Did I want to move? Oh, absolutely not. We Lauderdales are set in our ways. But ... well, something happened, and you probably heard about it, and I guess it's my fault.
Actually, I feel kind of bad about the whole situation, to be quite honest with you. Every time I'd write something for Memphis magazine, my editors would say, "Good God, Vance, can't you just get to the point?" (Let me just way that when you are paid by the word — and not paid very much, at that — the answer is: NO.)
And then, when I'd post something on the blog, the tech-folks here would whine, "Vance, you're using up way too much band-width and giga-bytes and mega-hertz" and all sorts of mumbo-jumbo that I didn't pretend to understand. It didn't seem to be my problem, to tell you the truth.
But I certainly got a sense that everyone thought I was wasting valuable space with my ramblings, musings, dronings, and general ... uh, wait I lost track. Oh, right. The Inter-Net thing.
So how was I to know that this Inter-Net would one day fill up completely — thanks to me? That's what they told me, anyway: "The Inter-Net is full, Vance. We hope you're happy."
Well, not really. So I had a choice: just stop writing entirely — which was what they actually thought would be best. "Please, Vance, think of the children!" they'd beg me. Or (and this is the alternative I chose), I'd have to move to a brand-new blog and get all sorts of fancy new equipment — some of it costing dozens of dollars!
So that's what I'm doing. Don't worry, it will still be called "Ask Vance" and it will still be penned, or typed, or dictated, by Yours Truly. But it does have a brand-new blog address, so go HERE, and then bookmark it, or "favorite" it, or "friend" it, or "follow" it, or dang it all, just write it down on your shirt sleeve, I don't care.
Now let me make it clear the the new website is still a "work in progress" so bear with us while we work out the kinks. I just wanted to tell you where to find me, that's all.
Now you can still come back here from time to time, if you haven't gotten your fill of the entries I've posted on my beloved "old" blog. But in the future, if you really want to read about new things. Well, I mean old things, but with new words, go to the new address. Got it?
I really can't make it any easier for you. Again, it's: www.memphismagazine.com/Blogs/Ask-Vance
(The only difference is that oh-so-critical hyphen between "Ask" and "Vance."
See you soon at my new home!
Every few hours, they will clamber out of the basement to show me something of interest, but I think that's just an excuse to get a sip of water, a spoonful of porridge, and a breath of air. But occasionally, they really do find something intriguing, and this is a good example.
It's a birth announcement, but cleverly written and designed as if it were introducing a new model car. "The Craver Production Company of 1900 Mignon Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee," it reads, "Announce the 1935 Craver Baby Girl, Model Number One."
This particular "model" was released on June 19, 1935. The proud parents are H.A. Craver, "designer and chief engineer," and Dallas Craver, "production manager." Even the good physician who helped with the birth gets a mention, with Dr. J.J. McCaughan listed as "technical assistant."
It's curious, at least to me, that the baby girl's name is not given on the announcement. Even so, she came fully equipped with such special features as "two-lung power, double bawl bearing, free squealing, economical feed, scream-line body, water-cooled exhaust, and changeable seat covers."
This was apparently the Cravers' first child, and they wanted to make sure that everyone understood there would be no additional children anytime in the immediate future: "The management assures the public there will be no new models brought out during the balance of the year."
I wanted to find out more about this rather clever family, but so far I'm stumped. I'm sorry to admit that the Lauderdale Library is missing some copies of old city directories, such as the 1935 edition. But later editions, from the late 1930s through the early 1940s, do not show this family as living in Memphis, and another family entirely is occupying 1900 Mignon. Birth, marriage, and death records online at the Shelby County Register's Office don't show this family, but that's not too unusual because most of those records don't cover the 1930s anyway.
I'll have to do some further research before I can tell you just who the Cravers were, and where they went.
In the meantime, I just wanted to share this with you. Now, back to the basement, serfs!
Now I can crank out these columns in a matter of days.
Just as soon as the hot lead cools, and the ink dries, and the pages are trimmed, and ...
Hey, wait a minute. Where's the damn monitor on this thing??
For those of you who have yet to to read the March column, Cibo was a short-lived pizza chain in Memphis, and in my typically thorough telling-you-more-than-you-asked manner, I even tracked down the addresses of all the branches in town. According to old telephone directories, one of them was located at 4495 Summer, close to Perkins. But they all closed years ago.
So what am I to make of this photograph, submitted by my pal Pat Rohrbacher, showing a genuine old Cibo's sign mounted on a pole behind Grahamwood Cleaners, close to the intersection of Summer and Graham, which is quite a long way from Perkins? As far as I know, no Cibo's was ever located here. Furthermore, the sign isn't even visible from either Summer or Graham.
Now, just as soon as I can borrow a quarter for the pay phone, I'll call the folks at Grahamwood Cleaners to see what they know about it. I'm pretty sure I dropped some change in the sofa here . . .
But Halliburton didn't always get the respect he deserved. In a 1937 edition of The New Yorker, I came across this curious little item. The New York World-Telegram newspaper was announcing the author's latest book, saying:
“Richard Halliburton, author of The Royal Road to Romance and other travel books, has written Richard Halliburton’s Book of Marvels, which his publisher, Bobbs Merrill, describes as his 'first book for juveniles.'”
And The New Yorker's snippy response?
"Somebody's lost count."
Well, not much. An original Carroll Cloar oil painting, whose title now escapes me, was still available (a bargain at $45,000) along with a somewhat battered authentic "Indian Wars" sword ($750), a few pieces of furniture (a bed, some tables), some celluloid bridge markers ($65 each), and a box of old postcards and letters (none of them, as far as I could see, relating to Memphis).
Most of the glass-topped boxes containing the butterfly collections were still for sale on Monday, though priced at $195 to $265, so you had to really like butterflies if you wanted to take these home. (I have to admit, these really were magnificent butterflies.)
Just about the only books left were an 18-volume set of James Branch Cabell ($195).
Even so, it was certainly a treat to wander through the interesting old house, which is constructed inside and out in a rambling Tudor style, with uneven brickwork, tile floors, massive rough-hewn beams, hand-carved mantels, and curious creatures (is it a deer or a dog?) carved into the plaster door moldings here and there.
The most fascinating part of the house, to me, was Foote's former study, a vaulted room with a massive brick fireplace. I had seen plenty of images of him sitting at a low desk, ink pen in hand, with a mosaic of photos and letters neatly pinned to the wall behind him. Here's the same desk (above) as it appeared on Monday afternoon, looking rather forlorn and empty, with just sun-faded outlines showing where he had mounted his things to the wall. Rather depressing, yes.
PHOTO BY GREG AKERS
The house was packed with precious books (many signed by Foote himself), lovely sculptures, beautiful paintings, vintage photographs, old guns and canes and pottery and even a stunning collection (more than 40 glass cases) of butterflies.
The trouble is, I already have all that stuff, as anyone who has tried to walk through the Lauderdale Mansion can attest (along with the fire marshalls).
So instead, I concentrated on the odd and unusual, such as this old decal that carries the cryptic message, "It's TOTEM POLE." The pretty blonde lady seems to be landing in some form of helicopter (look out for those whirling blades!), and the fellow on the ground seems to be wearing an army uniform. But what it means, and being a decal, where it was supposed to go — well, that's a mystery.
If anyone can explain this, I would be mighty grateful.
Do you remember what I wrote? If not, I can't help you. It's pretty much been the main topic of conversation along the Greenline for weeks and weeks. But you can read the whole story here.
Anyway, I illustrated the column with some grainy frames from an 8mm home movie, taken by a Memphis family on vacation in 1959. They were a bit hard to see, so I thought I'd include a few blow-ups of the frames here, along with several pages from the March 1963 issue of Ebony magazine, which featured Sykes and his "do-it-yourself skyscraper. Click on any image to enlarge it, and keep in mind that — yes — this is the man's HOUSE. Enjoy!
BLACK & WHITE PHOTOGRAPHS AND TEXT COURTESY EBONY MAGAZINE