Hi, Winnie Griggs here and it’s my turn to tell you a little bit about my hometown, Marrero, Louisiana.
My childhood playground was on the edge of a bayou. While other kids had swing sets, my siblings and I had secret hideouts in the weeds, shed snakeskins to collect and scare each other with, and treasure in the form of shells and bits of petrified wood. Growing up in Marrero, in the mid-1950s and 60s felt like living in a world all our own—a place where bayous framed our extended backyard, shell-covered streets smelled faintly of the river, and community was at the heart of everything. Looking back, I realize just how much those years shaped me—through moments of adventure, challenges, and celebration.
Life in the “Back of Beyond”
I was born and raised in Marrero, Louisiana, just across the river from New Orleans. But we lived on the outskirts, near the Lafitte/Bayou Barataria area, which at the time was extremely rural. I was about six when we moved there, the oldest of three siblings (two more would come along later).
There were more vacant lots than homes in our “neck of the woods,” and my siblings and I, along with a couple of neighbor friends, used those fields, overgrown with brush and edged by the bayou, as our personal playground. We’d build hideouts and forts, chase each other through the tall grass, and pretend we were explorers in uncharted territory. We’d search for buried treasure and find it in the form of unusual rocks, shells, or even shed snakeskin. The bayou itself was both familiar and a bit mysterious, an ever-changing backdrop that helped fuel our childhood adventures.
Our school bus stop was two blocks from our house next to a deep ditch, and since we were the very last stop on the route, most of our classmates thought we lived “in the back of beyond.” Visiting us was always a bit of a trek, so it was a rare treat to play host!
Did you have a favorite childhood playground—maybe something wilder than the usual backyard?
Shell Streets and Summers on the Gulf
In our neighborhood, even the streets had their own unique character. They weren’t paved with asphalt or layered with rocks but covered with shells dredged from nearby Lake Pontchartrain. Whenever the parish spread a fresh layer, the streets looked grimy and smelled fishy for days, a scent that somehow became part of the fabric of our lives.
Whenever those fresh shells were dumped, my brother and some of his friends would comb through them, searching for spent .50 caliber cartridges. These were relics from World War II training flights, when aircraft practiced over the lake and ejected their shells into the water. Each time, the boys would usually find a few—maybe three or four—and whoever was lucky enough to find one claimed it as a prized trophy. My sister and I, on the other hand, wanted no part of it. To us, the shells were far too yucky to dig through, so we left that “treasure hunting” activity to the boys.
Riding bikes over those uneven, sharp-edged shells was a challenge, and when we were unlucky enough to fall off, the cuts would be both deep and painful – but we didn’t think much of it—it was just part of growing up. It did give us incentive to get very good at NOT falling off. 🙂
Of course, our world wasn’t limited to the neighborhood. Summers often took us farther afield—to the beaches and sometimes to my uncle’s camp in Grand Isle. The camp house, perched high on stilts and painted a bright Pepto-Bismol pink, felt like a happy fortress overlooking the Gulf of Mexico
Days were spent walking the beach, collecting shells, looking for crabs, or wading in the surf. I was particularly fascinated by little touloulous (what I later learned others outside Cajun country call fiddler crabs) scuttling in and out of their sand burrows.
I remember one particular afternoon while walking the beach, we spotted a sandbar shark gliding just beyond the shoreline. We weren’t in any real danger, but it certainly sent a shiver through us—and the story grew a little bigger and scarier every time we told it that summer.
When it got too hot, we played in the cool shade beneath the camp. At night, we kids slept on the screened-in porch, lulled to sleep by the sound of waves and insects, and feel of the Gulf breeze.
Do you have a special summer place that still feels magical when you think back on it?
Hurricanes and the Crazy Quilt
Of course, living in southern Louisiana also meant living with hurricanes. Two storms left a lasting impression on me—Hurricane Betsy (1965) and Hurricane Camille (1969). I vividly remember my dad boarding up the windows before the storm reached us, leaving the house eerily dark, and later the power going out.
During Betsy, my Aunt, Uncle and two cousins rode it out at our house. At one point the wind blew the front door open. My dad and uncle managed to get it closed again and shoved the sofa in front of it to brace it closed. They spent the rest of that night sitting on the sofa, listening closely to the news on a battery-operated transistor radio. Meanwhile, my mom gathered the rest of us into an interior hallway, away from the windows. To distract us, she brought out an old crazy quilt my grandmother made over 70 years ago. By flashlight, she’d name a patch—maybe a yellow-flowered rectangle or a green square with white flowers—and we’d hunt for it, competing to be the first to find it. All through that night we alternately prayed and played ‘hunt-the-patch’.
The howl of the wind and the thud of debris outside were frightening, but that quilt and my mom’s ingenuity turned the stormy night into something less terrifying. After the storm, there was always cleanup and repair, but what stuck with me most was the feeling of family—safe, together, and resilient.
Do you remember your first big storm or blackout as a child? How did your family pass the time?
Mardi Gras in Marrero
When people think Mardi Gras, they picture the grand, glittery and sometimes raucous New Orleans parades. But Marrero had its own celebration—the family-oriented Krewe of Poseidon parade, which rolled during daylight hours the Sunday before Mardi Gras.
My parent’s friend owned a laundromat on the route, and he let us park there and use it as our “base camp.” We’d set up chairs, eat the snacks Mom packed, visit with fellow parade goers, and wait for the excitement to begin. The air was alive with food smells, chatter, and the sound of marching bands warming up.
When the parade began, it was a mad scramble to catch beads, trinkets, and doubloons tossed from the floats. My siblings and I competed with friends and strangers alike, shouting, “Throw me something, mister!” Mardi Gras wasn’t just a party—it was a celebration of community, family, and pure fun.
I also have wonderful food memories tied to Mardi Gras. One of the iconic treats of the season was King cake, and it was always something we looked forward to with great anticipation.
And since Mardi Gras is the day before Lent begins, our family observed the tradition of no meat on Fridays during those forty-six days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday. That usually meant seafood—boiled or fried shrimp, shrimp po’boys, fried catfish, or a big pot of seafood gumbo. To be honest, I never saw it as the sacrifice it was meant to be—it all felt like a feast to me!
Have you ever experienced Mardi Gras—or another community parade? Or do you have a favorite seasonal food that brings back childhood memories?
Reflections on Growing Up in Marrero
Looking back, I realize how much my Marrero childhood shaped me. The bayou and the Gulf gave me wonder and respect for nature. Hurricanes taught me resilience and the value of family. Mardi Gras taught me the joy of celebration and the power of community.
Even now, the smell of shells, the sight of a faded patchwork quilt, or the sound of a marching band can take me back in an instant. Marrero might have felt like the “back of beyond” to some, but to me, it was the center of my world—a place full of adventure, love, and belonging. It’s a place I carry with me, no matter where I go.
Do you feel like the place where you grew up shaped who you are today? In what ways?
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