Pontchartrain beach

If you ask any kid who grew up in NOLA in the 50s/60s,"what did you do for fun?", there would be several things they might say- but going to Pontchartrain Beach would be right up there at the top. There were swimming pools right on the lake front, what seemed like a HUGE roller coaster called the "Zephyr", rides with names like "Wild Maus", a ferris wheel, merry-go-round, a penny arcade, a gondola called the "Sky Ride", mini-golf, and a great hokey Polynesian restaurant called "Bali Ha'i" complete with tiki drinks and fake leis. My favorite was the hall of mirrors.
The best part was that parents saw absolutely no need to supervise their children. Taking a cue from more primitive cultures, parents got hammered at the Bali Ha'i or other places the kids didn't go, or just dropped kids off, while children needed to adhere to the harsher realities of survival of the fittest. If you were stupid enough to get caught in a piece of moving equipment, there were no lawsuits- just a little pity on the part of people that a child was that dumb that they would stick a finger or toe into a device that could remove it. In a world of no seatbelts, no car seats, DDT mosquito foggers and cigarette smoke, well- what was a little unsupervised run around a crowded amusement park. Parents just didn't BELIEVE their children were in constant danger. SO neither did the kids- thus relieving us of any sense of impending doom- just adventure lurking.
We ran like the proverbial- and meant only in the most complimentary way- wild indians. We were immune to the 95 degree heat. We ate snowballs and candy. My first recording was with Brenda at the record booth in the arcade- we sang a lovely version of "playmate, come out and play with me". Kids would go to "the beach" with anyone who would take them along. If someone was going to the beach, they were automatically your best friend.
As to the ACTUAL beach- it had a sandy beach along what was probably some very polluted water. Some kids were so sensitive to the water that if they went on Sunday, they missed school on Monday - held hostage to the bathroom and the pepto bismol bottle. Swim shoes hadn't been invented yet, so we cut our feet on the billions of tiny oyster shell shards. Sunscreen had not been heard of- the most sensitive children had a dab of zinc oxide on their noses- but the rest was left to chance. I burned and peeled. It was not seen as anything particularly dangerous. Just part of the deal. Like going barefoot all summer- a certain number of nails or tacks would find their way into your feet, and the occasional foot peel be done by hot asphalt. It made your feet tougher. If it was a good day, you could do this in just the parking lot at the beach. It just insured a visit to the public health clinic to get yet another tetanus shot. At some point, a bulkhead was built. I don't really know when- but it was a series of little concrete steps. Maybe Katrina took that too.

The park closed after integration- but some of the rides were relocated to Alabama where hurricane Ivan removed them in 2004. And the internet has a lot of archival photos and essays about the amusement park.

It was fun, and it was certainly one of the most common experiences shared by kids in New Orleans. Before parents felt compelled to document on film every breath of their children at the risk of not living their own lives, before laws and lawsuits ruined childhood as an adventurous time, before children were given everything so that nothing is a treat- there was Pontchartrain Beach.

(I refuse to belabor the fact that it was a whites only beach. I just refuse. When you are a child, you are not responsible for social problems. You are merely a child. I had no idea what Lincoln Beach did. I don't know. But this is a story of a white child. Maybe someone will write about their childhood if they are black. I cannot speak for them.)

Early education- in more ways than one

Bienville Elementary School was under construction- almost 50 years to the day later, Katrina would take it out. But it was to be a modern marvel. It is inexplicable why anyone would put a flat roof on anything in NOLA, but flat roof it they did. In a fit of modernism, windows were everywhere. And it was within walking distance of the new house on Mirabeau Avenue. But the problem was it wouldn't quite be open on time for me to start kindergarten there. And the fall back option was always the Catholic School- St Francis Cabrini. My father was Catholic until they refused to bury his generously tithing father in the local churchyard in Mansura LA because he had remarried after the death of his first wife. That infuriated my father. Though I can honestly say that just one generation later, I have no idea where his father is buried. So my father quit the Catholic church. Cold turkey. He threw out the Catholic knick knacks and went full blown Protestant. My mother, a lapsed Methodist, felt that Presbyterianism was the way to go. So I was adopted into the world of Prebyterians. But to get me into Cabrini, my father pulled his Catholicism out of his long lost back pocket, and sent me to the Felliniesque world of the Catholic elementary school in the 1950s. I was awed by the enormous presence of the nuns. I was particularly frightened of their faces- pinched and puffed by the stiff halo of starched linen around their faces. It was highly suggested by other children that the nuns shaved their heads. Their hands were kept hidden when not in use. They wore sturdy black shoes and heavy black stockings even in the oppressive heat and humidity of New Orleans. They didn't look pure- they looked angry. Really angry. I can only recall the extraordinary enthusiasm I had for the concept of kindergarten. Preschool was an unknown in my world. My brother had gone, but somehow I dodged that bullet. By the age of 4, I could go to kindergarten according to the state law. And the enthusiasm in my heart was boundless. I could not imagine a world of other 4 year olds. I could hardly breathe when I tried on my little blue jumper and white princess collared blouse. I was going to bring my lunch- BRING MY LUNCH! Eat with other children. Play with other children. I already could read very well by 4, and I was pretty sure there would be a lot of BOOKS. To this day, it is one of my first memories- that first day at kindergarten.
But it was not to be the idyll of my imagination. The Sister in charge of my class did not like little girls who talked. Now, I'll be the first to admit I talk- A LOT- and I think I'm pretty funny. And I just loved other children. I couldn't learn enough about them. They fascinated me. But the Sister didn't like that either.
And the first time she hit me, I was so confused. I didn't know a lot, but I KNEW I wasn't BAD. My brother was BAD. His friends were BAD. But not me. I liked everybody and everything. And I was FOUR. How bad could I be? I wasn't an arsonist. I never hit anyone. But I was really guilty of talking and smiling. Fortunately for me, one day my mother noticed the bruises on my hands where the ruler had been smacked against them. And she finally ASKED me. I explained it all- but I was upset because it never occured to me that I didn't deserve to be hit. I thought I was BAD and just had never been told it- I thought perhaps I had not understood the definition of the word BAD. Well, my mother yanked me out of St Francis Cabrini and waited until Bienville opened up. I like to embellish the story by saying I was thrown out of kindergarten, because really, that was coming at some point. And while the kindergarten teacher at Bienville was not the greatest, she never hit me- not once. I spent a some quality time in the corner, with no real impact on my behavior, but that's to be expected. I got the lead in the school Easter musical- at the age of 5- which started my love of musical theater- so for that I can thank her. It led to a modest amount of neighborhood fame.
But to the Sisters out there who beat and abused small children in the name of discipline- I hope you get yours. At my age, most of those Sisters are probably long gone or very old now. And I hope they don't look back with pride at the abuse they heaped on very tiny people. Shame on them.