And then a few days ago, a reader who identified himself only as skipchip, sent me this message:
The owner of the Tropical Freeze, Eleanora Waddell, died January 15, 2007 in Memphis. Several items from the shop were recently stored in Memphis. I have photos of some of the menu boards.

I immediately wrote back and asked for photos of the signs, and here you go (more images below). Notice that he also has a few decorative panels as well, with brightly painted palm tree designs.

Looking over the menus, the selection at the Tropical Freeze wasn't really very unusual, but you'll notice they did offer such oddities as "Tropical Sundaes" (just 35 cents), a Papaya Juice Pina Colada (25 cents), and even an ice cream flavor they called (what else?) "Tropical Freeze" ( a whole pint for just 30 cents).

Also, their "Tropical Shakes" were "made with our own Tropical Freeze — a delightful blend — of island-grown products." What's more, they were "nature's most healthful, non-fattening and refreshing flavors."

Many, many thanks for sharing all these pictures, Chip. If you want to sell any of these to the Lauderdale Library, well, you know how to reach me. (See more photos on the next page.)

As a Lauderdale, I'm familiar with most products made in Memphis, but this was a new one.

Fa-Mo Pickles! Is that short for "Famous" I wonder? And what, I also wonder, makes them so damn great? After all, they're not just good pickles. They are "The South's Most Delicious Product" and man, that's really saying something.

And are pickles really "made" in Memphis?

Yet another curious advertisement found in an old school yearbook, in this case, the 1927 Lantern of The Hutchison School.

One of the oldest — if not the oldest — schools built in Shelby County (the folks at Central and Tech will argue forever about that honor), Messick first held classes back in 1909. Over the years, the mighty Panthers trounced teams throughout the city, and kids came to regard the old red-brick building at the corner of Spottswood and Greer as a home away from home. But the buildings decayed, the school district changed, and in the early 1980s the condemned buildings fell to the bulldozer. Although some of the campus sites remain, it's not a typical high school anymore. These days the city school system calls it the Memphis Adult Education Center, and you can enroll for vo-tech courses and also earn a GED, among other things.

Wait, I have the wrong person. That dreadful experience happened when I was taking trombone lessons. And the teacher didn't use a piano lid, he used a sledge hammer. And now he is in prison.

So just let me start over. The woman pictured here was Susie DeShazo, one of the best and most talented piano teachers this city ever had. Countless musicians were influenced by her music school, which she opened in 1925 with her sister, Jenny, at 1264 Linden, just across the street from Central High School.

Miss Susie, as everyone called her, was the youngest in the family and probably the most musically gifted. An old Memphis Press-Scimitar article noted that she was "born with that sense of absolute pitch, which enabled her to recognize and produce any tone correctly."

Just as I myself was able to do on my harmonica!

A talented violinist at a very early age, she turned to the piano when she "rebelled against the squeaky sounds produced on the violin by beginners" and very quickly became "one of the South's most outstanding artists." One reviewer commented that "she possesses a superb technique. Her playing is characterized by great tonal beauty and a warmth of style that make her programs never-to-be-forgotten events."

Much like my harmonica and oboe recitals at the Lauderdale Mansion!

The original (shown here) was a tiny, 28-seat drive-in, which opened in 1937 at 3053 Summer, just across the streem from Leahy's Tourist Court (now Trailer Park). Then, in the early 1970s, a second and much larger Monte's — this one with 250 seats, a private dining room, and even an outdoor garden, opened farther east, at the corner of Summer and Isabel.

Both eateries, as you probably gathered, were owned and operated by a fellow named Monte Robinson. He got his start in the restaurant business by buying and operating the old Skillet Restaurant across the street from The Peabody. It was slow-going at first, but he made a success of it, and even purchased two other Skillet restaurant, one near the Hotel Claridge, another close to the Hotel Gayoso, along with the old Shanty Cafe on Court Square.

• The Peabody Theater

Back in the 1930s or so, Cooper-Young was like a small town, and trolley cars rumbled down Cooper and turned onto Young on their way to the fairgrounds. I managed to find a nice photo of the old building, taken in 1943, in the Memphis Room at the main library. Squint hard at the marquee and you can see they were showing (as theaters did in those days) a double feature: My Friend Flicka and Mister Big. A banner over the door reads "All The Best Features!"

The Memphis Room also had two other images of the Peabody, but I didn't bother scanning them because my scanner is too slow and I was in a hurry to get home and take my daily 8-hour nap. One showed a tiny, rather plain lobby, with a little snack bar set off to one side. The other photo showed the auditorium itself, with light fixtures dangling from the ceiling. I tried counting the seats, but gave up after 600, so the building was larger than it looks from the street.

You don't remember it? Then stop reading right here, turn off your computer, and do something productive with your lives.

But if you do remember this show, then I'm going to tell you more about it, like it or not.

First of all, the main character's name was indeed spelled "Be." I know this because some time ago I talked to a nice gentleman named Holden Potter, who produced and directed the show, and he ought to know. Mr. Be himself was a local actor named Allen Bates, who dressed up like a locomotive engineer, and this kindly old fellow served as the host to the half-hour show, which featured films and puppets, including one called Ponce de Lion (a play on the name of the Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon, you see).

"This was in the days before organized kindergarten and day care," Potter told me, "so the show was designed to fill in for that." They went with an old-timey train motif because back then, in the 1960s and 1970s, everything was high-tech and plastic, and Potter says, "We wanted to convey that grandfather image, smelling of pipe tobacco and oranges, and trains had a certain romance. Kids knew that trains could take you anywhere you wanted to go."

Does anybody even remember the polished aluminum fountain (shown here) that was installed in 1962 at the entrance to the Front Street Post Office? It seems a local group called the Gold Star Mothers raised some $50,000 for a memorial to their sons, who had died in the war, and recruited Memphis architects to design one. What they wanted was a traditional, shrine-type structure — something with nice bronze statues and granite columns.

What they got, though, was a gleaming rectangular trough, with water dripping into a big marble pool below. The Gold Star Mothers were dismayed, calling the flashy thing "a monstrosity." The designers (whose names I can't recall) defended their work, saying the fountain was "the first example in Memphis of non-representational civic sculpture." In other words, it was some of that "modern" art, and some people here didn't appreciate it. This was 1962, remember.

Well, not always. I turned up a pair of old Memphis Press-Scimitar articles that told about the darker side of operating one of these contraptions.

The first story was headlined, "Merrymobile Man Claims She Drew Pistol on Him." This being Memphis and all, I don't know why this story surprised me, but dang — who would assault a Merrymobile driver? Well, Mrs. Shirley Marie Lucas, did. In July 1963, she operated the Pecan Hill Trailer Court at 2340 Raleigh-Millington Road. She later told police that she "loved children but hated litterbugs," so one day when a Merrymobile came to a stop in front of her property, fearing that those beloved children might throw their popsicle wrappers on the ground — horrors! — she told the driver to move on. When he refused, she pulled a pistol on him!

It's not clear what happened next, though I assume the driver did indeed move on, but the story says that charges of "disturbing the peace" against Mrs. Lucas were dropped, and she pleaded not guilty to carrying a pistol. I'm sure the Merrymobile driver decided to just avoid the trailer park after that. I certainly wouldn't risk my life selling popsicles.

That's the unfortunate driver, Robert Tramel, in the photo above. The newspaper said he was "mopping his brow after the stormy court hearing."

The other event, from a child's point of view, was probably more horrifying. Just imagine a little toddler, clutching his money in his hands, waiting on the curb after hearing the cheerful tinkle of the Merrymobile bells — only to see the little cart fly by IN FLAMES! Oh, I would have nightmares for years after witnessing such a terrifying sight.

The brainchild of a local ice-cream vendor named Robert Heffelfinger, these red, white, and blue merry-go-rounds on three wheels rolled down suburban streets in the summertime. The putt-putt of the little one-cylinder engines and tinkling bells suspended from the aluminum canopy told every kid in the neighborhood, "The Merrymobile's here!" and they'd scramble outside and wait on the curb, their fists clutching nickels and dimes. The driver could reach into freezers on either side of his seat and hand out ice-cold popsicles, Buried Treasures, Drumsticks, Eskimo Pies, and other mouthwatering delights. The prices were a treat, too. Back then, a popsicle cost six cents, an ice-cream sandwich a dime.

At one time, some 80 Merrymobiles operated out of the Merrymobile Ice Cream Company's headquarters on Broad, but by 1973 the fleet had dwindled to a dozen. When the firm went out of business a few years later, most of the little cars ended up in a dump in Tipton County (or so I heard). But a handful survived, and one from the early 1950s, identified by a metal tag as number 43, sat forlornly outside Sid's Auto Frame Alignment Shop in Millington for years.

But I recently turned up a 1927 newspaper advertisement for the store's sporting goods department, and just look at the amazing selection. If you have trouble reading the ad, let me just mention a few of the items for sale, and their 1927 prices:

Spalding golf clubs (irons) — $3.50
Spalding golf clubs (woods) — $5.00
Narragansett Livewood tennis racquets — $2.95
Louisville Slugger baseball bats — $1.85
League baseballs — $1.25
Shakespeare automatic fly reel — $4.50
... and lots more

Golf bags came in "all sizes" with the prices starting at just a dollar and stretching all the way to $45, which was a stupendous amount of money to spend on a golf bag in the 1920s. For you, I mean, not for me.

Note that they also sold a baseball glove called the "Dazzy Vance" (a fine name indeed) for the rather steep price of $8.50. Nothing with the Lauderdale name on it ever came cheap, I assure you.

Melissa wrote to tell me that the old Memphis Daily Appeal newspaper from the 1860s — that's right, the EIGHTEEN 60S — is now online, where you can peruse it at your leisure. It's not available in Memphis, where you might expect, but is archived (along with many, many other newspapers) at the University of Texas in Tyler, Texas.

And my oh my, it's a treasure trove of historical tidbits. Not only are there plenty of compelling stories about the Civil War, but the newspapers back then were just packed with oddities. Such as this little item, from March 26, 1861: "We learn that the 14 men and 15 women at the Home for the Homeless are all troubled with sore eyes."

Home for the Homeless?

The Lauderdale Library contains a pair of postcards, showing this establishment from the inside and the outside. I can't tell you, exactly, when the place opened, because I just don't remember. And it's confusing because there were actually two different Chenault's, an old one and a new one. Most people seem to remember the new one (shown here).

I know this because I turned up a 1955 Press-Scimitar clipping announcing that Reginald “Rex” Chenault was planning to build a brand-new restaurant at 1400 South Bellevue, to replace his older and smaller establishment right next door. Calling it “an interesting modern building,” the newspaper observed that the new Chenault’s Drive-In “would include a public dining room of exposed brick and wood paneling, a private dining room, a tap room, and an upper level to be rented for private parties.”

Now, at least one writer said that Elvis walked across "a big field" on his way home, and several people have pondered just where that was. I surmised it could have been any of the subdivisions under construction at the time.

But my pal Ed Frank, director of Special Collections at the University of Memphis Libraries, has studied maps and aerial images of that area taken in the early 1950s, and has decided that the "big field" was Audubon Park. He provided me with the great aerial photos shown here (click on them to enlarge them). Poplar Avenue is the big street running diagonally across the bottom of both pictures. The view is looking towards the southwest, and that other big street, at the left, running north and south, is Perkins. This was years before Perkins Extended was pushed across Poplar. That's present-day Cherry Road cutting across the park.

Elvis would have walked west (to the right in the photo) down Poplar, turned south at Perkins, and then crossed Audubon Park to get to his home, which would have been towards the top of the photo.

William L. Ohman opened his first restaurant in the mid-1940s at 1358 Madison, just east of Cleveland. It was a pretty ordinary place, really, more like a drive-in, so in 1948, Ohman went all-out, building a rustic lodge behind the original restaurant. The menus proclaimed it was "a bit of Texas in Tennessee," and patrons found themselves in a rustic saloon, with rough-hewn walls, fake kerosene lanterns, and brands burned into the beams. The menu I purchased came from 1951, and it offered all sorts of "Wild West" concoctions, including Texas Shrimp ("big like Texas"), Chuck Wagon Chicken ("Pecos Bill went wild for this!"), Beef Tenderloin Steak ("It ain't bull, it's tender"), and a barbecue plate that used "only lazy, contented pigs."

(Something tells me those pigs weren't too contented about being slaughtered, but I digress.)

The cover of the menu (above) is especially interesting because it shows how Cleveland and Madison looked half a century ago. Look carefully, and on the north side of Madison you can see that a Doughty-Robinson Drug Store stood on the corner, and next to that was the Star Bowling Alley. You can see the original Ohman House #1, and behind it the Ranch House, complete with outdoor patio and a parking lot entrance adorned with a wagon wheel and the folksy message, "Y'all come back."

Across Madison, on the south side, was the Howard Graham Furniture Company, Johnnie's Shoe Repair, a beauty parlor, and Jenkin's Cafe, which apparently had a huge sign advertising Goldcrest 51 beer mounted on its roof. And across Cleveland was, then and now, Stewart Brothers Hardware.

Drivers on Summer could hardly miss the clean lines of the massive building just east of Mendenhall, with a facade of rough stone that framed a wall of glass panels. "SKATELAND" was spelled out in red neon along the roof, and three winged shoes — complete with spinning neon wheels — provided a crowning touch. Anyone still not clear about what went on there could also read, in giant red neon letters, "Roller Skate for Health."

Inside, sweeping trusses of laminated wood supported a high wooden dome that arched over one of the largest rinks in town. A neon signboard mounted on the back wall gave skaters their instructions: "All Skate," "Trios," "Reverse," "Grand March," and when the session came to an end, "Skates Off."

A couple of things about this photo caught my eye. First of all, I admired the little Nash Metropolitan parked out front, since the Lauderdales own an identical vehicle (though, unfortunately, not running). Next, you'll notice what looks like a shack next door, part of the old McKinney-Truse neighborhood, a cluster of houses that was demolished to make way for businesses.

I wish I could see the Hi-Boy sign better in this photo, but it's just too small here.

And finally, if you squint really hard, you may be able to make out the gleaming-white 1960s-era Texaco gas station way in the distance, where Mt. Moriah and old Mt. Moriah split apart. It's an empty lot today.

And yet, I have never found a decent photograph of such an unusual business. Some years ago, I managed to find a nice color image of a group of White Station students sitting in their cars in the Tropical Freeze parking lot. That showed the fountain pretty well, but the photographer was aiming his camera away from the building itself, so that's all you saw.

In the 1940s and 1950s, the intersection of Summer and White Station was a major gateway to our city, so owners opened quite a variety of attractions there that were designed to appeal to motorists — well, and Memphians, too. Nestled close to that corner were the Skateland roller-skating rink, the original Summer Drive-In (before it moved east and became the Twin, then the Quartet), a handful of small restaurants, and a rather interesting motel called the Crescent Lake Tourist Court.

The owner of the Crescent Lake was a fellow named Frank Ingalls, and he erected a row of handsome cottages around a small crescent-shaped pond. I have two postcards, and each one brags that the Crescent Lake was “recommended by Duncan Hines” and is “one of America’s finest.” The place featured steam heat and 100% air-conditioning, “each cottage with tile bath,” “attached garage with overhead locked doors,” radio and telephone, and Beautyrest mattresses and box springs. What’s more, the Crescent Lake was supposedly just “20 minutes from Main Street” (traveling at 60 mph, I imagine) and there was a restaurant “within two blocks.”

And what a bargain: A single room was just $4, and doubles went for $5 and $6.

I should explain, first of all, that the Luau was our city's answer to the Polynesian-themed restaurant craze that inexplicably swept across this country in the 1960s. I have no idea what prompted it. Every city had such a place, it seems, featuring exotic interiors with waterfalls and coconuts and lots of bamboo, thatched roofs and palm trees on the outside, and a menu that — well, more about that later. Many of them were also decorated with those giant stone heads like you've seen on Easter Island.

What do you mean, you've never been to Easter Island? Well, surely you've seen pictures of the place, haven't you? If not, stop right here and Google it, and then resume reading. Ready? Okay then. Let's move on.

"It is 1956 and Elvis travels to New York to tape The Steve Allen Show. His on-air performance includes 'Hound Dog.' The next day he takes the train from New York to Memphis.

"Somewhere in the area of White Station (on Poplar) the train stops and Elvis gets off alone so he can walk to the Presley family home on Audubon Drive. It is believed the train stopped somewhere between Mendenhall and Colonial Roads.

"This is a special moment in Elvis' life as he had not yet reached the level of fame that prevented him from walking home alone in Memphis. The scene is part of the DVD Elvis 56 and it shows Elvis waving to the train. Photographer Albert Wertheimer captured the moment from the train of Elvis walking on Poplar Avenue (above) in the direction of downtown (perhaps waiting for the train to pass so he could cross over the tracks?).

"In one of Wertheimer's photos, a Town and Country Barber Shop is visible in the background. Do you have any way of locating where the barber shop once stood? Does the building still stand?

"Thank you, Shane McDonough, Lowell, Massachusetts"

They were usually low-rent affairs, set up outside abandoned gas stations and drive-ins. At first, the trampolines were mounted on steel frames above the ground, but to avoid disasters the owners eventually placed the mats over shallow holes surrounded by sand, just like in the pictures here — so somebody wouldn't bounce off the things and break their necks, you see. And that's why they were called trampoline PITS.

Still, there were casualties. Kids would hop and leap and tumble and suddenly bounce off the side of the mat and land smack on their little heads. Schools across this great land were filled with poor little children, their faces battered black and blue, their heads swathed in thick bandages, groaning in agony as they shuffled down the hallway, dragging their broken legs behind them. You'd see them and think "Another senseless trampoline tragedy."

Now, if that won't get you out of the house to buy that magazine, well, I just don't know what will.

Anyway, space prevented me from including in that column a couple of old magazine advertisements for the Whirlaway Club, so I thought I'd include them here, for your viewing pleasure. Man oh man, you can tell it was one happening place. Why, it stayed open until 4 a.m., which would be — let's see — oh, about 8 hours past my bedtime. The ad at the top is from 1972, and the one below shows the stage and dance floor in 1968. Take a close look at that picture. What's really interesting, to me, is that back in 1968, the Whirlaway Club band was integrated. Well, at least the band was.

Does anybody know who these guys were? Or any of the dancers, for that matter?

I'm proud to say that records indicate the Lauderdales contributed $10 towards this worthy cause. Our generosity knows no bounds!

The Grand Opera House opened on the southwest corner of Main and Beale on September 22, 1890. The Memphis Avalanche (one of the best-named newspapers of all time) called the premiere "the most brilliant theatrical and social success in the history of Memphis." Don't mince words, Avalanche reporter! The stunning building, constructed of Bedford limestone from Indiana, soon attracted some of the biggest stars of the American stage. Sarah Bernhardt, Lillian Russell, W.C. Fields, John Philip Sousa, and countless others performed at the Grand.

In 1926, one of the highest-paid performers in vaudeville appeared on stage in Memphis. He certainly hadn’t made his name as a singer or dancer, and he couldn’t play a note, but it was standing-room-only when the Sultan of Swat — yes, Babe Ruth himself — stepped into the lights at the Pantages Theater downtown and chatted about his amazing career with the New York Yankees.

Built in 1921 as part of a nationwide chain, the Pantages, which stood on the east side of Main Street between Monroe and Union, was considered the grandest theater in town. A brilliantly lighted marquee stretched the full width of the gleaming white, terra-cotta facade, and every inch of the interior was covered in ornate, gilded plasterwork. When the theater first opened, it staged vaudeville acts — W.C. Fields and Buster Keaton were other stars who played there — and showed silent films. In 1930, it was sold to Warner Bros. Pictures to showcase their new “talking pictures” and the name was changed to the Warner Theater. The first “talkie” Memphians saw at the Warner was General Crack, starring John Barrymore.

The 1,900-seat theater thrived for three decades, an especially popular attraction in the summer, when families drove downtown to enjoy the newfangled invention called “air conditioning.” But the Warner — and its sister theaters downtown, including the Malco, Loew’s Palace, and Loew’s State — began to struggle in the 1960s, when smaller theaters opened in the suburbs and audiences began to stay home and watch television. In 1963, Memphis Press-Scimitar columnist Edwin Howard observed that the Warner, “one of the important links in the Pantages vaudeville chain of the 1920s, [is] still going strong as a motion-picture palace.”

Just five years later, however, officials with the National Bank of Commerce selected that block of Main Street for a 33-story office tower. On December 8, 1968, after the showing of Coogan’s Bluff, the Warner closed. The contents were auctioned off, and bulldozers brought down the old vaudeville palace a few months later. NBC’s Commerce Square stands on the site today.

PHOTO COURTESY BENJAMIN HOOKS CENTRAL LIBRARY