sore my tailbone was (you couldn’t have convinced me that I didn’t break it). I grasped the wooden railing and attempted to balance myself so I could stand. Bambi’s first attempt at standing was practically an Olympic figure skating ensemble compared to my attempt at gaining sure footing on those skates. Eventually, I got back upright and even felt comfortable skating without holding onto the railing. I got the hang of it, or so I thought. I had found a groove and could have sworn I was flying. It was exhilarating. But then I had to turn. THUD.... To keep things interesting, Skater’s Paradise offered different skate segments to keep us entertained. “All Skate,” or free skate, was the normal counter-clockwise flow. Sometimes, they’d

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change it to “reverse skate” so everyone could skate clockwise for a couple of songs (it always felt weird to me). “Fast Skate” was when you got to see who was really good. The loud music and lights pulsing with the bass to songs like “Pump Up the Jam” and “Super Sonic” practically made the air electric! Some skaters got really serious about it, too. I usually sat out during “Backwards Skate.” I never figured out how to do it properly. I just kinda wiggled my whole body and hoped I moved backwards. If I did go out on the floor, I would have someone push me backwards while holding my hands and skating forward in front of me. It baffled me how some people were just as graceful skating backwards as they were skating forward. When they dimmed the lights, you knew what time it was. If you had a crush or were in a relationship, you couldn’t wait for “Couple’s Skate.” Holding hands while skating with the object of your affection to Debbie Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes” was pure bliss. If that wasn’t your luck, then you’d be on the other side of the wall with the singles. Without fail, packs of nervous boys fearing rejection and groups of hopeful girls stood around awkwardly or excitedly egging each other on. Couple’s skate inspired a lot of first kisses, first crushes, breakups, and makeups. To entertain us with friendly competition, there was always a point in the night when the races began. All-boy and all-girl races were simple. The real challenge was with the “paddle” and “backwards” races. Backwards races were just as fun to watch as they were to participate in. Someone always had it wrapped up from the moment it began, though. Paddle races were downright hilarious. The idea was to bend your knees, almost sitting on your skates, and use your hands to paddle around. Another way was to bend your knees, open your legs, and paddle yourself in the center. Either way, unless you really had it down, you were probably going to run your fingers over a few times (man, I know I did). You really had to put your faith in another person for the “turtle”, “couple”, and “partner” races. How many breakups happened over a couple’s race gone sour? If you were no good and your boyfriend or girlfriend was a sore loser, that just spelled a bad night. Partner races tended to be a bit more friendly. You just had to manage to have one person skating backwards and the other skating forward in sync. Ah, turtle races though… One person balled up, holding their knees, and sitting on their skates, and the other pushing them from behind still on their own skates. What. A. Disaster. Like misfired cannon balls. Balled-up skaters swaying in every direction. Endless collisions. Just as many pushing skaters falling over their partner or other people’s partners. Bad. Just bad. No matter who you are, you definitely wanted to have at least one birthday party at Skater’s Paradise. They were so much fun and they always operated off of the same tried-and-true formula: free skate, cake, ice cream, the dice game, and the dreaded Hokey Pokey. OK, maybe I was the only one who dreaded it. 46

I don’t know who decided that the Hokey Pokey needed to be played at skating rinks, but I want to kick them for the torture I

have endured due to that infernal song. It was always a disaster waiting to happen. Every party, without fail, they would make the announcement, “Everyone to the center of skating rink floor for the HOKEY POKEY!” Inevitably, I would get dragged out onto the floor by SOMEONE. I looked like a fish out of water, flailing erratically, trying to participate and keep my balance at the same time. Right arm in (ok) Right arm out (good) Right arm in (again? Fine.) And you shake it all about (that’s a bad idea) You do the hokey pokey (what in the world IS the Hokey Pokey?) And you turn yourself around (that’s what I TRIED to do before the song started, but someone stopped me) That’s what it’s all about (what is? You didn’t explain anything!) Left arm (Groan) Left leg (Yeah, no.) My utter lack of coordination made it impossible to put either of my legs in, because that required balancing on the other leg for the duration of that line. Embarrassment and test of skill, THAT’S what it’s all about. The dice game, on the other hand, I loved. It’s similar to musical chairs. Instead of fighting for a chair when the music would stop, you would have to claim a place on the wall (each wall had a number between 1 and 6). A ref would roll a huge fluffy dice in the middle of the floor and the number it landed on determined which wall group would have to leave the floor. This repeated until the crowd left on the floor got thinner. Then they’d have to roll the dice multiple times to determine the “number section winner”. Whichever section was left at the end would get a free freezy pop.

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Comet Roller Rink Rarely do parents and their children have the opportunity to make memories at the same place across generations, but the Comet Roller Rink allowed many to do just that. Especially since it opened in the 1940s and operated until 1983. Skating at the Comet Roller Rink was truly a unique skating experience. The building was down 190, past Thompson Road, three miles before the bridge in Lacombe, on the right. This was before anything was developed out that far in Slidell, so a trip out there felt like a trip to a different country! For my mom and her siblings, though, it was just a short walk from their home in Briar Lake. It looked and smelled like a barn. With the pasture for horses and cows behind it, it must have been at one time. The kumquat bush out front provided a nice snack while waiting in line. Admission was two dollars for two hours and concessions were cheap. HUGE pickles kept in a massive jar (five gallons, at least!) sold for only ten cents and soft drinks and candy sold for fifteen cents. Everybody loved talking to Maw Maw August behind the candy counter (I’m pretty sure everyone just called her Maw Maw). If you wanted something a bit more substantial, they served popcorn and hot dogs. Five dollars at Comet was enough to keep you busy all night!

it only meant one thing: Couple’s-Only skate. Bob Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay,” Tony Orlando & Dawn’s “Knock Three Times,” and Elvis Presley’s “Burning Love” set the scene for the one bit of romance that some had at the time! The contests and races were a blast, but it was always really exciting to see who was down to play a game of spin-the-bottle in the back. Despite being pretty run down, it still drummed up a great deal of business. You never wanted to miss a weekend. However, the “new” skating rink in the mid-70’s was Skaters Paradise. It became THE place to be on Friday nights. Kids between the ages of twelve and seventeen flooded the floor.

The air inside smelled like mustard and feet (it just happens in a place that hoards large quantities of used shoes - ewwww). No air conditioning, just big windows that were held open by boards and huge exhaust fans to circulate the air. After skating for a little while and getting hot and sweaty, standing in front of the fans was the only way to cool off. When it rained, you could smell the cows (and their manure) and chickens behind the rink as the odor wafted through the large open windows. You could also hear the coos of the homing pigeons kept in coops next door. The roof above the skating rink floor was held up by metal center poles. Some unfortunate skaters got bruises, black eyes, and even knocked out some teeth because of them. Novice skaters would

have fun skating from pole to pole (probably what I would have done, just for the sake of stability). Really good skaters would dance in the center of the floor, staying out of everyone else’s way. The floor was uneven and worn, with dips and holes you had to skate around (I know I would have become a victim of every single one). Skating after a rain meant dodging the dips AND standing water because of leaks from the roof. Along with collecting admission, the ever-present Ms. Gloria (Dody, to many) kept those 45’s turning, playing crowd favorites such as The Foundations’ “Build Me Up Buttercup,” The Beach Boys’ “California Girls,” and Lesley Gore’s “It’s My Party.” When the lights went down, and the black lights were turned on in the rafters,

My uncle was practically a celebrity at Skater’s Paradise. He was an excellent skater and won almost every race. His prize? A Frito pie and a coke. My grandpa would give him enough money for admission, a Frito pie and a coke, but, after winning, my uncle would spend the rest on Ms. Pac-Man. Skater’s Paradise was creative in entertaining their skaters. Around 1982, they created the “Battle of the Air Bands.” All decked out in tight leather pants, fringed jackets or vests and bandanas, my uncle’s band, Virgin Steel, performed Van Halen’s “You Really Got Me” and “I’ll Wait,” as well as Kiss’ “Lick it Up.” They were real crowd pleasers, even handing out roses to the ladies in the audience. I recently revisited Skater’s Paradise, for the first time in over ten years, and it brought back so many fond memories. It has had major renovations since the last time I visited. The brick walls that used to separate the multiple party areas have been removed. The three bedroom apartment formerly attached to the lobby was completely opened up to expand the modest arcade selection to a full gaming area. Also, the entire rest of the interior has been repainted and redecorated. Where the dated dark wooden panel walls and brown shag carpet screamed “built in the 70s,” the now-yellow lobby and blue skating rink walls and overall brighter interior give a more contemporary feel. The completely refinished skating rink floor is bittersweet for me. It is now polished concrete and no longer the old splintered wooden floor I last skated on. The rink lighting is the same, save the new addition of laser light shows. It is hardly the place I remember, but I am glad that it is still open. Maybe one day soon I will go back and see if I am any better of a skater now than I was back then. But just in case I’m not, I’ll wear some protective pads.

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