Louisiana's North Shore

In 1950, a Birmingham-born doctor named Walker Percy moved to Covington, Louisiana, and never left. He had contracted tuberculosis treating patients at Bellevue Hospital in New York, spent two years recovering in a sanitarium, converted to Catholicism, and decided he was done with cities. Covington gave him what he needed: distance from literary New York, proximity to the New Orleans he found endlessly strange, and enough quiet to write. His first novel, The Moviegoer, won the National Book Award in 1962 and remains one of the finest American novels about alienation ever written — set largely in Gentilly, New Orleans, but shaped by the remove of the North Shore. Percy lived and wrote in Covington for four decades, producing six novels and several works of nonfiction that placed him alongside Flannery O'Connor and William Faulkner in the Southern literary canon. He walked the same streets, drank coffee in the same shops, and was buried at St. Joseph Abbey in 1990. Covington does not perform its Percy connection loudly — there is no theme park, no walking tour with audio guide. The town simply exists as the place he chose, which is the most Percy thing about it.

In the 1890s, Sicilian immigrants began arriving in Tangipahoa Parish to work the strawberry fields around Independence, Amite, and Ponchatoula. They came from the same villages in western Sicily that sent thousands to New Orleans, but these families chose the country over the city — trading one agricultural economy for another. Within a generation, they owned the fields they had come to work. The strawberry industry they built made Tangipahoa Parish one of the largest strawberry-producing regions in the country by the early 20th century, and Ponchatoula still calls itself the Strawberry Capital of the World. The Sicilian influence runs deeper than agriculture. Independence hosts the Italian Festival each year, celebrating the heritage with food, music, and processions rooted in village traditions transplanted intact from Sicily to the piney woods of Louisiana. The town of Tickfaw holds its own Italian festival. Ponchatoula's annual Strawberry Festival draws over 300,000 visitors. These are not nostalgia events — they are living expressions of a community that transformed a parish's economy and identity. Drive the back roads between Independence and Amite today and the surnames on the mailboxes tell the story: Brocato, Chimento, Trabona, Vicknair.

Jazz did not begin in New Orleans and stay there. From the earliest years, musicians crossed Lake Pontchartrain to play the North Shore, and the most important venue they found was the Dew Drop Social and Benevolent Hall in Mandeville. The Dew Drop Social and Benevolent Association was established in 1885 as a mutual aid society for the Black community — one of hundreds of such organizations across Louisiana that pooled resources for burial insurance, medical care, and community gatherings. In 1895, the association built its Jazz Hall, and for decades it hosted dances, performances, and social events that drew musicians from both sides of the lake. The Dew Drop operated during the same years that jazz was crystallizing in New Orleans, and the cross-lake traffic meant the North Shore heard this music as it was being invented, not after. The hall's significance outlasted its active years. It remains one of the oldest surviving structures connected to early jazz performance outside New Orleans, and its mutual-aid origins connect it to the fraternal and benevolent tradition that underwrote Black cultural life across the Gulf South long before any government safety net existed.

Before antibiotics, before mosquito control, before anyone understood how yellow fever actually spread, the U.S. Government declared the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain 'the second healthiest place in the country.' The reason they gave was ozone — the piney woods air north of the lake supposedly carried restorative properties that could cure respiratory ailments and ward off the fever that killed thousands in New Orleans every summer. The science was wrong, but the migration it triggered was real. Wealthy New Orleanians built summer homes in Mandeville, Covington, and Abita Springs. Steamboats ran regular service across Lake Pontchartrain starting in 1821, and by the 1880s the North Shore was a full-fledged health tourism destination. Abita Springs built its identity around its mineral springs. Mandeville's lakefront lined with Victorian cottages. Covington drew artists and writers who came for their lungs and stayed for the quiet. The ozone belt theory was debunked decades ago, but the settlement pattern it created — the North Shore as New Orleans' refuge, its cooler and quieter counterpart — never reversed. Every commuter crossing the Causeway today is following a path worn by yellow fever refugees 170 years ago.

In 1859, a French-born Catholic priest named Adrien Rouquette walked away from his parish in New Orleans and into the woods along Bayou Lacombe, where a community of Choctaw people had lived for generations. He built a hermitage, learned the Choctaw language, and spent the next 28 years living among them — writing poetry in French and Choctaw, ministering in their tongue, and earning the name Chahta Ima, 'like a Choctaw.' Rouquette was already a published poet in France before his self-exile, and his work is the earliest substantial literary output connected to the North Shore. The Choctaw community at Lacombe predated European contact in the region and persisted through every colonial handoff — Spanish, French, English, Spanish again, American. Rouquette's mission was not a conversion campaign in the usual sense; he adapted to their world rather than demanding they adapt to his. The Lacombe Choctaw community still exists today, one of the longest continuously inhabited indigenous settlements in Louisiana. Rouquette died in 1887 and is buried in New Orleans, but the bayou he chose over the city remains the more honest monument.

Madisonville sits where the Tchefuncte River empties into Lake Pontchartrain, and for nearly two centuries that confluence made it one of the most important boat-building towns in Louisiana. Wooden vessels built in Madisonville's shipyards sailed the lake, the Gulf, and the rivers that fed both. The Tchefuncte River Lighthouse, built in 1837, guided traffic into the river mouth and still stands as one of the oldest surviving lighthouses on the Gulf Coast. The Lake Pontchartrain Basin Maritime Museum in Madisonville preserves this history — not as a museum about boats, but as a museum about the relationship between water and work. The annual Wooden Boat Festival draws builders and sailors from across the Gulf South, and the boatyard tradition that produced working vessels for two centuries has evolved into a community of recreational sailors, fishing guides, and marine craftspeople. The maritime identity connects the North Shore to a larger Gulf Coast tradition that runs from Biloxi to Galveston, but Madisonville's version is distinctly intimate — a river town, not a port city, where the scale of the water and the work remained human-sized.

Bernard de Marigny de Mandeville was one of early Louisiana's most flamboyant figures — a Creole aristocrat who inherited a fortune at 15, introduced the dice game craps to America, and named a New Orleans neighborhood after his favorite orange grove. But his most lasting real estate venture was across the lake. Between 1829 and 1832, Marigny acquired land west of Bayou Castine on the North Shore, on parcels previously held by the Spell, Smith, and Edwards families since the Spanish colonial surveys. He built Fontainebleau Plantation on the site, naming it after the French royal forest, and in 1834 began selling lots in the town he laid out beside it. Mandeville was officially incorporated in 1840. An 18th-century Spanish survey map — drawn by a surveyor named Guillemard — shows the area between Bayous Chinchuba and Lacombe as almost completely rural, dotted with small landholders. Marigny transformed it into a planned resort community for New Orleans gentry fleeing summer heat and disease. Fontainebleau's sugar house ruins still stand in the state park that bears its name, and the town grid Marigny platted in 1834 is still the street map of Old Mandeville today.

In September 1810, a group of Anglo-American settlers in what is now southeastern Louisiana did something no other community in the future United States ever managed: they overthrew their colonial government, declared independence, designed a flag, and operated a sovereign republic — all in 74 days. The Republic of West Florida stretched from the Mississippi River to the Perdido, encompassing present-day St. Tammany, Tangipahoa, and Washington parishes. The territory had passed through Spanish, French, English, and Spanish hands again before the rebellion, and Governor William Claiborne himself noted that 'civil authority remains weak and lax in West Florida.' The republic's Bonnie Blue Flag — a single white star on a blue field — would later inspire the first flag of the Confederacy, but the original moment was something rarer: frontier democracy improvised from scratch. President Madison annexed the territory within weeks, and Louisiana statehood in 1812 folded these 'Florida Parishes' into the state. But the identity stuck. Locals still call this region the Florida Parishes, and the independent streak that produced a republic in 74 days never fully went away.