Memphis Blues Again

This past week I was in Memphis for a few days at a conference. I had never been there before, so it was fun to see a new city.

There is no skyline to speak of, just lots of three and four and maybe ten story buildings. The tallest one just might be The Peabody Hotel of “The Firm” fame. (Tom Cruise meets the gangsters in a room there in the movie.) They just about literally roll up the sidewalks at dusk, too. I arrived at 7:30 p.m. on Sunday night and had to take a cab to the hotel. The shuttle to the hotel stops running at 6:00 p.m. I had never heard of such a thing. (Well OK, maybe the fourteen story Marriott is the tallest thing around.)

It was hot and steamy outside, but I was in meetings for two days in a hotel conference room and so didn’t spend much time on the streets. When I did break out one evening, I saw their trolley cars, and some fountains shooting up out of the sidewalk, and sculptures around the public buildings. You will remember that Memphis is where Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered in April 1968. There was a sculpture commemorating his “I Have a Dream” speech.

On Tuesday evening a few of us went for a walk down to see Beale Street—the French Quarter of Memphis, so to speak. It’s a couple of blocks of bars, restaurants and gift shops, kind of like a boardwalk without the boards. The shops had Everything Elvis, and tons of blues CD’s by obscure artists. One place had old concert posters from people like Frank Sinatra, Creedence Clearwater, the Grateful Dead—all kinds of people.

The one poster I might have bought if I thought I could get it home on the plane without ruining it was one from a 1960 Ike and Tina Turner concert that was a benefit for the election campaign of Richard Nixon of all things! There was a clever tag line at the bottom of the poster that said, “Even Democrats will want to come.” Tickets were $50.00.

There are these great people walking around in pith helmets wearing sashes proclaiming them to be members of the Blue Suede Brigade. They answer questions about the city, serving as ambassadors, helping tourists find their way around the landmark sites.

I enjoyed strolling around the streets listening to the blues music pouring out of somewhere. Check out the images below.

Proof that I was there.

Really neat frieze or something

Sally of the Blue Suede Brigade

MLK Sculpture in Memphis

WWJD?

The other day I was standing on the corner where Kathy picks me up each day after work. There was this guy talking to a student a few feet away from me. He turned to approach me and I thought, “Oh boy. Here it comes.” He came up to me kind of crouched over, apologizing, saying he was embarrassed to ask, but his wife and daughters were in the car over there, parked down the street and his radiator had just blown and could I give him money for them to get on the bus?

As part of his approach he told me his name, where he lived, where he worked, saying he would pay me back triple whatever I gave him.

So now what do I do? What would Jesus do, one might ask.

This has happened to me several times over the past couple of years, usually a sob story about a car breaking down. One time a guy approached me outside an appliance store, asking for gas money. I did give him five bucks and then I watched while he stayed outside the store and kept asking others for money. Then I watched him drive away—right up to a gas station.

What do you do in a case like this latest one? I wondered if I would feel worse or better if I gave him money. Would I be mad at myself for being taken in, or feel better for having helped someone? Can I judge who is worthy and who is not?

This time it turns out he “needed” about twelve dollars. I had four singles in my pocket and I gave them to him and he headed off to his car. At least I think it was his car. At that point, Kathy arrived and I got in with her and we drove off. If she had been there on time, the whole thing could have been avoided, but she got stuck at a light around the corner.

How do you decide what to do in these situations?

Our friend Karen who was hit by a car a month ago is doing pretty well these days. I’ve been to see her at home a few times. She had a broken leg and fractured skull. They put some screws in her leg and didn’t even put a cast on it, just wrapped it for two weeks. She told me more of the story of the accident when I saw her Saturday afternoon. Apparently, the woman who hit her got out of her car and leaned over Karen, who was lying on her back on the roadway and started screaming at her: “Are you OK? Are you dead?” Then she got back in her car and hit Karen again in the legs while Karen was flat on her back. This second impact flipped her in the air again and she wound up on her face. Two people ran over to help and turned her over so she could breathe.

The other day a woman came to Karen’s door with flowers in her hand. Karen answered the door and the woman said, “Karen?” “Yes?” “I’m Karen, too!” the woman said. Turns out Karen number two had witnessed the accident and stopped to help our friend. Karen number two was with her daughter in the car and told the little girl to watch how Karen crossed the road, with the light, in the crosswalk—using our friend as an example of how it should be done. Then the little girl screamed when Karen was hit—fodder for nightmares, I think.

I still believe the driver's sentence should be as long as Karen's rehab, especially after I heard more of the story. Looks like she will only be charged with a misdemeanor, though.

Oh, wait. The driver did call 911, but here is what she told the 911 operator: "A woman was hit on Snow Road." "Where on Snow Road?" the operator asked. The driver just repeated her first statement. No help at all. This road runs for about ten miles. According to her call, the accident could be anywhere along that length. Fortunately, a bunch of other people also called and saved Karen's life.

Kodiak and I are very safety conscious during our walks, crossing streets, watching lights. Main streets, back streets—it doesn’t matter. People routinely run stop signs, speed down our street. I remember Mom sitting on the front steps of our childhood homestead, hollering at people to slow down. I’ll probably start that now myself.

Puttin’ on the Ritz

Right now, Kathy and two sisters are downtown at the Ritz celebrating her birthday. I can’t tell you how old she is, but it’s the big one between 50 and 70, about halfway between. Since it is such a milestone, I decided to treat her to something special, hence the club suite at the Ritz. She called me shortly after they had checked in and told me that they had been upgraded to the Junior Presidential suite! That’s the one I originally wanted them to have, but I couldn’t afford it. It must be about $800 a night.

It’s also the home opener for our NFL team playing their arch rival. I told her if she sees any huge guys walking around they are probably football players so she should get plenty of autographs and we’ll sort them out later.

This means I am home alone! Except for the dog, and he can be good company, though he’s never really been much of a conversationalist. He’ll come over for a head pat, especially when the thunderstorms start rolling in tonight.

Being home alone means I get to do anything I want, like rent movies that Kathy would never watch. This weekend’s selections were The Shooter and The Breach. I just finished The Shooter. Plenty of action, righteous anger, several impossible escapes but an odd ending where the hero seems to descend to his antagonists’ amoral level.

Being home alone means microwaving left over spaghetti and eating alone at the kitchen table with the TV for company. Funny, but it’s not much of a conversationalist either. It doesn’t care how my day went, and is oblivious to my plans for tomorrow.

Being home alone gives me an idea of what it might be like if Kathy precedes me in death and leaves me here to fend for myself.

I could do what I want, when I want, with whom I want. Or not. Opens up all sorts of possibilities. Would I date again? Would I get married again? Would I be able to figure out the checkbook? Would I learn to cook, or would I just starve? Graham crackers. You don’t have to cook them. I could eat them. And maybe some grapes. A balanced diet.

Mostly it seems like a great big hole, an unfillable space. I don’t believe I want to think about that right now. I’d rather look forward to her lurid tales of life at the Ritz when she comes home tomorrow. God willing.

Not so young any more

This past week was the first week of classes at my school. The Student Life department is sponsoring what they call “WOW” (Weeks of Welcome). So, next week, we still have welcome activities. Our office jumped on the bandwagon with an ice cream social on Thursday. Our director, Paul, kept saying it was a waste of time—that no one would come. The newest coordinator in the office, Meggan, planned it. Being seven months pregnant, she had a doctor’s appointment on the morning of the big day. As I was coming into work, I thought we needed a big sign outside our building advertising the event, and that we needed more flyers around the classrooms.

When I got the office, there were no student workers, so Bernie the director’s secretary and I set about painting the sign. I taped it up outside the front door in a brisk breeze. Of course I was in a hurry and didn’t wait for the paint to dry, so the sign whipped up around me and I wound up with colorful spots all over my shirt and pants. It paid off though, when over 50 students came up to the Center and wolfed down gallons and gallons of runny generic ice cream.

The only bad part was that I forgot myself and ran around like a forty-year old and now I’m paying for it: just very tired this weekend.

This week Max and I were playing with paper airplanes in the driveway. Max drew “runways” up and down the driveway, putting “point” values in circles along the way. The object was to throw your plane so it landed in a high value circle. His dad said, “Max, you spend more time getting ready to play than actually playing.” Max was OK with that. Everything is play to him, I suppose. He came home with a new stuffed animal today: a little fat bird with glasses named Max. He was up early on Saturday, sleeping over at our house this weekend. He wakes up ready to rock, apparently. Kathy was playing games with him at 6:15. As he and his dad were leaving for a round of outings to the Children’s museum and the park, he said, “I don’t want to leave—this place is so much fun!”

I saw an interesting sight at the post office on Saturday. The guy in front of me had a softball bat in a clear plastic tube. I wondered if he planned to express his frustration with slow service by bashing a postal clerk or two, or if he was shipping the bat to a friend. Nothing like that. He went up to the clerk and said, “Can I get an official weight on this bat?”