What do you think?
Rate this book
Pontchartrain Beach: A Family Affair
Bryan Batt grew up amid the rides and attractions of Pontchartrain Beach amusement park founded by his grandfather Harry Batt Sr. While clearing out his mother's estate Batt uncovered a treasure trove of unpublished photographs and memorabilia from the iconic beachfront attraction. With these ephemera as a focal point, Batt began collecting reminiscences from celebrities, former employees, and frequent park-goers.
Batt and Danos have created a snapshot of time and place filled with candid moments with musical stars, tales of beauty pageants, and photographic traces of the exciting rides and attractions that drew families from throughout the region. It will be a treasured keepsake for those who visited the regional attraction over the years.
Batt and Danos have created a snapshot of time and place filled with candid moments with musical stars, tales of beauty pageants, and photographic traces of the exciting rides and attractions that drew families from throughout the region. It will be a treasured keepsake for those who visited the regional attraction over the years.
224 pages, Hardcover
First published February 1, 2016
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
March 1, 2024
Bryan Batt, one of the authors of Pontchartrain Beach: A Family Affair, offers a plethora of charming stories of being the grandson of the founder of the New Orleans amusement park...
I was mesmerized by her colorful muumuus and batik sarongs. Her Lucille Ball red hair was beehived high atop her head, crowned with an orchid or gardenia. She would shepherd me to the main dining room, but my curious six-year-old self longed to veer into the cocktail lounge. Catching a glimpse of the risque image of the topless island beauty on the wall was my Mission Impossible. Miss Laverne was fast. She would deftly divert my attention by draping a lei around my neck and steering me to the giftshop...
At the end of each night, the money counters would pull our quarters to the side so that we were well funded for the next visit. Every season, we would try to master the new games. My secret favorite that I became quite the expert at was the Stripper. Projected up on a screen a few feet in front of the joystick (oh the irony) was a seventies babe in a plunging halter top, hot pants, and go-go boots. A red dot, as a target, moved around her curves and if you hit the target, oops, she would lose another piece of clothing. Rather than taking careful aim, I would click as fast and as furiously as my eleven-year-old heart desired--rapid fire 'til she was commando. For a fleeting moment, I was hailed as "The Stripper Kid" among the arcade set, until my mother got wind of my shenanigans and the game was replaced. Looking back, I can't believe it was ever part of the gaming lineup. It was certainly a departure from the Beach's wholesome family fun.
I climbed into my car, offering my hand to "Sister Golden Hair," and we were off. The creepy skeleton with red-lit eyes chaperoned our every move, and my heart was racing, having nothing to do with monsters. I'd grown up on this ride and knew its timing inside and out. On the second level, I mustered the nerve to pull the old "yawn and stretch" as I knew time was running out. It was now or never. I planted a big smooch right on her Bonne Bell lips just as the exit doors crashed open. Busted! The cheering and jeering section went wild, and even wilder when she slapped me across my face. Sometimes "Love Hurts."
Ah yes, good times, good times. If you enjoy these anecdotes, then you'll love this book.
The problem with this book is that it is vanity press--albeit high priced vanity press with money to push its distribution--centered around a box of memorabilia Bryan Batt pulled from an attic. Spoiled and clueless about the real world, Bryan assumed every red-blooded New Orleanian viewed Pontchartrain Beach with nostalgia. And he's not wrong. The photographs within this book are its best aspect. But we could do without multiple shots of toddler Bryan in his final jumper or a slew of slightly blurry, faded pictures of the Batts celebrating anniversaries, birthdays, or grand openings. Seeing the old rides again does bring back fond memories. I just wish there was more information about them, more context.
The problem I have with this book is its lack of research. Bryan's rose-tinted glasses overlook glaring omissions in his tale and fails to address some fundamental issues. Just how did "good ole granddaddy" manage to procure prime, lake-side real estate as well as the capital to build a "Gayway" (before the term "Midway" replaced it)? What about Lincoln Beach (never mentioned), the "colored section," where non-whites recreated because they were segregated from the "world class" lily-white beach? How did "good ole Granddaddy" react to 1964 desegregation legislation in his amusement park? I realize this is a "nostalgic" look by the founding family on Pontchartrain Beach, but the white-washing and avoidance of acknowledging the gritty reality of doing business in a city replete with graft and palm-greasing displays an astonishing cluelessness.
Rather, Bryan and relatives pine for the good old days. Almost none of the text of this book is worth reading. Perhaps the editors knew people were coming for the pictures, not inane anecdotes. But this could have been a far richer reading experience by far. Bottomline: Look at the pictures in the bookstore but don't give this family any more money.
I'll leave with a final anecdote, one of many, where the Batt children reveal their inability to understand the reality outlining their fantasy world where "good ole granddaddy" spoiled them rotten. He actually believes the staff under "good old granddaddy's" thumb "didn't have to do it." Bullshit. Those workers had to cater to these young shits or lose their jobs.
Ah yes, good times, good times indeed...
Like many New Orleanians, I have always battled my weight. After years of having to shop in the husky section of department stores, I made up my mind when adolescence hit to shed the extra pounds. The Bali Ha'i was a godsend. I told the chefs that I wanted to trim down and they were so supportive. Next thing I knew, when the deluxe Asian meals were delivered to our home (one of the best perks of the business ever), there were special dinners just for me: great low-calorie high-protein meals like deboned grilled chicken breast and steamed broccoli with shrimp. They didn't have to do it, but they did and it worked.
I was mesmerized by her colorful muumuus and batik sarongs. Her Lucille Ball red hair was beehived high atop her head, crowned with an orchid or gardenia. She would shepherd me to the main dining room, but my curious six-year-old self longed to veer into the cocktail lounge. Catching a glimpse of the risque image of the topless island beauty on the wall was my Mission Impossible. Miss Laverne was fast. She would deftly divert my attention by draping a lei around my neck and steering me to the giftshop...
At the end of each night, the money counters would pull our quarters to the side so that we were well funded for the next visit. Every season, we would try to master the new games. My secret favorite that I became quite the expert at was the Stripper. Projected up on a screen a few feet in front of the joystick (oh the irony) was a seventies babe in a plunging halter top, hot pants, and go-go boots. A red dot, as a target, moved around her curves and if you hit the target, oops, she would lose another piece of clothing. Rather than taking careful aim, I would click as fast and as furiously as my eleven-year-old heart desired--rapid fire 'til she was commando. For a fleeting moment, I was hailed as "The Stripper Kid" among the arcade set, until my mother got wind of my shenanigans and the game was replaced. Looking back, I can't believe it was ever part of the gaming lineup. It was certainly a departure from the Beach's wholesome family fun.
I climbed into my car, offering my hand to "Sister Golden Hair," and we were off. The creepy skeleton with red-lit eyes chaperoned our every move, and my heart was racing, having nothing to do with monsters. I'd grown up on this ride and knew its timing inside and out. On the second level, I mustered the nerve to pull the old "yawn and stretch" as I knew time was running out. It was now or never. I planted a big smooch right on her Bonne Bell lips just as the exit doors crashed open. Busted! The cheering and jeering section went wild, and even wilder when she slapped me across my face. Sometimes "Love Hurts."
Ah yes, good times, good times. If you enjoy these anecdotes, then you'll love this book.
The problem with this book is that it is vanity press--albeit high priced vanity press with money to push its distribution--centered around a box of memorabilia Bryan Batt pulled from an attic. Spoiled and clueless about the real world, Bryan assumed every red-blooded New Orleanian viewed Pontchartrain Beach with nostalgia. And he's not wrong. The photographs within this book are its best aspect. But we could do without multiple shots of toddler Bryan in his final jumper or a slew of slightly blurry, faded pictures of the Batts celebrating anniversaries, birthdays, or grand openings. Seeing the old rides again does bring back fond memories. I just wish there was more information about them, more context.
The problem I have with this book is its lack of research. Bryan's rose-tinted glasses overlook glaring omissions in his tale and fails to address some fundamental issues. Just how did "good ole granddaddy" manage to procure prime, lake-side real estate as well as the capital to build a "Gayway" (before the term "Midway" replaced it)? What about Lincoln Beach (never mentioned), the "colored section," where non-whites recreated because they were segregated from the "world class" lily-white beach? How did "good ole Granddaddy" react to 1964 desegregation legislation in his amusement park? I realize this is a "nostalgic" look by the founding family on Pontchartrain Beach, but the white-washing and avoidance of acknowledging the gritty reality of doing business in a city replete with graft and palm-greasing displays an astonishing cluelessness.
Rather, Bryan and relatives pine for the good old days. Almost none of the text of this book is worth reading. Perhaps the editors knew people were coming for the pictures, not inane anecdotes. But this could have been a far richer reading experience by far. Bottomline: Look at the pictures in the bookstore but don't give this family any more money.
I'll leave with a final anecdote, one of many, where the Batt children reveal their inability to understand the reality outlining their fantasy world where "good ole granddaddy" spoiled them rotten. He actually believes the staff under "good old granddaddy's" thumb "didn't have to do it." Bullshit. Those workers had to cater to these young shits or lose their jobs.
Ah yes, good times, good times indeed...
Like many New Orleanians, I have always battled my weight. After years of having to shop in the husky section of department stores, I made up my mind when adolescence hit to shed the extra pounds. The Bali Ha'i was a godsend. I told the chefs that I wanted to trim down and they were so supportive. Next thing I knew, when the deluxe Asian meals were delivered to our home (one of the best perks of the business ever), there were special dinners just for me: great low-calorie high-protein meals like deboned grilled chicken breast and steamed broccoli with shrimp. They didn't have to do it, but they did and it worked.
September 2, 2022
I was hoping for more to expand my very very fond memories of our annual summer trip to New Orleans which culminated in a visit to Ponchartrain Beach Amusement Park. The authors made a point to say they didn't want to write a history of the park, but it ended up mainly being a family scrapbook of the founder and next two generations of owner/operators of the park. The photographs were underwhelming considering this book came from the family that ran the park. Mostly, even though told from a family point of view, they entirely left out the actual park closing - what were the reasons? what was the emotion? where did everything go? All unanswered.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews