Campaign Factoid

In this political season when your mailbox is overflowing with campaign literature, you might want to know where it all started. Well, it was a Tennessean who added mass communications to the political process.

Seventh President Andrew Jackson is credited for producing, among other things, the first campaign mass mailing. His two presidential victories were the result of attracting voters from across a wide spectrum.

Jackson, the innovator, was described as follows by a Presidential historian:

"The United States’ seventh president and the first 'everyman' to be elected to our highest office, Jackson was early America’s most vocal champion of democracy. His legacy can be seen every day in contemporary politics — when candidates roll up their sleeves and don hard hats to demonstrate that they are regular folks, when America’s foreign policy heralds the spread of democracy across the planet."

The historian further wrote:

"When Jackson won the election in 1828, he did so over John Quincy Adams, the incumbent and son of a founding father, John Adams. It was a classic match-up of establishment versus outsider, aristocracy versus everyman. For Jackson’s inauguration, the capital was flooded with an unprecedented influx of well-wishers. Observers compared the throngs to the “inundation of the northern barbarians into Rome” and spoke of their lives “without deference to fashion.” Jackson himself shook 10,000 hands.

"Since then, every president has been an aspiring Jacksonian."

And now you know the rest of the story. It started in Tennessee.

You Can Tell You're From Memphis If . . .

. . . you know what to call our four bridges that span the Mississippi River (which, by the way is the world's fourth largest river).

The first bridge to cross the river at Memphis was the Frisco in 1892. That's an easy one. It's the railroad bridge.

Next was the Harahan Bridge. Built in 1916, the wooden structure claimed the lives of 23 construction workers before completion. The wooden planks were removed ages ago to prevent usage, but the superstructure remains. Generally, no one calls it anything. I think it gets mentally blended with the railroad bridge. They're snuggled up next to each other.

The first modern bridge across Big Muddy was the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge, finished in 1949. There's even a sign in the middle of the bridge to indicate when you've crossed from Tennessee waters into Arkansas water. I've never noticed that the water looks much different, though. This is the one known as the "old bridge."

Upriver from the three bridges is the "new bridge." It went into service in 1971. More than 30 years old, the Hernando DeSoto Bridge may forever be the new bridge. Even newscasters refer to it as the new bridge, although I heard one reporter call it the "M Bridge." You can tell why from the picture above. You can spot a newcomer a conversational mile away: they call it the I-40 bridge.

Gotcha, yankee!

Mike Solves UFO Question

You probably heard that earlier this month dozens and dozens of people in Texas, most of whom with a lot of credibility, spotted UFOs. The mysterious crafts were at a low level and at least one was estimated to have a diameter of about a mile. The mother ship, I'm guessing. The nearby air base responded to the reports by saying that they had no aircraft in the area.

Now, a couple of weeks later amid great speculation, the military has changed its mind and released a new statement yesterday saying that, in fact, they had six jets doing maneuvers on the night in question. The fellow who made the original statement issued a retraction saying "my bad." I suppose the eyewitnesses in Texas had just not seen jets before.

Mike, however, clearly saw through the cover-up. "I don't know why it's not clear to everyone," he said. "It's no coincidence that the incident happened on January 8 -- Elvis' birthday! He probably visits every year."

The Real Thang

Rock and Roll Hall of Famer James Burton (right) poses with Mike when Burton was New Year's Eve guest star with Mike's band, Rob and the Rage, at the Horseshoe Casino.

Burton played lead guitar for Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Emmylou Harris, Frank Sinatra and others. There was barely standing room for the New Year's Eve performance.

Will the Real Memphis Please Stand Up?

There’s an abomination crouching on the riverbluff near downtown Memphis. The “thing” is a 32-story, stainless steel pyramid. Unfortunately, the shiny eyesore can be seen for miles in the rearview mirror as one crosses the I-40 bridge into Arkansas.

The pyramid was built as an “arena,” a venue for U/Mem basketball, concerts, trade shows, etc. There was supposed to be a Hard Rock Café at the top of the thing and shops galore everywhere. The hulking giant has more than a half million square feet of “usable” space. The footprint is larger than six football fields. Seating capacity is about 20,000.

The pyramid was the concept of an out-of-towner (carpet bagger) whose name I won’t print here, but it rhymes with city slicker. Memphians will tell you that there was a lot of shady business associated with decisions to build this thing, and a lot of money changed hands. One questionable move was that after the prime location had been identified, the site was changed to a piece of land (the current location) which happened to be owned by some city councilmen who gladly sold it for the development plus, I'm sure, a tidy sum. Where are political watchdog groups when you need them?

But the story gets better. Memphis got an opportunity for a pro basketball team, the Grizzlies. Those folks took a look at the pyramid and said "thank you very much, but we'll only come to Memphis if you build us another place to play." They found the pyramid inadequate. Perhaps the knees-to-chest seating at the highest level had something to do with it.

The Grizzlies came here and played at the pyramid while the wonderful FedEx Forum was being constructed. As soon as possible, they deserted the pyramid for the better venue. Shortly thereafter, the U/Mem Tigers said “me, too” and switched to the Forum.

About those proposed concerts. Turned out that the pyramid had rotten acoustics. So the city spent a bundle more to attempt correcting that, but the big concerts they’d anticipated go to the Forum.

The pyramid has now sat empty for three years, just a big, ugly money pit for the city. A large national company that has to do with fishing (can’t name that either) has been teasing the city for at least two years with possible interest in locating at the pyramid. And so it goes on that no one does anything, and the behemoth-on-the-riverbank is still a financial drain and doesn’t get any prettier.

The Real Problem

Here’s the part that really bugs me. I think the pyramid is the most visible evidence of Memphis’ schizophrenia. The city has never defined its own personality.

Memphis on the Mississippi was named for Memphis, Egypt situated on the Nile River. OK, fine. The renovation of the Memphis zoo paid homage to that link with a beautiful entrance and central plaza. They did a beautiful, tasteful job. The Egyptian style of the plaza buildings with columns and statues situated around a large, reflecting pool are prime photo op material. They did a great job. But, honestly, there’s already a Memphis, Egypt.

The renovation of Beale Street, home of the blues, was clearly a take-off on New Orleans’ Bourbon Street. Many of Beale Street’s restaurants brag about their red beans & rice – a traditional New Orleans dish. I love red beans & rice and I can make a pretty good pot of it, but it’s not Memphis. I should add that you can find some good barbecue on Beale and bbq IS Memphis.

Memphis is a beautiful, historic Southern city. Seems to me that at some time, city leaders should have put their heads together to decide just what Memphis is about and used that X factor to promote the city.

Memphis is the largest inland cotton spot market in the world. There was a time when King Cotton was the overriding theme, and everyone looked forward to Cotton Carnival in the spring. But along came polyester and the cotton fabric lost some of its footing. It was also felt that there were some politically incorrect connotations to cotton growing – plantations and such. Cotton Carnival has been replaced by Memphis in May which has some great events.

So, what is it that Memphis has that no other city has? What’s its defining difference? Music

Home of the Blues

Starting with composer W.C. Handy and the other bluesmen who migrated to Memphis, this city has been a hub of the music industry. Musicians know about the heritage and talent and still come to Sun and Stax to record. The Memphis establishment, however, has only recently begun to acknowledge the importance of this city to the music field.

Why? Apparently, it’s because the music that was being produced wasn’t viewed as “suitable.” The early rock stars who came out of Sun Records were rebellious and were making music with strange, new sounds. Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash and Carl Perkins didn’t fit into the mainstream mold. Perkins alone was so influential on musicians who followed that George Harrison flew over to attend his funeral.

In 1982 when Graceland was first opened to the public, the ceremony was snubbed by both the city and county mayors. It took them a while to understand how much revenue would be brought to the city by pilgrimages of devoted Elvis fans.

Most Memphians of the time were also unwilling to claim the music coming from Stax Studio. The musicians working and recording there were integrated. I guess that wasn’t something the city wanted to boast about.

Remember the Detroit sound? Motown music? A lot of that was recorded right here in Memphis, but Memphis never took credit. Here are just a couple of examples of artists and hits that came from here:
Sam & Dave – Soul Man; Hold On, I’m Comin’
Wilson Pickett – Mustang Sally; Wait Til the Midnight Hour

For the sake of fairness, I should say that there are those who find the pyramid attractive. I don’t. I think it’s a ghastly symbol to welcome visitors. I dislike, as do most, the money pit that it represents. And, primarily, I dislike it as a representation of the heart and soul of Memphis.

Gee, looks like I got up on my soapbox again.

It's a Miracle!

A bunch of years ago, Mike toured with a group we’ll call Band X which was led by a successful singer we’ll call Singer. (No clues. I promised Mike.) Anyhoo, after a performance they sometimes got a night off so the equipment truck could head out to the next city. The guys would fly out the following day and play that night.

It was on one of those nights off in Lincoln, Nebraska when the band and Singer went into the hotel bar to relax, hoist a few and generally have a good time. This is probably a good time to point out that, despite his great talents, Singer tended to be a bit ditsy. Start adding adult beverages to that and you get an interesting combination.

As the guys sat there drinking and talking, a fellow on the other side of the packed bar started singing. He was quickly joined by the voices of other patrons and suddenly the entire bar was singing – and in perfect rhythms and beautiful, precision harmonies. It must have been like an MGM musical – the kind I always wanted to experience where you’re walking down the street and suddenly everyone bursts into song and amazingly knows the same dance routine.

“Gawd, that’s amazing!” exclaimed Singer with jaw-dropping surprise.

Apparently he was the only one who hadn’t noticed that the hotel was hosting a convention for barbershop quartets.

Because Singer was . . . well, a singer . . . he decided to join in the song. But, for starters, he didn’t know the words and the liquid festivities had the best of him. The emerging sounds were less than pretty and the volume didn’t help. Band X and Singer were escorted unceremoniously out of the bar. I bet they never knew who they kicked out.

'Life as Lucy Ricardo' Part VI

Although I majored in journalism and minored in English while in college, I managed to pick up an undeclared minor in education. In the credit review for graduation, I was surprised to find that I lacked just one course and student teaching to be eligible for a teaching credential. Hmmmm. I thought that at some point, when the hoped-for munchkins arrived and were in school, I might switch over from a communications job to teaching.

Fast-forward to the Atlanta suburbs some years later where I was doing the happy homemaker thing. Really. I baked bread. I planted flowers. The whole bit. But since we lived equidistant between two schools, I decided to try my hand at substitute teaching as a part-time venture. I tooled down to the school district offices and hoped I could sell them on my undeclared minor as rationale to let me work for them. On the contrary, they were just thrilled that I had a degree. I was in.

So I signed up for the two schools near me. For the time being, I’ll skip my first day as a sub down at the high school. It deserves a post all unto itself. Over the next few months I spent most of my teaching time at the elementary school down the road and most of that time in fourth grade classes. Don’t know if it was fourth grade kids or fourth grade teachers, but that’s where the calls came from.

Oh, I remember substitute teachers from my school days. It was a kid’s license to terrorize. I was determined to be on the lookout for their tricks – even the little fourth graders. Height, or lack of it, does not determine the ability to plot and scheme. They can be formidable opponents.

So on a day early in my elementary experience, my class and I had just recently returned from lunch, recess and a bathroom stop. That’s when a cute little girl in jeans and tee shirt approached my desk and wanted a pass to go to the restroom. I reminded her that she had just had the opportunity to do that. She whimpered, and I gave her the hall pass with direction to walk straight to the bathroom and right back. She nodded and left.

Not two minutes later another kidlett in jeans and tee shirt approached my desk with the same request. Ah ha. I know this game! Let’s all get hall passes and go giggle in the restroom and break all manner of laws. No way. Not on my watch. I was obligated to repeat the “ya shouldda just done that” speech. Kid squirmed believably. I partially relented.

“OK, when the other little girl returns, you can have the pass,” I compromised.

“But, teacher, I’m a boy!”

“Oh. Well. Then, here’s a pass. Come back quickly.” What else could I do? They all look alike in the fourth grade.

Elvis Birthday Cake

OK, I squeezed one more post out of the Live Elvis Week celebration. Above you see Priscilla and others cutting the official cake. It was designed and baked by the pastry chefs at the historic Hotel Peabody. The cake was shaped like a stage and was topped by a three-foot, chocolate microphone and two guitars. We're told that everything on the cake was edible.

Now I'm hungry.

Live Elvis Week

Happy Birthday to the King. January 8 is Elvis’ birthday and the highpoint of what we refer to as Live Elvis Week in Memphis. That’s the somewhat neglected little sister of Dead Elvis Week in August which commemorates Elvis’ passing.

Very little goes on for Live Elvis Week. According to Mike, the source of knowledge for all things Memphis and music, the problem is that El had the misfortune to be born in January. It just doesn’t draw the multi-thousands who flock to the city in the summer. The weather is at least cold and frequently rainy, snowy and sleety. Grumpy, Sneezy and Doc couldn’t make it. I wrote several posts about Dead Elvis Week (see Celebrities), but I’ll just manage to squeeze this one out.

The festivities started on Saturday with an El-themed concert by the Memphis Symphony Orchestra and featuring the original TCB (Taking Care of Business) Band. As you’ve read here previously, guitar god James Burton was Elvis’ lead guitar player and performed with Mike’s band on New Year’s Eve.

Sunday was the “Elvis Insiders” reception at Graceland Plaza across the street from Graceland. That’s where the museum is along with his plane, The Lisa Marie, restaurants, jump suits and so forth. There was also a special evening tour of Graceland in its “holiday splendor.” I get a little chill, or maybe it was a tremor, imagining the splendor.

Monday was the invitation-only event at the U/Mem conference center for EP fan club presidents, and Tuesday morning calls for the big birthday shindig at Graceland. For the first time it will be hosted by Priscilla Presley, who is almost never referred to as the woman who divorced the King. She’ll cut a ginormous cake and then invite the press to the back of the mansion, according to a press release, to introduce the “newest member of the EP family.” Mike said that Elvis used to keep horses out back, but we doubt that he rides them much any more.

On Tuesday night the Grizzlies will have an Elvis half-time show, and local satellite radio will feature an all-Elvis day. James Burton has made several appearances around town and will play Tuesday night on Beale Street at a club that used to be Elvis’.

So hum a few bars of Hound Dog, put a candle in a cupcake and send a birthday wish to the King of Rock and Roll. Elvis would be turning 73. Long live the King.

A Modest Proposal

I have carefully avoided using this blog as a soapbox, although sometimes it required Herculean restraint. The Chronicles is supposed to be about entertaining stories, history, recollections, music, the Southern experience, etc. But I just can’t hold back any longer. This is me climbing on my soapbox.

Two incidents spurred this event. One took place in Memphis just this week. There was a tragic apartment fire. Two small boys – ages four and seven – perished in the blaze. Mom – well, she wasn’t around. She had gone out partying for New Year’s Eve. She locked the two little boys in the apartment and went out to do whatever it was that she did. Turns out that she didn’t even have legal custody of the kids. Her mom was the legal guardian. The little boys were only there for a visit, and mom went off, ultimately leaving them to their deaths.

Second reason: a dad – in a north Memphis area – left two young children, around four and five years old, in a vehicle without the heat running in sub-freezing temperatures for more than 15 minutes while he went into WalMart. Other shoppers saw the kids and called the police.

He’s been arrested for abuse and neglect. The mom from the first incident is in jail for negligent homicide.

We hear these heartbreaking stories of parental idiocy all the time. And it leads me to one conclusion. Parenthood should be licensed.

You must have a license to drive a car, for Pete’s sake. You’re required to have a license to marry. You have to license your dog, for heaven’s sake. But children – let biology rule. Wrong.

When my ex and I were trying to adopt, we had to produce financial statements, reports on both our complete physical exams in addition to a home visit and interview. The day of that visit my ex found me scrubbing the inside of the oven. He patiently told me that he didn’t think that she’d inspect that, but we’d (in addition to thoroughly cleaning the house) cut the lawn and edged and raked and done everything possible to present a positive family image. There’s nothing wrong with that.

So I hereby propose parenthood licensing. In my world there will be a study course followed by a written test. No less than a B+ will be accepted. Instead of a test drive, the “agency” will loan you a kid for a week and see if you can return the munchkin in good shape. There would, of course, be nanny-cams in every room of your home during the trial period so that immediate intervention would occur if necessary. (Britney, are you reading this?) Only – and I repeat ONLY – if you pass the written test and trial kid period, could you become licensed to attempt conception.

Call me crazy, but it seems to make sense to me.

G Is For Glen

June 22, 1935 – January 2, 2008

Glen Buckner was raised on a California ranch with his parents and younger sister. He was a professional dancer for a time and worked with the likes of Anne Jefferys, Betty Grable and Sheree North and danced on CBS’ 1950s variety show, The Colgate Comedy Hour. For most of his professional life he was a banker and estate planner.

He was a traveler who enjoyed theater and music. He was kind-hearted and had great wit. Glen was great fun. I’m so glad that he was my friend. He will be missed by so many, but most of all by David DeLisle, his partner of 41 years.

Mike and I send love and condolences to David at this very sad time.