The 72 Day Republic

On November 2, 1977, the St. Tammany News Banner published a lengthy article by Polly Morris giving her lively and detailed account of the West Florida Republic that the residents of St. Tammany Parish found themselves living in for two and a half months back in 1810.

 Here is her article. 

When St. Tammany Was Part of the 72 Day Republic 
By Polly Morris

There was a time when St. Tammany, as part of the Republic of West Florida, had a Flemish Countess for its first First Lady. It also had real life replicas of Betsy Ross, the Minute Men, and Paul Revere...

They all played their parts with sincerity, but time has turned the West Florida Rebellion into a rather wishful comedy. The time in 1810, and the place is Spanish West Florida, a sparsely settled area lying between the Pearl and Mississippi Rivers, and North and East of Lake Pontchartrain. Its boundary lines were indefinite, and therefore in dispute. It had not been a part of the Louisiana Purchase... Or had it?

The Spanish Fort

The curtain rises on a decrepit fort. Outside the gates stands a splendid coach with four liveried outriders. Inside the stockade sleepy sentinels lean against rusty cannon, and a red and yellow flag of Spain droops from its pole in the center of the parade ground. Inside the Commandant's office a huge handsome man in elegant clothing speaks in a soft, low voice.

"How contemptible you are, de Lassus. Giving me a permit, encouraging me to spend money on Montesano Plantation, then refusing to give me legal residency."

Commandant Carlos de Lanus squirms uncomfortably. If only this big hombre would roar like a bull instead of being so quietly furious. De Lassus put on a grieved smile. "I have not the authority and Havana is many kilometers from Baton Rouge. Besides I have been so simpatico with you Americanos that I have forfeited much of my power, temporarily of course. My heart  is often heavy, Senor Skeepwort."

Fulwar Skipworth, former Consul to France, flinches at the mispronouncement of his name. He glares at the Spaniard, then departs.

Sub-lieutenant Louis Antonio de Gran-Pre enters, salutes, and begins to speak rapidly. "There are more ugly rumors, Commandant. It is said that the French people are talking about fighting for Napoleon, should he covet this land. The English people may be planning to help Great Britain attack us. And the slaves are restless. The Americans are said to be on the march today and will attack ..."

De Lassus runs his hands through his oily hair and screams at Gran-Pre. "Madre de Dios! What can I do? I ask Havana for pesos to repair the fort. I ask Pensacola for troops to defend it. I get nada..nada." Gran-Pre looks at him coldly, so de Lassus continues. "The Americanos drive me loco, and it is all the fault of the goat heads in Spain. They should know that West Florida is like a bed of angry ants. First the Spanish explorers claim It. Then it is settled by France, traded to England, and given to Spain. It is important only because it is on waterways, and being thinly settled, easy to conquer.

"So those that have the brains of burro decide to give away land to Americanos to get them to live. The greedy Gringos take free land, then they want to keep Spain in the pantaloons. Have their own judges. I agree to keep peace. What more can I do?"

Gran-Pres says, "You can repair the fort without pesos. Stakes from the forest will fix the stockade. You can train the men  'to be soldiers. You can stop letting all the married men go home at night. You can save our low supply of powder by not saluting every boat that passes on the river."

De Lassus shrugs his shoulders impatiently. "It is good for morale. It is excitement in a dunghill of a fort which is in a town that is duller than the conversation of my mother-in-law. You say the Americanos may attack today. It is past midafternoon already, and tomorrow is Sunday. Nobody fights on the day of Dios. I missed my siesta, and I am weary. I will repair the fort manana.."

The "doggery" of Philemon Thomas is much busier that usual on September 22nd. Men come and go. Two crude signs advertise "Coughphy' fur Sail" and "Akomidashuns fur Man and Beest." Fulwar Skipworth stands aside and muses. This rebellion reminds him of American Revolution.

West Florida Rebellion

These men are the Minute Men of 1810. They were summoned here because Philemon Thomas caught a messenger with a note to Pensacola. Thomas read the note slowly then said, "That 2-faced yaller-belly de Lassus writ to the Commander of Pensacola, askin' fur troops to defend the fort.

"He also ask for the right to exycute Americanos troublemakers. We gotta fight now, or we all will be hangin' from a tree." Thomas Lillery and Phillip Hickey volunteered to ride around and get men together, like Paul Revere and Williams Dawes, shouting "The Spanish are coming."

Major Isaac Johnson is unwrapping a package. He proudly displays a rectangle of blue with a white star sewed to the center. "My wife, Melissa, said she  could not well ride with the Bayou Sara Horse, being a woman.

"But she bled for our cause anyhow. Her fingertips are raw from shoving a big needle through thick material. Gentlemen, she made us a flag." Our Betsy Ross, thinks Skipworth, and smiles.

The flag of the West Florida Republic

Philomen Thomas enters the room. This giant from Virgina is Commander in Chief of the Army, but he is not at all like the aristocratic George Washington of 1775.
Thomas is redhead with clear blue eyes. He is dressed in rough homespun and buckskins. He is a God-fearing Baptist, but the Almighty is all he was a-scairt of.

He likes to tell about when he was 17 and living in Orange County. He hankered to join up with George Washington but his pappy went plumb maggoty-headed, and took away all his duds and locked him up tight. But he broke out and joined up anyhoo. He had fought at Eutaw Springs, Guilford Courthouse, and King's Mountain.

Philemon says he had brought 44 men from Springfield. They are tuckered out from marching 40 miles in 13 hours, but they would rest a mite and be fitter than 44 fiddles. They are keepin' out of sight in the woods, until the Ste. Helene men arrived. They had to plan on how to attack yet anyhoo.

Skipworth says he has just come from the fort. Four cannon loaded with grapeshot were aimed at the gate. Entry there would be foolhardy.

Cows To The Rescue

Larry Moore from Kaintuck says, "I reckon I know how to git in that ole fort right easy. Just wait "till the cows come home." He explains that the yaller-bellies keep cows that run loose daytimes, but come back inside the fort at milkin' time. They git through the stockade somewheres. And a hole big enough for a cow is also a horse-size hole. Just set and watch the cows."

It is 4 o'clock in the morning, and the garrison is lightly manned and mostly asleep. A guard sees a movement on the river side at the edge of the parade ground. He yells, "Alerta! Gringos!" Gran-Pre gives the order to fire. So does Isaac Johnson. 

In a matter of minutes it is over. De Lassus is seized a block from the fort, and he sputters like a wet match. He was on his way... He makes an asinine and belated show of bravado by refusing to surrender his sword. Someone replaces the red and yellow flag with the blue and white banner and dishonors the Spanish flag by dragging it in the dirt.

It was not a glorious victory, for the Americans outnumbered the Spaniards over 2 to 1, plus having the advantage of surprise. They carefully looked away from 2 bodies that sprawled on the ground. Matamoros was only a soldier, and the brave Gran-Pre bleeds copiously from 4 bullet wounds. 

No one has been killed among the Americans, and the two deaths are regrettable and unnecessary. The men will march on to Madisonville and maybe to Mobile. But somehow the thrill is gone. Who enjoys crushing a butterfly with an iron hammer?

Meanwhile Madison

Dolly Madison wishes James would stop pacing the floor. If he does not stop, he will weigh less than 100 pounds.

James says, "Dolly, this is a dilemma. West Florida has proclaimed a Declaration of Independence. They have long written emotional letters begging me to take them to the Bosom of their Mother Country. To rescue them from the fangs of Bonaparte. To do this would risk a war with Spain. They are free now, but for how long?"

Dolly speaks. "You have been advised to say West Florida was a part of the Louisiana Purchase." James snorts. "Does it not seem strange them that we have permitted Spanish rule for 7 years? Half of those Americana are deserters or renegades or ruffians. I.isten to what Governor Claiborne writes.' There is in that quarter a great scarcity of talent, and the number of virtuous men to, I fear, is not as great as I could want."' 

The specific area of which he speaks is that of St Tammany, then known as Ferdinand.

Madison explains that West Florida is not too productive. Dolly says that it would then be a liability to Spain who was having enough troubles at home. So James scribbles a message to Claiborne - Take West Florida. The date is October 17, but news travels slowly.

Skipworth's Regrets

Fulwar Skipworth is talking with John Ballinger, the new commander of the old fort. His voice is hoarse with emotion.

"For 7 years the U.S. ignored us. We freed ourselves only because we wanted to be annexed to the U. S. without war with Spain. It has been 72 days since we seized the fort. We have heard nothing from Madison. Our dreams grew dim, and we decided to be a new and independent republic. We adopted  a Constitution, I was elected Chief Executive, and we had a Congress, a Navy, an Army, a medical society, a judicial system, and even a flag. We were beginning to feel proud."

A Map of West Florida

Ballinger shook his head in dismay. "Now without an announcement for negotiations, Claiborne has taken over our capitol. The St. Francisville people were too stunned to object. I wanted annexation, too, but not this way."

"He refuses to meet with me, or recognize me as Chief Executive. I sent him word that I would die in defense of our flag rather than surrender unconditionally. General Covington has already arrived with troops."

A messenger enters and says, "So has Governor Claiborne, as he is a most reasonable man. He says he will accord you proper respect for your position. There will be a ceremony befitting the solemn occasion..."

The Republic Is Annexed

The drums beat a tattoo and the blue and white flag is gently lowered. Some recall how the Spanish flag was treated and were ashamed. The emblem of the U.S. is raised and cannons fire a salute. The Republic of West Florida is ended after 72 days of existence. 

Fulwar Skipworth who had been its Chief Executive for 15 days moves his big well-formed body aside for the delicate President Madison. Pretty and plump Dolly Madison becomes the second First Lady.

But what of the Flemish Countess who was the first First Lady? Therese Josephine Vandenclooster Skipworth apparently cared little for public opinion and even less for her handsome husband. The records of 1834 mention her as the widow of William Herries, but Skipworth was still alive. The Countess must have divorced Skipworth and remarried. In the 1800's this was unpardonable and even sinful for any woman. Much less a First Lady.

See also:

How The American Revolution Really Ended

Republic of West Florida Claims Examined

Lacombe Methodist Church

 In March of 1977 Polly Morris wrote an article about the Lacombe Methodist Church. Here it is.

Lacombe Methodist: the church that faith built

by Polly Morris

March 10, 1977 St. Tammany News Banner

A miracle is supposed to happen suddenly. But a miracle can also be defined as an accomplishment so outstanding as to seem beyond human capability, like the United Methodist Church of Lacombe, the impossible dream that came true through faith and quite slowly.

The story of the church is also the story of one little woman named Eva Todd Derx, born in 1881, whose unquestioning faith inspired others when their own hopes faltered. Yet the story begins before she was born.

William Toomer

In April of 1878 William Henry Toomer watched as the country people put wild flowers on the new grave of his wife Marilda Barnard Toomer. She was laid to rest almost within the shadow of the little church which had been a joy to her, for with the money he had given her, plus donations, the tiny one room structure had been built with wood from his mill on Bayou Lacombe.

Nine years later he would lie beside her. The Toomer family would move away after an explosion at the mill, and the Protestants on the Westbank of the Bayou would move away, too.

The little church was deserted because wagons and buggies had to go up the bayou to cross at Martin's Landing, an inconvenience in those days. Church services were held at the home of John Alexander Todd on the east side of the bayou, but it was not the same to Eva Florence Todd, his little daughter.

Somehow it was more sacred in the little Toomer Church, which she remembered so well. From 1894 to 1896, the church was almost forgotten, then ferry service was provided and once again the wagons and buggies went to the Toomer Church. Now the Sunday morning services were held there, although the night services were still at the Todd home.

Sawmills Close

After 1917, after sawmills shut down in the area, the little Toomer Church was again abandoned and services were held at the public school until 1925. In that year the school was no longer available.

But meanwhile much had happened. John Henry Davis, a realtor, had begun a subdivision called Lacombe Park. When it was surveyed, Davis set aside a large plot of land which he gave to the community for a school, a park, and a Protestant church.

Eva Florence Todd had grown to womanhood and became a wife, a mother and a widow. It was only natural that she would offer her home for church services, especially since her husband John had also been a devout Christian.

However, the little Derx home was crowded indeed with worshippers, and Eva Derx was remembering how nice it had been to have a real church like that of her childhood. She and her brother Berry Todd discussed it with Dallas Springs of Slidell.

Salvaging Lumber

There was some good lumber in the old Toomer Church, and there was the Davis donation on which to build. Eva's brother Dan Todd got with the Reverence S. A. Seegers and John Chabreck. They carefully demolished the tiny church, bringing the usable lumber to the new site.

Berry Todd gave flooring and Eva Derx donated lumber for pews which were made by John Krentel of St. Tammany. The Schneider Brick Works of Slidell donated bricks. And on November 6, 1927, the Lacombe Methodist Church was organized.

The unpainted one room building was lighted with kerosene lamps, and it would be 10 years before it would enjoy electricity. It finally acquired paint and a pulpit, and services were held twice a month and in mid-afternoon. It seldom had more than fifteen members.

Then came 1946 and the Rev. J. P. Bonnecarre. His enthusiasm was equaled only by that of Eva Derx. He started making changes immediately and the congregation grew as quickly as the population increased. The Rev. Bonnecarre held morning worship every Sunday morning and there were two Sunday school classes.

Outdoor Classes

There was not enough room inside the church, so the Sunday School groups met under the trees, sitting around old tables. The mosquitoes and rain often sent them scurrying for shelter in automobiles. There were complaints and members started going to more comfortable churches within automobile distance. Something had to be done to keep the new members.

The members discussed additions and repairs, but could not agree on a plan. The $100 in the Treasury was doubly discouraging. The windows were loose. The siding was hanging. There was a big crack under the door and only $100 to do it all.

It was hopeless. Eva Derx agreed that additions and repairs were impractical, so why not forget it? Then Eva Derx astonished everyone with a bold solution: Simply build a new church.

The members gaped at her in disbelief. Start a new church with $100? Of course, she stated emphatically. Use it up as far as it would go, and more would be forthcoming. The Rev. Bonnecarre concurred. "If you take the first step, the Lord will help you take the next one," he assured them.

The Church Is Built

Without realizing it, the other members let their hearts overrule their horse-sense and agreed. They could do their own work and the ladies could give cake and rummage sales.

On January 26, 1951, thirty adults and twenty children attended the ground-breaking ceremony. A sturdy little woman in spectacles, her hair streaked with grey, stepped up and turned over the first shovel of earth. No doubt it was a gratifying honor for Eva Derx to take the first step.

From then on it was nip and tuck to the finish, with workers whose names sounded like the church roll call. There were also non-Methodists and out of towners and school children all doing their part.

It could be said that Eva Derx was the living inspiration, the picker-upper of downcast spirits, and the organizer of projects. Lewis Leatherbury was the jack of all trades and mastered many before the job was done. He began as architect and ended as craftsman.

The People and the Progress

He helped C. J. Munro wire the church, and watched as I. F. Parker framed the windows and Roy Ussery hang the doors, given by ex-governor Richard Leche, Ralph Bird, and Aaron Todd of San Diego, CA, another brother of Eva's.

When Mrs. Louis Harkey said that the stained glass windows given by her relative were not to be used by the St. Charles Avenue Presbyterian Church, and that they were for going-after, Leatherbury borrowed a truck from Leche and he and Woody Powel went to New Orleans for the fragile and valuable gift.

 

The front door and stained glass window of the current Lacombe church

He also went for scraps of mahogany at a new home site, and he and Ralph Bird made a communion rail of quite some beauty, using a plane, broad handles and drawknife.

Usually the ladies preferred the more lady-like occupations but they did not shirk in removing old paint from old doors, and refinishing them with sandpaper and stain. The painting of the woodwork was theirs, after John Chabreck finished with the plastering. And Mrs. Jim Bird pitched right in when her husband was building the chancel and platform along with Luther Moran, Ralph Bird, C. H. Munro, and Leatherbury.

Work Continues

The work would stop for a brief time, and then could come more money or materials. Lenard Walton obtained tiles and laid them. Then he obtained carpet from a New Orleans firm. The Methodist Men's Club of Slidell donated the heating system.

At last the church was finished. It had cost $514.22, but the estimated value was $12,000. It owed only $500 for a loan, then Mr. and Mrs. Louis Harkey donated the amount, and Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Maitrejean gave another $125.

The church could have its dedication free of debt!

From the stained glass windows The Good Shepherd looked down upon the flock that came to the dedication on March 9, 1952. Past the hand-hewn pews made by John Krentel filed many who had contributed to their ability.

Church Dedicated

The Slidell Methodist Choir added their joyous voices in praise along with the Lacombe members. And Eva Derx was the happiest of all, all of her childhood dreams realized.

If she had known that in 1958 she would die at the altar of her dear church, she would have probably been pleased with God's will at this beloved spot.

It is no small wonder that the members called the United Methodist Church the "Miracle Church." They had believed that the Lord would provide, and He did.

This same sentiment was expressed with simple eloquence by Ormond Hill, the pastor of a Baptist Church in Mandeville. He had erected the concrete block walls, and when he saw the completed church, he removed his hat, bowed, and remarked reverently, "De Lawd and His Works."

No one could have said it better. 

(End of article)

 

 

Click on the images to make them larger.

 

 

 

 

The Lacombe United Methodist Church today 

 

 

 

Eva Florence Todd Derx at her Lacombe store in the 1920's

 
 

See also:

Library Looks at Lacombe History

Bayou Lacombe Museum 

The Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine 

Lacombe Fire Department Open House 

Sacred Heart Church In Lacombe 

 

 

Mosquito Pest Control Forerunners

 The challenges of living in early St. Tammany Parish included the constant onslaught of mosquitoes, flies, fleas and head lice, but there were ways of dealing with the aggravating insects. Lacombe area writer Polly Morris offered her research and ideas in a June 2, 1976, article published in the St. Tammany News Banner newspaper.

Click on the image below to make it larger and more readable. 

 

 

Below is the text from the article shown above:

 St. Tammany has own built-in pest control

BY POLLY MORRIS

A devout Jesuit priest, Father Du Poisson, bitterly blamed mosquitoes for the ungodly increase in profanity during the days of early Louisiana.

"Since the French have been on the Mississippi", he wrote, "this little beast has caused more cursing than had been done in the rest of the world up to that time."

Although this insect was a worldwide nuisance, the all-American mosquito must have been more savage, by far, for the ship's carpenter, Andre Penicaut, who explored and lived in St. Tammany, told of mosquitoes "which bite until the blood comes."

Mosquitoes were not the only pest that plagued the early explorers, or even the citizens of the 20th Century, for the semitropical Southland literally crawled with varmints and vermin. One wonders how they endured before spray cans and packaged poisons.

Home Grown  Remedies

If St. Tammany had its share of pests, it also had its share of plants that helped keep everything under control. And if old Grandma Jones did not have time nor money to spend on a trip to town for poisons, she had enough horse sense to make do with what she had in her pantry, in her garden, or in the woods beyond the clearing.  How effective her old fashioned methods were is debatable but none the less interesting.

Grandma had a number of things for mosquito abatement and control. She insisted on keeping several apartment houses for purple martins in good repair for the mosquito happy residents. She made a watery soup of  cloves or cinnamon to rub on face and hands as a repellent.

She made smudges from old rags and went from room to room with a coal scuttle of hot coals, on which she sprinkled brown sugar. Then she bedded the family under mosquito netting for the time when her efforts dissipated.

Grandma's greatest problem originated with Grandpa. Or rather with his hound dogs which harbored a multitude of fleas. The lattice work around the foundation of the house was not always effective in keeping them out from under it, and during the night they would dig a hole and crawl in under the house, keeping the family awake thumping on the floorboards as they scratched off fleas.

These fleas multiplied rapidly and looked for another host, which was usually Grandma or the children who were at the edge of the gallery. And they entered the house through cracks. Grandpa rightfully defended the dogs as helping keep away snakes and rats, but Grandma pounded back with a vengeance.

She made Grandpa douse the dogs with sage tea or rub them with chamomile flowers. Sometimes she made a concoction of pennyroyal to dip them in. And a forerunner of a modern flea collar which was a string saturated with some at the solution.

 

PennyRoyal

If she found a flea on a child, she put a strip of new flannel between the sheets, supposing that the flea preferred the warm fluff to tender human hide.

Flies Demise

Flies caused the greatest flurry for both Grandma and her spouse. She sent her children out to the woods for pecan and walnut branches, which were supposed to discourage flies. She mixed black pepper with molasses in an attempt to orally burn them to death. She made open-faced fly sandwiches with pokeroot and honey. And finished off the rest with a swatter and flypaper.

Grandpa had his own battle with all sorts of flies that bothered the livestock. He rubbed the animals with smartweed, bay leaves, squash leaves, and fresh cut pumpkin. He poured potato water on them, or washed them down with infusion of pignut leaves. Or water in which black walnut leaves had soaked overnight. He also rubbed the harness with indigo leaves.

Bed Bugaboo

Bedbugs were the bane of Grandma's life, but luckily there was turpentine that came from pine trees. She put it on the mattress and in the cracks of the walls, and all over the bedstead. And just to make sure, she forced lye soap into every place where they could hide.

Another parasite that preyed on humans was head lice, an old problem that is now returning. The minute a child scratched its head, Grandma seated it on the highchair and made a diligent search for lice and nits. Woe to the child that had one of either, for getting rid of this vermin was torture, pure and simple.

The child's head was clipped closely, and coal oil was applied in generous amounts. Then the head was wrapped in a heavy towel and left to soak for a half-hour. Granny then scrubbed the head with lye soap, rinsed it in hot vinegar, and dried it. After which hot hog lard was applied and left overnight. The next day the remaining hair and scalp, if any, was again washed with lye soap and rinsed with scalding vinegar.

It was then that the real ordeal began. Granny combed the hair and scraped the scalp with a fine toothed comb, hopefully to get rid of every nit and louse.

Ants and Plants

Ants were the most aggravating insect of all. One tiny crumb or one grain of sugar brought an army of the pesky things like magic. Table legs were set in cans of water fortified with coal oil. Bed legs were given the same treatment. Grandma sprinkled black pepper in runways, and washed cabinets with alum water or geranium water. She sprinkled hominy grits around the house, to feed them outside. But still they dropped from the ceiling and even got into the closet and laundry bag, eating holes in soiled garments. They were her Waterloo.

Granny's garden of old fashioned flowers was not for beauty alone. She knew that onions and garlic amid roses would protect her flowers from aphids and other insects. She knew the value of pennyroyal, chamomile, geranium, sage, and marigolds, which were all useful in her primitive pest control.

From her vegetable garden came onions and cucumbers, the parings of which she scattered in the hen house for mites or in the yard for ticks.

Birds and rabbits were kept away by scarecrows, or by the baby of the family who was encouraged to bang on the dishpan with a wooden spoon. To keep deer from jumping the garden fence. she draped it with hides of bobcat, bear and panther, hoping their scent would scare away other animals.

When interplanting did not work, Grandma poured her dish water and wash water on all her plants. No doubt this was her most effective method, for nothing was more potent as a killer than Grandma's yellow lye soap.

Evil Weevils

Some of the most destructive pests were those that ruined food. But Granny knew that soapberries in wheat flour kept out weevils, and that sassafras bark kept dried fruit wholesome. And that black pepper was needed in dry beans.

Wax myrtle was supposed to keep away fleas, and provide sweet-smelling candles as a special bonus. Oddly enough Grandma did not object to spiders and lizards in the house, because they were her aides in controlling roaches, flies, and ants. Not to mention wasps and Yellow jackets. The Tabby cat, however, was not welcome, except at night when the mice came out. Rats were the particular concern of Grandpa, the hounds, and a family of cats that lived in the barn.

The Balance

Grandma's warfare was probably not as effective as warfarin and DDT, but somehow she managed to live though it and raise 9 children without upsetting the balance of nature.     

Perhaps, too, her methods were not so bad after all, for educated men in sterile white coats are studying commonplace plants for pesticides and insecticides. Plants like those that grow in St. Tammany... elder, sassafras, pokeweed and even the calamus and fern may be important someday.

For Grandma Jones tucked the leaves and fronds into bar closets and chests before the old fashioned moth ball was invented.

ST TAMMANY NEWS-BANNER Wednesday. June 2, 1976

History's Hidden Highlights

Forty-four years ago, Lacombe area feature writer Polly Morris never failed to brighten the pages of the St. Tammany News-Banner with interesting human interest feature articles. She often turned up the lesser known, quite fascinating historical tidbits about the area and its inhabitants.

For instance, here are some excerpts from her article entitled "Bit and pieces of the Past," published in 1976. In it, she shared the following philosophy about historical research:

"In turning faded and frayed pages of old newspapers, books, and ledgers, important events loom large, but are somewhat lack-luster. On a definite date a famous or infamous individual had done something quite specific, and history is rather ho-hum. But often a single word, a short phrase, or a brief notation makes history become human and heart-warming. And often humourous... or whimsical."

She goes on to recount a long list of odd and interesting facts:

"Several dreary details about St. Tammany are added together and total a surprising fact. In 1819, the population of St. Tammany was slightly over 4,000. The area was 1800 square miles. All of those people could be comfortably be housed in one fourth of the present day Slidell."

Two Man Showdown

"St. Tammany's last boundary was decided upon by only two men: the governors of Louisiana and Mississippi took it upon themselves to settle the dispute over refreshments," she explains. "One wonders how they arrived at their agreement, and whether it was really legal. They were either very brash, very self-confident or quite assured that the legislature would not care one way or another."

Over on the financial front, she remarks that the "stupendous" salary of $900 per year was the amount that an old sea captain received for taking the U.S. Mail across the Lake from Madisonville to New Orleans.

Cows Lead The Way

"The West Florida Rebellion was aided and abetted by cattle. It would not have been a success if the rebels had not waited until the cows came home. The animals sought shelter for the night inside the thick walls of the Spanish fort. A sleepy rebel noticed that they entered through a break in the wall, and he and his companions followed in their hoofprints. The fort was taken by surprise and was the first important step in squelching Spanish rule."

Well Founded

"In an old report on the water situation in the Parish is a notation about a remarkable 1200 foot well in LaCombe. It flowed for 16 years, and its output was 450 gallons per minute. This gusher was known as the Davis well, and supplied the entire town with water.

"In old Slidell during a drenching rain, a Boy Scout gave his umbrella to a man and refused to accept money for his kind deed of the day. A grateful Fritz Salmen set aside 100 acres of beautiful wooded land for Boy Scout camp.

Bee Business

Then, over in Covington news of the early 20th century, Polly notes that "In the business world, E. J. Frederick and M. P. Planche of Covington were dealing with royalty on a staggering scale. They were shipping 15,000 Queen bees annually from their hives."

"In the agricultural field, it was noted that clearing a field with dynamite was costing $25 per acre. Handclearing and burning saved money at a mere $15 per acre."

"Cows again entered into the scene when Developer E. B. Ellis was building the West Beach Parkway subdivision in Mandeville. Irked by roaming cattle, he enclosed his subdivision in a sturdy fence and erected a cattleproof entrance gate."

Polly also reported that as late as 1952 E. V. Oulliber complained that he had to clean up the premises around the U.S. Post Office in Slidell each and every morning. Roaming cows loved to sleep overnight under the protection of Uncle Sam.

"A newspaper of 1926 tells of what would now be a startling declaration. Spanish mackeral were biting in Lake Pontchartrain off Mandeville, weighing up to 125 pounds. They were also in the surrounding waters."

Bears and Booze

"A man in the Covington area had solved the problem of brown bears raiding his bee hives. As the wary animals were too quick on the getaway, he spiked the hives with whiskey. The unsteady staggering bears, drunk on laced honey, made easier targets than bruins that were not ruined by the evils of alcohol."

Courthouse Building Budget

"The police jury made an important decision about the first St. Tammany courthouse. It must not cost over $800. But then was was when butter was 10 cents a pound, a live rooster sold for one silver dime, and "piece goods" were a nickle a yard."

 

The first courthouse built in St. Tammany at Claiborne Hill

Morris goes on to tell about the 1920 Mandeville law about the new "scandalous one-piece bathing suit" and the "near-nude swimming trunks." A city ordinance was passed to protect public morals and said that "no one over 14 years of age would be permitted to wear one in public."

Train Disputes

"In the early 1900's the railroad ticket agents were busy selling tickets to record Saturday crowds that crammed into coaches and baggage cars and hung precariously to the outside rails." When fighting broke out between those passengers, the railroad agents suddenly realized what was going on.

It turned out that "Mississippi men had rode the train to Slidell and Pearl River saloons, returning in the afternoon loaded with mysterious packages. Or merely loaded."

"So the little hidden bits of history are well worth finding," she concluded her article.

Building Your Own Home in the 1800's

Homebuilding today is different than it was in the early 1800's.

We turn again to the writings of Polly Morris for a fascinating and detailed account of how Jacques, a poor but determined woodsman in St. Tammany, acquired the tools, cut down the trees, and fashioned the lumber that made it possible for him to build a home for his family.

With a little help from his neighbors, the frames were lifted into place, fastened together, and at last his family had a shingled roof over their heads. The article comes from the Feb. 11, 1976, issue of the St. Tammany News-Banner.

The House That Jacques Built

By Polly Morris, Feature Writer

    The many gracious old homes of St. Tammany were built for gracious people. They are truly things of beauty because their owners could afford the very best in craftsmen and materials.

    But what about the houses that Jacques built?

    Jacques was an ordinary man of the early 1800's, uneducated and almost penniless. He barely eked a living out of the wilderness of St. Tammany and was a Jacques-of-all-trades in his struggle for survival.

    He hunted, he trapped, he fished, he farmed. And he was a tar burner and a producer of charcoal. His worldly possessions were few. A gun, a foot axe, a knife, a hoe, and a spade. His ramshackle hut was built of boughs and bark and palmetto.

    But Jacques had a great love for his growing family, and an even greater determination to do his very best for them. The thing they needed most was a good strong house, and he often lay awake at night, planning on a two-room structure that would stand on a rise that he had cleared by felling trees for firewood.

    He would have to buy metal parts for the needed tools one by one, and make handles for them out of hickory.

    Jacques wished the sawmill was not so far away. Though he could not afford to buy lumber, he could float timber to the mill and get half back in sawed pieces. It would save time, but Jacques had as little time as money. And there was a whole forest for the taking, at his leisure.

Gathering the Construction Materials

    Jacques was a woodsman, and he depended on the forest for almost everything, in one way or another. It provided him with berries and nuts and acorns, and was a shelter for the animals he hunted. He knew which plants made medicine, which wood the best bowls and spoons.

    Jacques even slept on springy Spanish moss, and kept warm in winter with firewood that had been cut at the right time of the moon.

    Jacques had to wait until he had money for some simple tools, but he was not idle. He went into the friendly forest with his foot axe and girdled the best trees. He selected cypress for the framing of his house, and fragrant pine for the flooring.

    The girdling was cutting through the bark all around the tree. It would kill the tree which would dry out standing up, and be partly seasoned when he came back to cut it down.

    Jacques found an old oak that had been dead for some time, and he took home some of it. At night he could sit by the fire and make gluts and treenails, or trunnels as he called them. 

Gluts were wooden wedges that could be used in place of expensive metal ones. The trunnels were wooden pegs that would serve lime iron nails that were scarce and costly. He even made a latch of oak and hinges of hickory. And a wooden maul.

Buying Necessary Tools

    At last he had enough coins to buy a broadaxe and a wedge of steel. The broadaxe was a wicked ten pound tool with a wide blade, with the one beveled edge as sharp as saw grass. He took both axes into the forest and also the three wedges. With his foot axe he cut down the girled trees, then he made deep notches along the rounded top of the tree for its full length.

    He turned the tree over so that the notches would be on the side, and went to work with the broadaxe. He hacked the wood away from between the notches until the entire side was flat. Then he turned the tree again and cut more notches. Finally, the round tree was a rouge square beam.

    Some of the logs were  split into halves and squares. This Jacques did by driving a metal wedge into the log with the maul. It made a crack along the log, so he inserted a glut into the crack and drove it in as far as it would go. The log split neatly. Jacques stacked the lumber loosely so it could season more. He now had the sills, studs, rafters and beams for his house.

Tools For Drilling and Shingling

    Jacques spent his last money on three tools: a chisel, a froe and an auger. With the chisel, he shaped the ends of the beams and the sills so that the heavy studs would fit into each one like a three-dimensional jig-saw puzzle.

    He bored holes in the joints with the auger so that an oaken trunnel could be driven through the joint with the maul. The froe was an L-shaped piece of metal that he laid with the grain of a large chunk of cypress. When sharply hit with the wooden mallet, the shingles would split neatly, one after another. It required no great strength or skill, and was somewhat of a fun job that could be done sitting down.

    Jacques would have liked to have had an adze, but he had no money, so he used the broadaxe instead, becoming so adept that the planks had an almost adze look, leaving the planks without splinters.

    Jacques also wished he had a whip saw, for with it he could cut smoother and longer lengths of lumber quicker. But he would need another man to help him because he could not work the long saw alone. He would have to get down in a pit with the log balanced overhead and pull the saw down, while his partner pulled it back up again.

Calling on The Neighbors

    Jacques wanted to do as much as possible on his own home, so he built sections of the frame on the ground. Only then did he invite the neighbors to help him, which they were glad to do because there was so little amusement in St. Tammany in those times.   

    Despite hard work, it was also a sort of a holiday, too. Jacques brought home some wild game, and his wife cooked it. Neighbors brought food and their own tools. The men raised the sections of the heavy frame with push poles and ropes and brute strength. The drove many trunnels into augered holes to hold it together.

    They secured the shingles with smaller wooden pegs, and when they were finished they went for a swim in the bayou. The women set out the food, and the feast went on until long after dark. They departed with pine knot torches to light their way.

    The next day Jacques made holes through the uprights. He collected twigs and sticks and shoved them through the holes. This would help hold the bousillage. Jacques made this from mud and moss and deer hair that he had scraped from hides. He filled the spaces between the studs with this mixture which would dry almost to the hardness of brick.

    The family could not wait until the house was finished to move in. It was spring and the unfinished house was better than the shack they had lived in for years. Even without its doors or shutters it was as safe from prowling animals as had been the flimsy structure of boughs and bark, but to be safe Jacques hastily made a batten door of scraps of leftover lumber and hung hides over the windows until he could make shutters.

    Window glass was sold only in New Orleans and was considered a luxury.  Screening had not been invented yet.

    Jacques was too excited to sleep well during the first night in his new home. He tossed about on his moss mattress and planned how he would make a clay chimney and a fireplace of crude homemade bricks. He must remember to keep an oak log for burning at night. It did not throw off sparks that might cause a fire in his wonderful new home.

    He looked up at the rafters and saw the marks of his axe and knew that his children's children would tell their children about young Jacques hewing those very timbers for the generations that would come after him. He knew it was not as fancy as the fine houses he had seen in the town, but his was not built with money. It was built with sweat and blood and sacrifice. But most of all, it was built with love.

St. Tammany News Banner 

February 11, 1976

Other articles written by Polly Morris

Bernard De Marigny: The Man Who Was Mandeville

The story of Bernard de Marigny, the founder of Mandeville, has been told in numerous ways, but the following article, produced in 1977 by Lacombe writer Polly Morris, is one of the most intriguing. She tells of the man, his times, his ups and the downs, but mostly of his triumphs and sorrows.It's a great example of her individual style and flair for telling a complex story.

As published in the March 23, 1977, edition of the St. Tammany News Banner, here is "Bernard de Marigny: The Man Who Was Mandeville."

Bernard de Marigny: The Man Who Was Mandeville

By Polly Morris

The quaint Quartier de Mandeville was a dream which came true for a man of vision. Then it faded away, as dreams will.

Bernard de Marigny, creator of Mandeville, has been portrayed by historians as somewhat of a madman, laughingly tossing a thousand silver pesos into the molten metal for the bell of Fontainebleau. He also laughed as he threw coins on the gambling tables, and he Iaughed as he delicately balanced his rapier for yet another bloody duel.

Bernard de Marigny: Was he only a laughing libertine who lived a useless life with nothing better to do than squander the family fortune? Can Mandeville be proud of the founding father who gave his family title to a town on Lake Pontchartrain?

Historians, however well-intentioned, have not been kind De Marigny. Perhaps they have been too fascinated by flamboyant exaggerations of those who envied the handsome influential aristocrat of great wealth.

The man who was Mandeville, whose only monument in St. Tammany is the crumbling ruins of an old sugar mill, what manner of man was he? Perhaps he was only a lonely man behind a mask of merriment.

Poor Little Rich Boy

Bernard de Marigny enters the pages of history as a pampered and wayward heir to seven million dollars. He was so rebellious that his guardian sent him to wards in Pensacola and London, but they too failed. Perhaps he was only a broken-hearted boy of 15 who fought tears as the body of his father was carried from his retreat in Mandeville to the home of the Almonaster family.

Then to the Cathedral where he was entombed by his father and his father's father. Miserable and bereft, the boy needed compassion instead of the iron wills that sought to reshape him into a conservative mold. So he sought companionship away from his austere custodians.

Bernard was shipped home like contaminated cargo returned to its sender, and immediately he became a reproach to his reproachers. It was 1803 and the eve of the difficult double transfer of loyalties and Louisiana.

The territory was under three flags in less than 30 days, and the Spaniards, the Frenchmen, and the Creoles were hostile to the rule of a raw republic of the young United States. English-speaking Bernard harbored no prejudice for the newcomers, so he diplomatically offered his services to the Americans. At 18, he was Alderman and aide to the staff of General Wilkinson.

Family Man

A year later Bernard ended all escapades. He married the Creole-American daughter of the American counsul. He called her Pomponne, but her name was Mary Ann Jones. She presented him with two sons, and ecstatic happiness. For four years, Bernard was a truly happy man. Then Pomponne died and Bernard was desolate.

He buried her in the flower garden to keep her close to him, even in death. Friends took the two sons to their home, and he stayed alone in the great house on the Mississippi River, except for servants.

Bernard's anguish seemed to deepen as days passed, and concerned friends finally persuaded him to take a trip to Pensacola.

When he was there he met a beautiful young Spanish girl named Anna Mathilde Morales. Had he been less lonely, he would have taken time to learn of her disposition, and there would have been no rebound romance.

After a whirlwind courtship, the amiable Bernard realized his mistake. Anna Mathilde was arrogant, haughty, and given to violent temper tantrums. When she screamed and threw things, Bernard left the mansion and sought more pleasant companions.

Although there were five children born of this union, the marriage was unhappily as explosive as a Spanish musket.

Politics and Peccadillos

Bernard developed other interests, like politics, public activities... and peccadillos. In 1811 he was Alderman, Colonel, and a member of the Territorial Legislature. When Louisiana became a State, he was the youngest delegate to the first Constitutional Convention.

When the British threatened New Orleans, he had command of a post at Chalmette and was on the Legislative Committee for Defense. Later he would be several times State Representative and State Senator, in which latter position was President of that august body. These trusted positions would surely have not been given to an irresponsible man.

De Marigny ran for Governor twice, and although he was defeated, he made a good show, considering the powerful opposition.

Evan as a Lothario, Bernard can be defended, for he was not a libertine after his first marriage, and had he been happy with Anna Mathilda, he might not have ever strayed. But let it be said that he was neither a sly seducer nor was he a gay deceiver. He was handsome, rich, and gallant, a fatal combination that attracted women to him.

Not that he objected.

Moreover, he did not love them and leave them. He provided for his favorites in no miserly way, and at a time when keeping a mistress was no back street affair. Only a side street alliance that was discreetly ignored by everyone except Anna Mathilde.

Bernard never denied or defended his many amours. "When is it a crime to be a man?" he would ask with disarming guile.

Gambling was in Bernard's blood, which made him no worse than others of his time. Having an after-dinner game of chance was much like having an after-dinner drink. Instead of being a vice, gambling was a respectable way to support charitable institutions such as  hospitals and orphanages.

The North Shore

It may well be that Mandeville and Fontainebleau owe their existence to the irritable Anna Mathilda. Bernard had always loved St. Tammany for he had frequented the north shore when his father had his modest place on the lakefront.

And Bernard was desperately in need of peace and quiet. His New Orleans home was being crowded by his Faubourg Marigny, a suburb he created for the Creoles who were in need of reasonably priced property outside the Vieux Carre.

Bernard began to buy tracts of land in Tammany. At first it was only for a retreat, but it was not entirely extravagance. There was a sugar mill, brickworks, and a profitable plantation. There were also winding roads, alleys of fine trees, and gardens that made it a showplace.

He invited guests to share in his sylvan Paradise, and his hospitality almost crowded him out of the plantation home called Fontainebleau... after his friend-king's country estate in France.

Bernard then began to dream of a town where everyone could live like a kingling without great wealth. Bernard, aristocrat-millionaire, had compassion for the working man, and determined that they, too, should have a chance to pursue happiness.

So he planned a model town called Mandeville and offered its lots at reasonable prices, for he was not interested in profit. Only people.

There was only one thing about Mandeville that Bernard did not like. Hot-bloods would come across the lake to settle their differences under the mighty oaks, and he had had no taste for duels since a fateful day in October of 1830...

Bernard had a reputation as being a daring and skillful dualist who had been the victor in at least 18 duels, all quite bloody, it was rumored. The truth was that he never killed a man in a duel. An expert with the rapier, he tried only to nick his opponent. A slight show of blood was sufficient to end a duel, and Bernard was an exceptionally mild-mannered man in this respect.

Duels to the death and a false honor seemed foolish. Later Bernard was the President of an anti-dueling society.

Bernard was a sensitive and emotional man, but no doubt his laughter often came close to tears. Few historians have written about the tragic death of young Mary Ann or the death of Prosper, her son, who also died young to Bernard's dismay.

There was Bernard's son-in-law who died before a firing squad. But the greatest sorrow of all came on October 26, 1830. Friends brought home the blood-soaked second son by Mary Ann. There was an ugly gaping wound in his chest. Gustave Adolph had lost a duel, and Bernard had to helplessly watch him die. He was the son so much like Bernard himself, and he was only 23 years of age.

Fortune Frowns

What of the vast family fortune he frittered away? Of the seven million dollars that he inherited in about 1804, and the 40 plus years it took to throw it away, during which there were two wives, seven children and two major depressions?

His acknowledged extravagances were only a part of the story.

Bernard never tried to make a great profit on either his Faubourg Marigny or his town of Mandeville. The only time he tried to profit from the former ended in humiliation.

The Americans offered him a handsome price for his property in New Orleans which might have become the beautiful Garden District. Bernard accepted the offer and set up an appointment for the signing of the necessary documents. It fact, he set up three different appointments.

Each time everyone but Anna Mathilde was present. To the Americans, it was a deliberate insult, and they bitterly blamed Bernard. But Anna Mathilde was his wife and he had to silently endure the burning shame of it all.

Bernard had made wise investments in plantations, sugar mills, brickworks, and stocks. He helped start a bank and a railroad. He weathered the depression of 1820. He weathered the panic of 1837 although 14 banks closed and 136 sugar plantations went broke.

No one was buying land, sugar prices had dropped, and bricks were not worth the making. Yet Bernard borrowed and schemed and planted. Somehow he kept going until 1830.

A flood that year broke the levee, and his crops were swept away. He replanted the next year and the same thing happened. He was fighting with his back to the wall.

He had to sell Fontainebleau and Mandeville, which was no longer his dream town. People had returned lots to him because they could not pay for them.

Little by little, he sold his New Orleans property until only the mansion on the river was left. When that too was sold, he moved the furnishing to a house on Frenchman Street. Only Mary Ann was left sleeping at the old family estate mercifully unaware of misfortune.

One by one, Bernard was forced to sell the things from the old home Anna Mathilda, nearing 70 and bed-ridden, sued him for her part of what was left. They had been separated for years, and she won the suit and died shortly thereafter.

Bernard was reduced to living in two rooms of the three story house on Frenchman Street. He lived alone, except for a servant. He had outlived all his old friends, and his children seldom saw him, except for his daily walk and at a distance.

He was taking his morning walk regardless of the cold February weather when he slipped and fell, striking his head on the pavement. The next day, those who had half-forgotten Bernard de Marigny de Mandeville followed his casket in the rain.

Contrary to his wishes, he was not buried next to Mary Ann. He was 83 years old.

He often said that he had all the vices of a gentleman.He never mentioned that he had many virtues, too.

Mandeville can have pride in her founding father because his life was gentle and the elements so mixed in him that she may stand up and say to all the world, "This was a man."

Name Change Game

 Just when you thought you were driving down Gerard Street in Mandeville, the city council discovered in 2005 that it was actually "Girod Street" as originally recorded. Since it was the main thoroughfare through old town, a quick legal action and a few dozen street signs later, it was Girod Street once again. Street maps, business letterheads and business cards had to be changed to reflect the return to Girod.

The spelling of Girod Street had apparently been changed by a sign painter thirty years earlier. According to an article in the Times Picayune, the street was named in honor of Nicholas Girod, the fifth mayor of New Orleans, who once hatched a scheme to rescue deposed French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte from exile and bring him to the Mandeville area.

Girod Street was found mentioned in city documents from 1909 and shown on a 1925 map. Other changes in street names in Mandeville included Adear Street, which was changed back to the original "Adair" and Wilkinson Street which had been misspelled on two street signs.

Times (and Placenames) They Are A'Changing

Washington Parish was originally part of St. Tammany Parish, as was the portion of Tangipahoa Parish east of the Tangipahoa River. Then suddenly in 1819 by legislative edict St. Tammany shrunk to 50 percent of its original size, and Washington Parish came into existence. Someone who was living in Franklinton was no longer in St. Tammany Parish, but in Washington Parish instead. Franklinton did become the parish seat of Washington Parish in 1821, so there's a plus.

How often do names of streets, cities and entire parishes change? In the early days, pretty often it seems.  Let's turn again to the writings of Polly Morris, who, in 1976, explored even more intriguing instances of name changes and the havoc it caused with existing maps and public documents. Here is the text of her article.

St. Tammany Has Had More Names Than You Can Count

By Polly Morris

Just imagine that you are living in Pig's Eye in 1840.

You have shivered through a severe winter, wishing you had settled at the other end of the Mississippi River where the sun always shines, An old traveler comes upriver and offers you a tattered map and a battered bit of paper at a bargain price

Sight unseen, you buy a parcel of land, and set out for the Sunny Southland and your own property in St James, District of St. Ferdinand.

You consult the map frequently as you float downstream. When you stop for supplies at Chickasaw you learn it is now Memphis, Tenn. On down the river, Walnut Hills has been changed to Vicksburg, and Nouvelle Orleans is New Orleans. You ask about St James and the District of St Ferdinand and are told there is no such place.

Trick or trade

In all probability you will angrily assume that the old traveler tricked you. But if you are a trusting soul, you will persist in the search for St. James. You will ask about old land grants and later records. Finally you find St. James buried under a heap off history, having undergone two name changes since the old traveler purchased the property back in 1804.

By the time you get a clear title to your property it is 1841. You ask for a loan and the cold-eyed banker refuses. You have lied about your last residence There is no Pig's Eye. It will be years, if ever, before you know it became St. Paul shortly after you left.

Nations and Situations

Name changes in St Tammany Parish are quite confusing to those who research public records. The area was bounced around like a football between France, England, Spain, and the United States. At  times it was believed to be part of the Louisiana Purchase, of Mississippi    of Florida. Or a part of the short-lived Republic of West Florida. Known as the District of St Ferdinand it was later to be named St Tammany after a Delaware Indian Chief, who was not a real saint and had probably never heard of Louisiana.

The oldest town is believed to have begun as Couquiville named by French trappers who had a landing there. The English shortened it to Cokie Bank, and later named Madisonville, honoring the 4th President of the United States.

Abita Springs

Abita Springs has had three different names, with numerous spellings of Abita, lbetab, Eubetab, Abeka, Abeta and AbiTAW are said to have been derived from a Choctaw princess, and early settler or the Choctaw word for fountain. At one time it was Bossier City because a Captain John Bossier began a resort of health spa close to the springs. It was also known as Christy Springs because a Col. William Christy who made its waters famous.

Lacombe, too, has had several names for the settlement that straggled along the Bayou Lacombe.  The first concentrations of population were Camp Lomee and Buchuwa, both Indian Villages. As most of the homes and estates were along the bayou, the area in general was called Bayou Lacombe, which was named after a Frenchman named LaCombe.

The first resemblance to a real town came in the early 1900's when John H Davis laid out a subdivision named Lacombe Park. The town outgrew the subdivision and came to be known merely as Lacombe.  Unfortunately the very distinctive capital C is seldom used. Also unfortunate was the misspelling, either through ignorance or laziness, of the last word of the bayou. The C was omitted, and it looked as though it rhymed more with Tom or Mom than with home.

Covington

Covington has had three names. In 1803 a New Orleans creole named Drieux laid out the town of St. James. Later the entire town of 4 buildings was sold for $2,300 to John Wharton Collins who renamed it Wharton because of his famous English ancestors. Eventually it was re-renamed Covington after a Natchez hero of the War of 1812. Some said it was named after an excellent Kentucky whiskey that enjoyed popularity at that time. Collins said the new name had come about through politics.

Slidell and Folsom, named respectively after a patriot and a president's wife, have not suffered a name change. Nor has Mandeville except for a slight variation. When its founder Bernard de Marigny, advertised it, he called it the Quartier de Mandeville.


Public Records No Longer Simple

Times have changed since the 1800's but place names have not suffered in recent times, for "suffer" is an apt word for it. In the horse and buggy days, men had few legal documents or public records to be corrected in the changeover. The government was not smothering the citizens under a mountain of red tape. The post office was not suffocating under stacks of solicited and unsolicited mail.  And the telephone operator knew everyone in town.

There was no social security or welfare or income taxes. And a horse and his rider did not have to be licensed. If a traveler today tried to find a missing town on a road map, or was told by a telephone operator that there was no listing for such a town ot even had to mail change-of-address cards, he would plead to keep Pig's Eye, Cokie Bank, or Polecat Curve just as they are.

Published in the News Banner, April 14, 1976


End of Polly Morris Article

On the Tammany Family blog I have already posted a 1930 highway map of Louisiana put out by the state highway department. The highway numbers of almost all the secondary state highways have been changed over the years, resulting in a series of historic state maps with the wrong highway numbers. 

Travelers have not only faced the stigma of changed placenames but also the problem of changed highway numbers.

At least the locally-given names of secondary highways tend to remain the same, Turnpike Road, Military Road, Bennett Bridge Road, etc. Let's hope they keep putting the locally-given names on the roadways on future printed maps. 

---------------------------

Polly Morris joined the writing team at the Mandeville Banner in February of 1974.