Whew. That must have been some party!

But while I was in that lovely town, I wandered past this football stadium. It wasn't a very large place, so I imagine it must have been for a local high school. What I most recall, though — in fact, it was the only thing I can remember about Ripley — was the curious sign on the place.

It's called Tiny Knee Stadium.

Does anybody know why?

I know that when I suffer from leprosy, lunacy, gout, the shivers, the shuffles, and the loss of my immortal soul — among other almost daily afflictions — I really won't feel comfortable being rushed to the hospital unless I am in the protection of an ARMORED ambulance. After all, you just don't know what kind of hooligans and assassins may be lying in wait, just waiting to cause you harm when you are at your most helpless.

Now first of all, J.T. Hinton & Sons was mainly a FUNERAL HOME, and I've complained before about what I consider a conflict of interest. Would it really be in their best interest, I have fretted, for the ambulance drivers to deliver you to the hospital safely — and therefore lose a perfectly good, perfectly DEAD funeral home customer?

But I digress. Hinton, competing with many other ambulance and funeral companies in Memphis, hit upon a rather unique marketing plan. As the ad says, they already operate "The World's Finest and Safest Ambulances." Not just in Memphis, mind you, but IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

And now, they provide you with "the first and ONLY Armored Ambulance in the World."

But — I don't care if you did get stuck with the awkward phone number 666 (back in the days when phone numbers here were apparently just three digits).

It's just not a good idea, if you ask me, to name your taxi company after the Mark of the Beast.

Or any company, for that matter.

Jeanna Hartzog has written me from Silver Creek, Mississippi, inquiring about a local TV show that she and her sister appeared on in the early 1960s. I immediately thought she was talking about "Dance Party" hosted by Wink Martindale, or the later "Talent Party" hosted by George Klein, but apparently not. Does anyone have any other suggestions?

Here's the letter:

I hope someone there can help me by providing some information.

My parents moved to Memphis in 1957 and I was born there in 1959. Around 1962, I only know at three years old, my sister and I appeared on a local children’s show. We were the featured quests, coming out of the audience to do the new dance, The Twist.

I began to think about this when my sister died several years ago. My parents can no longer remember the station or the name of the show. They mistakenly thought Wink Martindale was the host, but a very nice email from him said that was not so.

Do you have any knowledge of this show, the station, or the host? I know there are certainly people in the Memphis community who would have this knowledge, but I don’t know how to find them. I have made phone calls and wrote a columnist with no success.

Thank you for your time.
Jeanna McManus Hartzog
medbsw@yahoo.com
P.O. Box 124
Silver Creek, Mississippi 39663
601-660-5720

Yes, the two concrete gate posts are topped with brightly painted, cast-concrete FROGS. Now I have to say that for a former prison, Shelby Farms certainly has a lot of gates, but these are the only ones I've found (so far) that feature animals. And why frogs, I wonder?

They're located on Nixon Road, just south of Mullins Station, right across from the building that now houses the Shelby County Archives. The gate itself doesn't serve any purpose anymore, since the road now runs just a few yards to the east of it. But I really do like the frogs. I'm sure they brightened the days of the prisoners who trudged through these gates years ago to work the fields.

Somebody on eBay has a rather interesting item for sale: a Memphis Police Department "Detective Division Circular" for a missing person, dated October 15, 1924.

Now, I imagine the police department searched for quite a few missing persons over the years, but I wonder if the official alerts were worded as dramatically as this one. Carrying the banner headline, "A Prostrate Mother's Appeal," the circular describes a young man named Howard Conrad, who disappeared from our city on September 26, 1924, and "has had a mental breakdown, which renders him unfit to hold a job [though] may attempt work."

The very words the doctors have used to describe me!

The circular continues: "There is a price on Conrad's head — one hundred dollars. It is not like the price that is placed on a criminal's head, for his capture dead or alive. It is the price of Mother's love. The parent's courage is strong. They believe they will find their son, if those who know a parents' love for an afflicted child will only help. Will you?"

The circular urged officials to check all hospitals, asylums, public institutions, and county farms. Then it added this bit of curious information about young Conrad: "Acts as one who uses dope and visits such places. May be giving another name and will not give parents' address, which is 2225 Madison Avenue."

That house is still standing today, just east of Overton Square, though the Conrad family apparently moved out many years ago. I wish I knew how this sad tale played out, but I have no idea if Howard Conrad ever turned up. And I didn't think it would be fair to the eBay seller to include an image of the "Missing Person" notice here, but if you'd like to take a look at this interesting document from the past, go here:

In Memphis magazine’s current City Guide, I told readers that I wanted to see how much they really knew about the history of the city they call home. Most people can recite one or two basic facts about Elvis, or Sun Studio, or Piggly Wiggly, or the many accomplishments of the Lauderdales. But I tossed more than 30 questions your way, about considerably more esoteric subjects, though I made it clear that if you had been reading the magazine’s “Ask Vance” column, you should already know the answers.

Finished the quiz? Then put your pencils down and compare your results with the answers below. There’s no prize for winning. Just the immense pride you should feel if you did well.

THE ANSWERS:

1. For years and years, what well-known Memphian kept telling listeners, “Keep dialing and smiling. Bye-bye now”?
c. J.C. Levy, owner of the Dial and Smile telephone joke line (above, recording a baby elephant, probably as part of one of his telephone gags).

2. In 1952, a massive blaze at the Quaker Oats plant in North Memphis consumed thousands of:
d. Corncobs. That’s right, corncobs.

3. In the 1950s, a Memphian opened a business on Lamar with the curious slogan, “Where You Won’t Get Bit.” This was, of course:
b. Bittman’s Appliances, owned by Herbert Bittman.

4. Who were “The Original Memphis Five”?
a. A jazz quintet formed in New Orleans in the early 1900s.

5. What stands on the former site of the Grand Opera House, which burned in 1899?
c. The Orpheum Theatre.

Several months ago — okay, maybe it was more than a year ago — time is but a blur these days — I was at an estate sale in Raleigh and wandered into the backyard, where I spotted this neglected creature, just standing by the fence, looking as if he had been there for years. He — or it — stands about four feet tall and is apparently a chef, sporting black-and-white checked pants, a blue apron, and even wearing wire-rimmed glasses, all (except the glasses) nicely crafted from fiberglass, carrying a tray that once held — what? I'm not sure why he has Shrek-like green skin, unless the sun discolored him that way.

The figure looks vaguely familiar, so I'm convinced that years ago he stood outside a Memphis restaurant. Some type of pizza parlor, perhaps?

Does anybody remember where this fellow originally came from?

And in case you're wondering: No, I didn't buy it, though the fellow would have looked quite fine on the front lawn of the Lauderdale Mansion, perhaps collecting mail or — even better — donations from visitors.

My good friend Robert Lanier recently sent me an Associated Press clipping from a Washington, D.C., newspaper, which I filed away in the cobwebby recesses of my once-great mind, under the general category of “Can’t Possibly Be True.” But lately I’m discovering that quite a few things readers uncover — and share with me — turn out to be not only true, but even stranger than I expected.

Here is what Mr. Lanier’s AP story said. The headline was “NAZI IN FULL UNIFORM ARRESTED IN MEMPHIS” and it was dated August 14, 1945:

“A German paratrooper, wearing his military uniform complete with the swastika and German eagle, was arrested on Main Street yesterday. The prisoner gave his name as Sergeant Heintz Heimann and said he escaped from the prison-of-war camp at Crawfordsville, Arkansas. He said he wanted to see the city, but was afraid to discard his army clothes for fear he would be shot as a spy.”

Did such a thing really happen, or was this some kind of misguided prank or stunt? Well, here’s the full story from the August 14, 1945, Commercial Appeal, headlined “P.O.W. TAKES STROLL ON MAIN, WEARING SWASTIKA AND WINGS”:

Elmwood Cemetery has many fascinating and beautiful monuments, but few are as intriguing as the stunning granite obelisk dedicated to former Memphian Granville Garth. "Born in Memphis" it says, and then "Lost at Sea," and anyone who reads that inscription has to wonder what happened.

Since we're really not that close to the sea, you understand.

The carving at the base of the monument tells cemetery visitors that Granville was the son of Horace and Alice Garth. He was born in Memphis on August 11, 1863, and he met his fate 40 years later on Christmas Day, 1903.

So what happened to this poor fellow?

Even though this amazing postcard (found on eBay recently) calls this a "proposed skyscraper," I'm pretty sure that plans for "The Tallest Building in the South" never left the drawing board.

Just look at this thing! What were they thinking? Most architects try to make a building relate, in some way at least, to its environment. But boy, whoever planned this structure just decided that a soaring 20-story building would fit right in among its humble two-story neighbors.

The postcard doesn't give the proposed location for this building, but it looks like Main Street or Front Street to me. And there's no date, but the teeny-tiny horse-drawn cart and open roadster in the street (can you see them?) suggests it's from the early 1900s.

And what a strange design! Barely three bays (or windows) square, and with all that ornamentation around the upper floors, the building looks extremely top heavy to me. A strong wind, like we had here a few weeks ago, would possibly blow the thing down, so it's probably a good idea it was never built.

Though it would have looked very fine on the horizon, I guess.

Memphis has always been proud of its entrepreneurs: Fred Smith, Kemmons Wilson, Pitt Hyde, and most (but certainly not all) of the Lauderdales. And joining that exclusive club is the anonymous inventor of the Zip-Pin Diaper Pin Lubricator.

Now I have to confess that I never realized there was any need for such a device. Oh sure, I knew that diaper pins could stick a baby if you were careless — or drunk — while you were trying to jab those things through a thick diaper. Well, somebody decided that one way to prevent these accidents was with the Zip-Pin.

I found an ad for this intriguing product in a 1975 program for the Duration Club, a charitable organization that put on an annual fund-raiser, among other good deeds. As you can see, though it's not really clear HOW it accomplishes all these things, the Zip-Pin offered many benefits: "no more bent pins, eases pins thru diapers, reduces chances of sticking baby." It apparently was some kind of "special lubricant — non-toxic" which, I assume, you smeared on the pins. Good gosh, it even "prevents dangerous rust." And as if that weren't enough, it "keeps pins safe and handy," which is a pretty vague claim, if you ask me.

There's no address for the company, just a P.O. Box, and no name of the inventor, so that's all I can tell you. I wonder how long the Zip-Pin company stayed in business? And were they trying to play off the name of the Zippin Pippin roller coaster, or was that just a happy coincidence?

Last year, I posted a photograph of a rather strange metal sign (above) that I had discovered dangling by chains from the underside of the Frisco Bridge. Who was S.L. Lipe, I wondered, and why was he memorialized in this unusual fashion?

Well, a reader named Phoebe researched back issues of a publication called "All Aboard," which is the company newsletter for the Springfield Division of the BNSF (Burlington Northern & Santa Fe) Railroad, and in the July 2004 issue she actually turned up an obituary for Scotty L. Lipe. Here's what it says:

Sometimes a faded photograph, battered postcard, or yellowed newspaper clipping can reveal the most amazing stories. Case in point: a folder I stumbled across one day in the Memphis Room at the main library labeled “Clay Eaters.” Thinking this might be the name of a defunct rock-and-roll band (and admit it: It would make a good name), I found the folder contained a single newspaper article about one of the strangest episodes in our city’s history.

Back in 1934, it seems residents south of DeSoto Park noticed that a portion of the riverbluff near Wisconsin Street was slowly but surely disappearing. Police set up a stillwatch to nab anyone hauling dirt away from city property, but what the cops discovered was something they weren’t expecting.

People were creeping up to the bluff at night and — EATING IT.

The Commercial Appeal reported that men, women, and children were chewing away at the banks “like so many cheese hills” and had already removed more than a ton of clay and dirt.

Oh, the strange things that I have found over the years. I recently told everyone the story (or what I knew of it) of Thomas Doran, the “Armless News Boy.” So to continue that happy theme, I thought I’d share this interesting old promotional flyer from Chas. R. Bowman, a fellow from the little town of Williford, Arkansas, who called himself the “Legless Key Tag Maker.” If you think THAT is strange, read on . . .

First of all, it’s an order form, and since the bottom part has been snipped off, I assume someone previously ordered key tags from Mr. Bowman. In fact, he begins this interesting epistle by expressing his thanks, with a compelling mix of gratitude and pity that have long been the hallmarks of any correspondence from the Lauderdales. Here’s what Mr. Bowman has to say:

MY DEAR FRIEND: Your nice order received, and have filled it as requested. I wish to thank you many times for the kindness shown me, and will appreciate anything you may throw my way, as a fellow handicapped as I needs all the help in his line I can get. Am in bad health and need all the cheer I can get. Yes — lung trouble. I feel sure after you have read over my price list, you and your friends will favor me with another order.

Good grief — no legs and now lung trouble! He goes on: