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?

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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”:

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?

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.

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?

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:

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.

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:

The graves are all in a row, lying within a long stone border. The inscriptions on the seven stones read:

Elwynne May Archer (May 26, 1921 - May 26, 1921)

Twin Dorothy May Archer (Dec. 22, 1922 - June 15, 1923)

Twin Alvaray Archer (Dec. 22, 1922 - June 5, 1923)

Glenda Elizabeth Archer (May 1, 1935 - July 2, 1935)

Was he a Memphian? Most biographies give very basic information about his life, but I have seen more than one photograph of Decker stamped "MEMPHIS" at the bottom, which indicates that — even if he wasn't actually born here — he must have visited this city during one of his American tours.

As you can see from this photo, at 21 years of age, he stood only 31 inches high and weighed only 45 pounds. According to a blog called The American Sideshow, Decker was born in 1855, but nobody seems to know where, exactly. The blog entry continues:

"Naturally, he claimed to be the Smallest Man in the World. When touring dime museums throughout the country, Decker took a cue from other popular little people [such as "General" Tom Thumb] and often bestowed a military rank upon himself. The midget was often called Major or more prestigiously, General.
In addition to being known for his size, Decker was also known for his intelligence and was said to have been a mechanical genius. Unfortunately, the little man with the big brain had his life cut short. Charles Decker passed away in Chicago at the age of 38, on Oct. 28, 1893."

Did he ever live in Memphis? I just don't know. Does anybody?

Just as it is damn frustrating when I can not find the image depicted on the card.

And here is a perfect example. A rather dull postcard, really, showing an old car, or possibly a delivery van, crossing (or parked on), a fine-looking stone bridge in Riverside Park (nowadays known as Martin Luther King Riverside Park). We know this because it's actually printed on the front of the card. The back of the card, just so you'll know, give us no clues: it was never used, and never stamped or postmarked, so it doesn't give us a date.

Sorry for the moire pattern caused by my cheap scanner, folks. (Moire? Look it up.) Anyway, if you scrutinize the card, all you'll glean is that the roadway seems to run parallel to a rather deep chasm and then takes an abrupt turn — maybe not a 90-degree turn, but a turn nevertheless — and crosses over a really fine stone bridge, with stone posts at each end. I can't tell if the bridge spans a creek or just a ditch, and I also can't tell what the road does on the other side. The landscape in the background is frustratingly vague. But here's the thing: I've driven all over Riverside Park, and — unless I'm missing something — there is no place where the road does this, and more to the point, there is no stone bridge.

So where was this? My readers — okay, make that ONE reader — very quickly found the location of the building that I thought was an old school (see the post below about the Calvary Rescue Mission), so once again I turn to you for help. Find this location today, please, so I can get some rest.

In the May issue of Memphis magazine, my ne'er-do-well colleague Michael Finger tells the compelling story of East End Park, one of this area's most elaborate entertainment complexes. Opened in the late 1880s, East End featured rides, games, fireworks shows, and some of the most bizarre vaudeville performances you could ever imagine. I mean, it's not every day that you see somebody called "The Human Bomb" in action. But I don't intend to tell you the whole story here. Please purchase a magazine — a bargain at just $3.99 — and read it for yourself.

But this isn't about East End Park. Instead, I wanted to mention its neighbor, a little-known amusement park in Memphis called Fairyland Park, which stood (according to some accounts) just east of East End, with an entrance on Poplar or — depending on who you believe — Madison. And I bring all this up because somebody on eBay is currently selling an old postcard (above) showing the Fairyland Park Theatre — a rather elaborate building, judging from the image. Too bad it doesn't show more of the park, though.

The eBay item number is 390045848837, and the current price is $24.99 — unfortunately, a bit more than I can afford at the moment, though I suppose the Lauderdale Library could apply for a grant or something.

I just wanted to share that with you. If anybody knows anything else about Fairyland Park, well, you know how to reach me.

Last week, I posted an old (and undated) photograph of what I assumed was a school building, and asked readers if they knew where it was. Well, it only took keen-eyed realtor and history buff Joe Spake about one hour to find the building and send me a nice photo as it looks today (above). As you can see, it's changed very little over the years, and is now home to the Calvary Rescue Mission. Too bad that their sign covers up some of the fine architectural ornamentation on the front of the building, but I'm glad it's still standing. The address, if you want to see for yourself, is 960 South Third.

But was it a school? Apparently not, and a second look at the original photo makes me realize this was a broader group of people (in age, I mean) than would have attended a school. So I dug through old city directories, which is how I spend my Saturday nights, and determined that in the late 1930s through the late 1940s (when the original photo was taken), the building was the First Assembly of God Church, the Rev. Albert Pickthorn, pastor. Later, the Rev. James Hamill took over.

Hmmm, now that I list some of them, perhaps they really weren't that compelling after all. They certainly seemed so when I was writing them. When I was drunk, I mean.

Anyway, I was using a blog software program called "Vance Lauderdale's Blog-0-Matic" and wouldn't you know it, the dang batteries in the thing went dead, and even Radio Shack couldn't find the right voltage. So we've switched to a new, better program, but you'll have to put up with me until I learn such basic blog skills as typing, spelling, reading without moving my lips, and going to Sunday School.

In the meantime, though, I thought I'd post a photo of an old school that I discovered tucked inside a book purchased at a recent estate sale.

Unfortunately, some of these people have been waiting a rather long time. The problem is that I now have far more questions than I can ever answer — not at these pitiful wages, anyway — and right now I’m looking at a box on my desk filled with some 300 queries from readers. Some of these epistles are more challenging than others (heck, sometimes I’m not even sure of the question), so I thought I’d pick out just a few and post them here, in hopes that you — dear readers — can help with the answers:

• What was the date that two very unhappy elephants escaped from the Memphis Zoo and caused great excitement in the residential neighborhoods north of Overton Park? — R.H., Gadsden, Alabama

But when the massive fountain was unveiled back in 1876, topped with the statue of Hebe, that octagonal basin was actually a concrete moat more than six feet deep, often stocked with catfish, turtles, and — if you can believe some accounts — a couple of alligators. And there was no fence around it. If anybody thought the showpiece of Court Square was a hazard, they never worried about it until the afternoon of August 26, 1884.

That day, 10-year-old Claude Pugh, described as “a newsboy and small for his age,” was sitting on the stone rim of the fountain, playing with a toy boat in the water. He leaned too far over and tumbled in, and since the bottom of the fountain was sloped, and slippery from algae, he couldn’t regain his footing.

After traipsing back and forth over the entire northeast corner of the park, this is what I discovered. First of all, stretching northward from Walnut Grove, about 100 yards west of Germantown Parkway, is an almost-overgrown stretch of asphalt that was once a driveway leading to a 1930s house on the property that everyone calls the “ranger’s house.” There was no park ranger when this house was occupied, however; it was actually the residence of a county agricultural agent, back when the park was the Shelby County Penal Farm.

The house was demolished years ago, but if you look closely, you can find some concrete walls that were apparently part of the basement, lots of bricks, and even some cast-iron pipes. That’s all that remains of the house. Nearby are plants that you normally wouldn’t find growing in the wild: rows of daffodils, yucca plants, and even a huge (but quite dead) prickly-pear cactus — apparently all that is left of a garden.

The driveway stops just past where the old house once stood, but if you keep following a trail into the woods (as I did), you eventually come to the ruins of the barn I discovered back in September. It’s much the worse for wear, but still standing, and if you follow the path a bit farther, you eventually come to the mysterious gravestone propped against the base of an ancient tree, inscribed with the birth and death dates of Robert and Mary Mann. As I said back in September, I don’t think anyone is actually buried here; for reasons we may never know, this fine grave marker was moved to this place. The stone was cracked when I first found it, and it’s now barely held together with a rusty metal brace bolted to the back.

I did make a new discovery this time: About 20 yards west of this mysterious marker is the base of another tombstone, almost overgrown with weeds. But I found no traces of open graves or brick-lined vaults, which some readers say they found in the area years ago. If they are still there, they are so overgrown (or filled in) that I couldn’t see them (and boy, I walked all over that area).

I should mention that I’ve done some other research as well, but came up empty-handed. A three-volume book on Shelby County cemeteries (which even includes solitary burials here and there in the countryside) does not include any mention of the Mann gravestone. And a search of Shelby County death records (online through the Shelby County Assessor’s Office) has no listing for Robert or Mary Mann in the late 1800s.

So it comes to this: My several visits to Shelby Farms have revealed just about all the physical clues that exist. But they have, unfortunately, brought me no closer to the basic question that was asked so many months ago: Who were Robert and Mary Mann, and why were they buried in such a lonely spot?

The truth is that in recent months, I have actually received several inquiries about this mysterious tombstone, the barn, and the cars. But I did nothing about it because delving into this would require superhuman physical effort — namely, walking in the woods — and the Lauderdales have never been known for their wilderness adventures. Also, none of the previous queries gave me the precise location of these oddities, and the idea of getting lost in the forest, covered with ticks and brambles, just made my skin crawl.

But one pleasant Saturday afternoon, my colleague offered to guide me to this strange site, so off we went. I can’t really tell you the exact location, except that it’s in the far northeastern corner of the park. You basically start from Gate 13, hike across a field, then plunge into the woods and trudge along a dirt trail for what seems like 40 miles. And if you look closely, you’ll start to notice many interesting things.