St. Tammany—Ain’t Quaint No More?

by Webb Williams

They say nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. But nowadays, with exhaust fumes replacing the pleasant scent of pine, one yearns to recapture some of the charms of the St.-Tammany-that-was before it went BOOM!

In 2004, former parish manager Allan Cartier predicted that, by 2010, Slidell and the Mandeville-Madisonville-Covington triangle—virtually all of southern St. Tammany—would be designated as urban. Well, folks, that little blowout we had a coupla’ years back and the ensuing population flood sped up that prediction considerably. Yup, we’re officially urban now, according to government census reports.

Fortunately, although much has changed and certain treasures are only memories, the northshore still has many of the charming qualities and points of interest that have lured so many to our side of the lake. We must preserve and cherish them before over-development paves over more of our unique quality of life.

We long for a simpler time when “multi-tasking” didn’t mean driving with your knees with a burger in one hand and the ubiquitous cell phone in the other. It meant walking and chewing gum at the same time. Maybe along the lakefront in Old Mandeville, where, in the olden days, the second biggest thrill was sliding down the Shoot-de-Shoot into the clean waters of Lake Pontchartrain. (And nobody talked about the first biggest thrill in those days.)

I really enjoy the lakefront along Lakeshore Drive in Mandeville. It’s a picturesque setting made into a perfect blend of use and beauty. My wife jogs there, and it’s a beautiful sight. (Watching her jog.) I don’t jog, but I enjoy the walking and looking at how clear the water is—finally! Thank goodness, we beat those doggone shell dredgers! Another thing I’ve always loved about Mandeville is its preference for sleek sailboats over noisy speedboats. That shows a respect for the tranquility that the northshore really reflects.

Two homes along the beautifully restored lakefront that are on the National Register of Historic Places remind us that we have a lot to cherish from our history: the Moore House, “Hightide,” at 1717 Lakeshore Drive and the Morel-Nott House at 2627 Lakeshore Drive.

You have to give attaboys to Mandeville for sticking to its ordinance guns. Like the home built a couple of feet higher than the city permitted. The city wanted people to see treetops from the Causeway, not rooftops. The city made the guy cut off the top of his roof from a peak to a flat-topped trapezoid. Way to go, y’all.

David Cressy, Mandeville’s city attorney, showed me a very old desk and chairs kept in perfect condition out of reverence for their history. “This is the [set of] desk and four chairs that the city was run from many years ago. Decisions were made at this desk that affected the entire city.” Respect for the past. I like that. Honor our forefathers and foremothers, and we’ll prob’ly do the right thing.

A simpler time meant taking the then-long trip from Mandeville to Covington past jazz-great Louis Prima’s Pretty Acres Golf Course & Country Club, where Harvey Marsolan recalls ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the beauty of its stately oaks and white clubhouse mansion that looked just like Tara. He recalls, that, to a kid riding with the windows down in the family car on the two-lane gravel road, it was a magnificent site on the way to nearby Hurstel’s Restaurant, a famous old haunt of Governor “Uncle” Earl K. Long and his paramour, Blaze Starr. Harvey says he never saw them there, and would have certainly remembered—’specially Blaze. The area today is Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Lowe’s, etc. Progress. Gotta love it.

An earlier version of today’s Highway 22 connected Mandeville to Madisonville. Reverend Frank Sheridan and his brother Joseph grew up in Houltonville. They smile as they recall hitchin’ up a goat to a wagon and riding to Highway 22 to watch the six or seven cars a day traveling to Madisonville. That was somethin’ to see, they say. Today, the highway’s Fairview State Park and the Otis Mansion are still sought-after locations for exhaling and enjoying a more peaceful world. Tours show the Old South opulence that still ignites a romantic spark in one’s heart.

When I built my family home down Penn’s Chapel Road some thirty years ago, I was attracted to the silent spectacle of the nearly-century-old chapel, in decline since World War II. But the chapel bell and pews were still intact, and the azaleas boldly bloomed like a dazzling gospel chorus. Across the way was the squatter home of Miss Maggie, a sweet old lady with some unemployed young men-children and her sickly mama. Maggie made the best chicken dumplings in the world. Mmm-mm!

Developers bought the property, and I pleaded with them to keep the chapel and restore it as a community focal point. They agreed, generously paid to have it moved to a legally required distance off Penn’s Chapel Road, and restored it at greater-than-they-thought expense. Today, it still serves as a charming reminder of a simpler, bygone age. Magnificent modern homes priced in the $500,000+ neighborhood changed the landscape considerably, but we all still admire with pride the old chapel. Except for Miss Maggie, who was evicted to make way for one of the new homes. I don’t reckon she saw that as any sort of progress.

Madisonville is the jewel of the Tchefuncte River. The swinging bridge is a source of great consternation to modern day commuters. Years ago, the federal government, in its progressive wisdom, wanted to build a modern high-rise bridge, eliminating the traffic issues caused by the swinging bridge. The city fathers protested, since a high-rise would bypass the town’s businesses. They prevailed, and their stubbornness stopped “progress” in this exquisite little village.

At the former jailhouse-turned-museum, you can learn the legend of the Silk Lady, a beautiful blonde on horseback who haunts the Palmetto Flats area at the edge of town. Mayor Peter Gitz, a sober, intelligent gent, swears he’s seen her since the 1940s, screeching and hollering as she gallops by in the evening, scaring the bejeezes out of him to this day.

Then there was the famed Madisonville Rooster Trial of the late 1980s. A lady moved from New Orleans to the sleepy little town and found that she was unable to get a good night’s sleep because of the incessant crowing of a feisty rooster. She complained so vehemently that the townspeople reacted in disbelief. “Heck,” said Gitz, “the rooster don’t bother me a’tall. We’ve had roosters crowin’ in these parts for 300 years, and it never bothered nobody before.”

Duncan Boyer, the police chief, scoured the local ordinances, and opined, “That there rooster ain’t done anything illegal that I can see.” The press got ahold of the story, and Roland Morris, the local postmaster, took it on himself to grant the famous rooster his own post office box to accommodate all the fan mail that was pouring in.

I’ll never forget that rooster’s trial. The defendant, appropriately named “Reveille,” was brought into the packed courtroom in a cage carried by two armed police deputies. He had run afowl of the law (I had to sneak that in), and he would face the consequences. The judge was none other than the honorable mayor. Appropriately, Ernest “Rooster” Cooper, the mayor of Covington—who, to the delight of the crowded courtroom, crowed much more pleasantly than “Reveille”—represented the rooster. Disturbing the peace was the main charge, and the defendant was summarily found guilty. His sentence was to perform community service, appearing at festivals and gatherings in the town. He complied with his sentence, but still seemed rather cocky and unrepentant. Some say he still roams the town, crowing when he wants to, and even spawning copycat cocks-of-the-walks that remain to this very day—well, early mornings anyway—in the otherwise peaceful village of Madisonville.

“Highway 21 from Madisonville to Covington was a two-lane gravel road that was like a wonderful tunnel through the giant pines on either side,” recalls former journalist Colleen Collier. “Up by where Target is in the shopping center is where I remember cattle guards in the road that we’d drive over. Cows free-ranged back then. It was neat.”

Judge Reggie Badeaux remembers resourceful methods of getting around when he was a kid. “Sometimes, the fastest way to travel from Covington south was by boat. The Tchefuncte River was preferable to a lot of the rough and tumble dirt roads we had.”

Covington’s old-town charm can still be glimpsed today, with its ox-lots used for parking cars instead of oxen, and its quaint downtown area with storefronts from another era. Walker Percy, with his unique combination of existentialism, Southern sensibility and deeply felt Catholicism, wrote most of his celebrated works in this comfortably paced place called Covington.

Adjacent smaller towns that are not included in the Mandeville-Madisonville-Covington triangle have held on to much of their charm while experiencing the growth of recent years. Folsom still boasts one single stoplight and its sprawling hillside environs, replete with picturesque horse farms, nurseries, and a rolling landscape unlike any to its south. Its Global Wildlife Center is the largest free-roaming wildlife center in the United States, with over 3,000 exotic, endangered and threatened animals from all over the world. (The closest thing we have now to the free-ranging cattle that once roamed the countryside.)

Abita Springs’ UCM Museum (now The Abita Mystery House) is perhaps the wackiest spot in all of St. Tammany. It’s not really quaint—it’s weird in a wonderful way, with oddball displays from a different dimension. The marvelously demented mind of artist John Preble has created thousands of miniature scenes that animate with a push of a button, and curios like Aliens vs. the Airstream, Bufford the Bassigator, Darrel the Doggiegator and much more. Nearby is the pavilion, a relocated and restored Abita Springs landmark loved by all.

Abita Springs is home to the most countrified, quaint music venue there is—the famous Abita Springs Opry, hosted by the effervescent former mayor Bryan Gowland. The town is also the location of The Insta-Gator Ranch & Hatchery, home to over 2,000 alligators at a working gator farm. It is a must-see for students of the critters that have been around these parts since prehistoric times.

Lacombe’s fishermen, crabbers and their families still cling to the old ways, and diners still travel from afar to eat at Sal & Judy’s. The town’s Native American heritage is legendary.

Slidell was devastated by Katrina. But it’s coming back big time, with Ben Morris, its champion mayor, steadfastly leading the charge to restoration. “Our efforts to make Slidell cleaner, greener and prettier—even after the devastating impact of a hurricane on much of our city—haven’t been neglected,” he says.
Slidell has enduring landmarks, such as the railroad station built in 1882, now a hamburger grill and beignet shop. And down the road there’s the Salmen-Fritchie mansion, built in 1895, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It’s now a restaurant and catering facility.

So many of us older folks recall the wondrous place on Highway 90 (Old Spanish Trail) that was the White Kitchen restaurant, the Slidell roadside oasis that boomed from the 1930s to the ’70s. More than just a potty stop along the winding two-lane road to everywhere east of New Orleans, they made the best fried chicken and burgers exactly like you wanted—and the kids played the claw machines for teddy bears and such while the grownups played the slots, blackjack, or other diversions. Along came progress and the interstate system, and the old White Kitchen was no more.

Vera’s, the venerable seafood restaurant on piers over Lake Pontchartrain at the end of what used to be called Rat’s Nest Road, was blown away along with all the other camps by you-know-who, and has relocated to a new strip shopping center.

But perhaps the oddest recollection of Slidell—one that skews toward the “strange” aspect of the definition of “quaint”—is recalled by an old sailing podnah of mine, Jules. “Pre-Katrina, down Salt Bayou Road used to be the Salt Bayou Lounge, he chuckles. “But it was known far and wide as the ‘Chicken Drop’ ’cause of a unique form of entertainment they featured.” There were 100 numbered one-foot squares on the floor of the barroom, and when patrons picked 100 random numbers for $1 each, a healthy, well-fed, happy chicken was handed to the newest patron, who had the privilege of blowing on its tail feathers, tossing it onto the numbered squares, and cheering it on until it made its special selection in its own special way. Bernard de Marigny de Mandeville might be credited with the creation of the game of craps, but the purveyors of the Chicken Drop left a unique legacy to poultry and gaming fans that lingers in fond memory. (NOTE: No chickens were injured in the writing of this paragraph.)

Let’s hope that our parish’s future growth takes into account our quality of life and respect for our rich heritage and our lasting treasures. We owe it to our kids and their kids to ensure that they can have their own recollections of what’s quaint about St. Tammany.