Exploring

the pearl river

As you recall, I’ve been transferred over to St. Jane de Chantal, in Abita Springs; which has been taking up a lot of my time. Which is a good thing, of course, seeing as I’m the new Pastor.

But yesterday I decided to drive around the Parish to see what territory we have… talk a bout a large land area! We include parts of the Bogue Chitto, and the Pearl River.

So, whilst driving over the Pearl I got out and snapped his shot from the bridge near Bogalusa (since it’s the only bridge that crosses the river anywhere near here.)

A few things about that:

  1. That bridge is very high, and no one stops on it to take pictures.
  2. The view down to the water is terrifying.
  3. The river had a very industrial and muddy look right below the bridge which made my stomach churn.
  4. The thing’s I’ll do for a photograph are starting to amaze me.
  5. I’d do it again in a flash.
  6. It’s been so rainy, it’s like living on Venus. And this captures some of that Louisiana cloudy, dreamlike, dark green, and watery landscape that we have so much of, and that I love so much.

On that note, the time has come to head to retire for the eve. Splash, out.

Grand Isle – notes from Mom

bridgeWorking through the tons of paper and such left over from my parent’s estate has led to the finding of tons of papers and such (… I know, I know…) leftover, which I do’t really know what to do with. So, I though I’d post this here rather than just toss mom’s remembrance of Grand Isle. Who knows, someone may find it of value same day? Photos are culled from the web, and are not my own (yet).

We always got up in the middle of the night so that we could reach the island by daybreak. The last town before Grand Isle was Leeville. Daddy teased me and said the town was named in his honor – Lee. I remember it best for the hundreds of giant grasshopper shaped oil well pumps. I always pretended we had to pass through this last gauntlet of giant insects before we could prove worthy of reaching the island.
Grand Isle Bridge, Completed in 1932

Daddy said that the bridge to the island was brand new, and before it was built automobiles could not get to Grand Isle. He also knew the story of the great hurricane at Cheniere Caminada, and we always retold this story just before we got to the bridge. On the way we passed many small palmetto-thatched houses, and I always imagined that these were unhabited by survivors of that hurricane — maybe some of them were.

Grand Isle then was unlike the island of today. The only houses were down a sandy lane in the oak grove in the middle of the island, and we stayed in one that was a raised cottage from the last century. There were no buildings on the beach side of the main road on the island. Little foot paths led over an expanse of low sand dunes to the beach and the surf.

Early in the morning and late in the evening, herds of long-horned cattle came came to the beach to cool off in the edge of the surf. The first time I saw the animals I was terrified!

[This ends here, but I get the feeling there’s another page or so to this dramatic reminiscence of olde Grand Ilse, and a land that is gone with the surf. Time, and continued rummaging, will tell the tale!]