New Year's Eve Guest Star

Hold onto your guitar lovin’, good-time-havin’ hats. Mike’s band, Rob and the Rage, will have a special guest star sitting in with them for New Year’s Eve. If you’ve checked Mike’s music schedule (below, right), you know that they’re playing New Year’s Eve, 10:30 p.m. – 1:30 a.m. at the Horseshoe Casino in Tunica. Here’s the announcement, exclusive to The Plunk Chronicles. Drum roll, please.

Guitar God James Burton will take the stage with them. What a coup! When Burton was inducted in 2001 into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, he was introduced by Keith Richards, guitar player for the Rolling Stones and self-proclaimed, longtime Burton fan. Richards said: "I never bought a Ricky Nelson album, I bought a James Burton album.”

Also a member of the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, Burton was assessed in the following way by a rock ‘n roll critic: "Burton has a well-deserved reputation as one of the finest guitar pickers in either country or rock ... [Burton is] one of the best guitars players to ever touch a fretboard."

Burton’s early career featured a stint as guitar player for Ricky Nelson on the tv show and on his biggest hits. From 1968-77, he was Elvis Presley’s lead guitar player. During that time, he also worked with Emmylou Harris, who was so insistent on having him in her band that she planned her tours around Elvis’ schedule so Burton would be available. For 15 years, he worked with John Denver.

The Louisiana-born player turned pro at age 14. In addition to playing lead guitar for many notables, he cut two solo albums and was so in-demand as a recording session player that he sometimes worked 25 sessions a week. His schedule even forced him, at one time, to turn down an offer to tour with Bob Dylan.

Here’s a partial list of people Burton’s worked with.
Johnny Cash

Elvis Costello
Jerry Lee Lewis

Roy Orbison
Glen Campbell

Dean Martin
Rodney Crowell

The Everly Brothers
Merle Haggard

Buck Owens
Frank Sinatra

Bob Mosley
Bobby Darrin

J.J. Cale
Hoyt Axton

Jesse Winchester

And now with Mike, Rob, Eddie and Terry. Make your plans now.

You can read more about James Burton at his official website and his myspace site:
http://www.james-burton.net/biography.html
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=159226802

'Life as Lucy Ricardo' -- Again

Sis-in-law Judy said that she particularly likes the “My Life as Lucy Ricardo” stories, so I’ll once again embarrass myself with the fifth in this series.

In our way-back first marriage, Mike and I moved from the tiny, one-bedroom apartment just across the tracks from Memphis State into what felt like a roomy rental house just a few blocks further away. It had two bedrooms, one bath and an actual, but smallish, dining room between the kitchen and living room. As an older house, it was heated by floor furnaces which weren’t desirable except to stand over them in a long nightgown on a wintry morning. It required a lot of initial paint due to the fact that the entire interior was Pepto Bismol pink. What was somebody thinking! But we liked it, and our little dog, Pepper Pot, liked the big back yard.

One night Mike was playing a club gig, and Pepper and I were on the sofa watching tv when I noted movement in the little hall that led to the bedrooms, bath and around the corner to the dining room and kitchen. I got up and moved closer. Apparently out of the floor furnace had crawled the largest, blackest, nastiest, scariest giant spider I’d ever seen. It looked like a tarantula on steroids.

It seems that I recall momentary screaming, but I protectively grabbed Pepper, threw him into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. I wasn’t going to allow that monster to eat my dog. Nope. He’d have to deal with me.

I jumped back in the living room and grabbed the first weapon I found – a newspaper which I folded for battle. Of course as I jumped back, the thing crept forward, so there was probably more screaming. I bravely initiated confrontation, however, and thrust the paper on the floor toward him. There were two good reasons for that move: I didn’t want him to attack me, and I didn’t want him to go back into the floor furnace where he could hide and sneak back out later. The furnace wasn’t on, so the option of roasting him wasn’t available.

The spare bedroom door was closed so I wouldn’t lose him in there. I needed to stop him from heading down the connecting hall to the dining room and other parts. The bathroom door was open making it my target.

So the monster and I began a little choreography. I’d scooch the paper, and he’d go a bit in the desired direction. He’d advance toward me, and I’d yelp and slightly retreat. He’d move his eight, creepy legs toward the other hall, and I’d use the paper to block his way. And over again. Our little dance wasn’t exactly salsa. It was more like the thrust and parry of an Errol Flynn sword fight, but with more screaming.

Eventually, he entered the bathroom and I pulled the door shut. Ah ha! I felt safer so I paused to catch my breath. But the thing was still alive and healthy. I had to cure that. From the kitchen, I retrieved a can of bug spray and prepared to do battle again. I creaked open the bathroom door, spraying the bug killer on the tile floor as I opened it to scare away the little demon. When I got a decent view of the small room, I could see that the spider was hiding. My guess was that he was on the other side of the toilet. With my left hand clutching the doorknob so I could slam it shut if threatened, I started spraying everything that was within firing range of my protected spot. It’s a wonder I didn’t poison myself with all the fumes.

Satisfied, I backed into the hall and slammed the door closed smugly believing that I had prevailed. But then I observed the bathroom light shining out from under the door. He could escape. I proceeded to lay down a thick coat of the spray around all four sides of the doorframe. Now! He couldn’t possibly live through that onslaught or escape.

I had only enjoyed my triumph for a couple of minutes when the next problems presented themselves for consideration:
1. I was not going to be the one to dispose of the dead body.
2. We only had one bathroom.
3. It was late already, but Mike wouldn’t be home for hours.

It actually didn’t take long to find the solution. Any good general knows when it’s time for a strategic withdrawal. I gathered Pepper from the bedroom, got my purse and car keys, and taped a note to the bathroom door.
“Mike -- There’s a big, dead spider in here. Please get rid of

it. I'm at Mother's. I'll call in the morning."

New feature

Just in case someone wants to see what's been written in the Plunk Chronicles in specific areas, I've (tediously) sorted all previous postings into categories. Each individual post indicates its category. The full list of labels is located under the Young Plunks photo down a bit on the right. By clicking on any of the labels you'll call up all posts in that category. Yes, some of the posts are cross-referenced. I couldn't make up my mind.

Also, that cute little envelope at the end of each post on the line that shows comments allows you to email a particular post to someone who'd be interested.

Oh -- the current Young Plunks photo was taken after I was in my sis Betty's wedding. You knew that was a bridesmaid's dress, right?

Brokaw Goes Boom!

Tom Brokaw spoke at a luncheon in Memphis last week to promote his new book, Boom! Voices of the Sixties. In his last book, The Greatest Generation, Brokaw told stories of World War II, heroism, sacrifice and the social change that ensued. Boom is about the baby boomers who followed the end of WWII. He interviewed several current-day leaders, such as Presidents Clinton and Bush, who are boomers and devoted an entire section to the music of the sixties.

He said that never before has a period of music represented such innovation and endured for so long. In the 40s and 50s, there was no popular demand for the music from 20-40 years before. Today there’s at least one classic rock radio station in every city of any size.

The sixties were turbulent. It was probably the most dramatic era of social change ever. Brokaw said that the grown-up boomers may represent the only generation in which parents are cooler than their children.

Mike and I are proud baby boomers. As the huge group of us rolled like a tidal wave into our teens and started spending money, we became – and still are – prime marketing targets for all manner of products and services. For instance, have you ever seen the number of ads for (active) retirement communities as you do now? Boomers are retiring from the work force and aren’t sitting at home, gray-haired, waiting for the grandkids to visit. We’ve brought about change throughout our lives.

I entered East High School in the seventh grade and distinctly remember the crowd of us sitting in the auditorium for nearly a week while administrators and teachers scrambled to create new homeroom groupings, add classes and generally figure out where to put us. Guess they didn’t see us coming. It was that way throughout our junior and senior high experience.

When it came time to plan graduation, they called all the seniors into the auditorium for a meeting. East had a wonderful, large auditorium with a theater-style slope for good viewing, an orchestra pit, ample stage and spacious wings for all the things that go on back there. Every graduating class had received diplomas on that stage. That year – it was questionable.

All the other high schools in town held graduation downtown at the large Ellis Auditorium. They offered that option to us. The alternative would be to crowd bleacher-type seating onto the stage for a rather crowded event. The principal called for the vote and, almost unanimously, we chose to spring into adulthood from the stage that was filled with so many memories.

In doing so, we became the last seniors to graduate from East’s auditorium. The summer following graduation marked the tragic auto accident which claimed the life of Joel P. Snider, a silver-haired gentleman and our revered principal, who had been at the helm since East first opened nearly 20 years before.

It was the end of an era.

Tom Lee Park

One of our city tour stops during Charlotte’s visit was a lovely spot at the river, Tom Lee Park. It’s tucked between the banks of the Mighty Mississippi and Riverside Drive – a curving street, bound by Dogwood trees which is breathtaking in the spring. The park is a mile-long strip that never exceeds 400 feet in width. Up on the bluff overlooking the park and the river are multi-million dollar, luxury homes and condos that belong to the likes of native Memphian (and East High grad) Cybill Shepherd.

It’s a pretty park friendly to walkers, joggers and roller-bladers and provides probably the best walk-along view of the river. I suspect, however, that many in Memphis have enjoyed visits to the park without knowing who Tom Lee was and why the park bears his name. We’re fixing that.

In the spring of 1925 when racial lines were still drawn very tightly, Tom Lee, an African-American resident of Memphis, steered his 28-foot skiff upriver toward the city after delivering an official to Helena, AR, also on the river. About 15 miles south of Memphis, Lee saw a steamboat, the M.E. Norman, which carried members of the local Engineers Club, the American Society of Civil Engineers, and their families. As he watched more carefully, he saw the steamboat capsizing into the swift currents.

Without a second thought and with no regard for the fact that he couldn’t swim, Lee turned his skiff toward the men, women and children being tossed into the dangerous waters. In total, he made five trips to shore, saved 32 lives and continued searching the river well into the darkness.

Knowing that big river as we do back here, the thought of a non-swimmer stretching over the side of a small boat and dragging in just one struggling person presents a frightening picture. But surely, Mr. Lee loaded his boat as full as he could each time –noting what could become too full and dump them all into the fast-running river – and he did it repeatedly. Because of his bravery and diligence, only 23 people were lost that day. Without him, all would have certainly perished.

As an expression of gratitude, the Memphis Engineers Club raised enough money to buy a house for Lee and his wife. Two years after his death in 1952, the riverfront park was named in his honor and a granite obelisk was erected with an explanatory plaque.
On our visit a week ago, we also saw an amazing statue which neither Mike nor I had ever seen before. The work depicts Tom Lee leaning out of his skiff to rescue another survivor. The photo above is a close-up. The entire work is life-size and includes an outstretched victim clutching a piece of wood and with his arm straining over his head, reaching for Tom Lee. The victim’s mouth is open in a scream. Their fingers are inches apart. It’s a beautiful, moving piece of sculpture. The three of us circled it more than once, and I took Tom Lee’s hand.

Besides giving daily pleasure to Memphians year-round, the park is the site of the Memphis is May sunset symphony and the Beale St. music festival. The Today Show also sets up each year to cover the barbecue cook-off attracting hundreds of competitors from around the world (but probably not Texas).

Just for Fun

This is a Tonight Show clip of a lady from Arkadelphia, AR who revived a chicken with CPR. She's really funny, but the reactions from Terry Bradshaw are priceless.

Stranger Than Strange

Memphis hosts innumerable conventions every year. The beautiful spring and fall weather and ample entertainment opportunities make it a perfect location for gatherings of churches, professional groups, political organizations and many others.

But this one tops the cake – or maybe the kibble. On the Friday night news we learned about the 11th annual Memphis Fur Meet. Participants didn’t bring their dogs and cats; they WERE the dogs and cats. Apparently, there’s a subculture of folks across the country who enjoy getting into full-body animal suits, demonstrating their animal personas and nicknames, and gathering together – for whatever. Some go around on all fours. Many are seen to stroke and pet each other, but there was a code of conduct posted at the hotel explaining what not to do in public.

The “furmeets” are held across the nation and generally attract 600-700 critters. The Memphis meet is one of the largest. I’m so proud. This meet was sponsored by the MST3A (Mid-South & Tennessee Anthropomorphic Arts Association). The group describes itself as “a non-profit organization, created to foster and promote the appreciation of anthropomorphic arts, literature and culture.” I’m sure you know, but anthropomorphic means ascribing human traits to non-humans – like when I think my kitty Scarlett is rolling her eyes at me and saying “Oh, puh-leeze.”

They call themselves “furries,” and, for the most part, they’re men. One participant told the tv reporter that the perponderance of men explains the abundance of “power” animals such as wolves and jungle cats. One guy interviewed on camera said that he is a professional werewolf. I’m not sure what you’d hire a werewolf to do, but I don’t want to think about that very long.

If that’s not odd enough, here’s the other thing that I thought was quite peculiar about Friday night’s news story: the convention took place on Labor Day weekend. Gee, I thought news was supposed to be current. Guess I missed something in journalism 101.

Cha-Cha from CA

Long-time dear friend Charlotte from CA paid the Plunks a visit this week, and we had a great time. We did a driving tour of Memphis including some of the fine, old homes, the bright, new buildings of the University of Memphis, a breezy walk along the Mighty Mississippi River, and a visit to Beale St. for some outstanding barbecue, blues and beer – the Three Bs of Memphis.

Fortunately, Mike and the band had one night left at Fitzgerald’s when Char arrived so she could experience the adventures of hangin’ with the band. Bless her heart, she helped me get through some pent-up demand for shopping – and saved Mike from enduring the experience. We celebrated her birthday with a girls’ dinner out one evening, then Mike and I did our dinner-on-the-grill for her on the last night. It was every bit as good as our fancy dinner the night before. Hey, we even scared up a noisy, light-show thunderstorm for her one night – a rarity for Californians.

It was great to have her visit, and I’m now confident that she can return to CA and report to other friends that I’m neither barefoot and toothless nor hoop-skirted and lounging on the verandah. The Plunks are still pretty much the Plunks.

Mama and Boss Crump

E.H. “Boss” Crump was the major power broker in Memphis and, ultimately, Tennessee, for nearly 50 years. He was first a successful businessman who then stepped into the political arena and started building his machine. He was twice a delegate to the Democratic State Convention and served on a couple of county commissions before running for mayor. He only chose to serve three two-year terms before stepping aside when he could hand-pick the next couple of successors.

Crump was a delegate to the Democratic National Convention, was elected to Congress, served on the Democratic National Committee, and was a regent of the Smithsonian Institute – all the while keeping a hand on the running of Memphis and the rest of the state as he “chose” a couple of governors. Crump always had "Big Shelby (county)" to roll in the needed votes. He decided to “run” for mayor again, but purportedly said that he preferred behind-the-scenes operations.

His rise to power made more than a few people uncomfortable, including the legislators in Nashville. They passed a bill, “The Ouster Law,” in an attempt to bring him into line -- unsuccessfully. The bill was intended to remove elected officials who did not enforce State law. The target was Boss Crump who had a rather lax hand in upholding Prohibition.

Although Crump ruled with absolutism, his influence on the city was primarily positive. Utility services were combined for efficiency; streets were clean; the Fire Department was improved; crime rates were in control; and he kept taxes low, even reducing property tax a few pennies each year. His government was modest and frugal because cheap government was good politics.

Many of these benefits still exist in Memphis, but there was a dark side. Criticism and public opposition were not allowed. Here’s a piece from a paper on Memphis history of that era:
“All were forced to pay homage to the boss. Newcomers learned how the system worked. A jeweler opening a business on Main Street, for instance, learned that city inspectors would not approve his building unless he purchased an insurance policy from E. H. Crump and Company.”

The city honored his reign with E.H. Crump Stadium, the first major football stadium in town, and by erecting an eight-foot-tall bronze statue of him at the entrance to Overton Park

But that’s not the real story. That’s the prequel for the non-Memphians so they’ll understand the reality of Boss Crump.

The Real Story

My mother was the daughter of a minister/evangelist and was raised in a pretty sheltered environment, but steeped in the welcoming, good nature necessary for the preacher’s family. The day after she graduated from high school in small Danville, Kentucky, she was put on a train to the big city of Memphis to enter nursing school. Yes, that’s cute student nurse mom in the photo above.

One night as she was doing floor duty at Baptist Hospital, one of the R.N.s instructed her to go down to a patient room and tell the folks that visiting hours were over. Mother obediently marched down the hall, into the room and politely explained that visiting hours were over and that they’d need to leave.

The distinguished-looking gentleman across the room rose from his chair and announced, “My name is E.H. Crump.” True to her nature and newness, Mother strode across the room, extending her hand and said, “My name is Martha Petroff and I’m pleased to meet you, but you still need to leave now.” My mama and the Boss.

Well, if I were making this up, Mr. Crump and his friends would leave with heads hung low. In fact, he completely ignored her and she had to go back and report her failure to the R.N. who – aghast – explained to Mother that Mr. Crump could, and would, stay as long as he pleased. I guess it was Mother’s introduction to big city politics.