The Road to Memphis and the Ponderosa Stomp: A Motorcycle Trip On America's Music Routes
Forward
Looking for a Cure to the Isolated
at home with the COVID-19 Blues? How 'bout taking a motorcycle trip to two of
the Meccas of American Music, Memphis and New Orleans as Plain Sense relives his trip of a life time and the fulfillment of
his dream of attending the legendary Ponderosa Stomp Music Festival.Along the way he stops off in Memphis,
Tennessee at the Museum of the legendary Stax Studios, itself the shrine of
Soul Music and Graceland, the home of and now shrine to, who some call, the
“King of Rock and Roll”.While some may
disagree over the accuracy of that pop culture moniker, it does not diminish
the undeniable contribution that Elvis Aaron Presley has made to American music
and whose legacy is still felt today.
Attending the Ponderosas Stomp
music festival, the then annual and currently in hiatus, celebration of the
unsung heroes of American music (which has now transformed into a worthwhile
music education outreach program), had been a dream of mine ever since I heard
of the first Ponderosa Stomp festival.Those early rosters of performers read like the long lost family tree of
the greatest of the great in America’s genealogy of music.These were the greats behind the scenes,
whose names you might not have ever heard of, unless of course you were, like
me, a music freak who reads the credits and liner notes for everything in my
music collection.Not being a musician
myself, it was always a great mystery how they produced this magic we call
music and by reading every credit and liner note I thought I might one day
crack the code.
Although I had made and posted a
contemporaneous travel blog along the way replete with photos and memorable
anecdotes, there were two holes in the record marked only as “…to be
continued…”.Just recently, while cleaning
house during these days of social distancing, I have come upon my
contemporaneous hand written notes that were never posted along with the sd
card of my entire trip photos.I had
assumed for years that they were long lost and most likely destroyed.Chalk up a victory for all the pack rats out
there!
This article not only will fill in
those glaring gaps in my coverage of the trip but hits on current events and
appeals to music lovers as well.The
similarities to life in April 2009 and today will be eerily familiar and only
proves how cyclical the human experience is.Just like we survived the swine flu epidemic and financial crisis of
2008- 2009, we will get through the COVID-19 Pandemic and financial crises of
2020 as well.
Now for something completely
different. Come along as I take a vacation from all the gloom and doom
financial news and for what has been, by all rational accounts, a great start
for the Obama Administration, and "Break Away" or is that "Steal
Away" or any other musical reference you may want to choose, to the
greatest live music event of the year, the 8th Annual Ponderosa
Stomp.
In a few minutes I will be hopping on my motorcycle for a road trip from one
end of the Mississippi River to the other for what will be a blitzkrieg of
blues, brews and beyond. Despite a balmy temperature of 41 degrees and a
forecast including sleet and even with Mexico City residents dropping like
flies from the swine flu*, I'm out of here:. “Hold on, I'm Coming”....
*Historical
Note:Just before embarking on my trip
the “swine flu” pandemic was beginning to spread across the United States.Believed to have originated in Mexico, by
early April 2009 it had spread into California then branched out to the rest of
the country.
The
first two cases of “swine flu” in the U.S. were reported on April 17, 2009, via
the Border Infectious Disease Program, and both involved California
children.One from San Diego County, CA,the other a child from Imperial County who
tested positive after visiting relatives in Texas.The actual date of the first U.S. case was
later determined to have occurred on March 28, 2009.
By
April 21, enhanced surveillance was established to search for additional cases
in both California and Texas and the United States Centers for Disease Control
(CDC) determined that the virus strain was genetically similar to the
previously known A(H1N1) swine flu circulating among pigs in the United States
since about 1999.
On April 22, 2009, the
CDC activated its Emergency Operations Center (EOC). On April 25, the World
Health Organization (WHO) declared a public health emergency of international
concern. On April 26, a public health emergency was declared in the United
States, which was subsequently renewed twice.
On
April 28, 2009, the first day of the Ponderosa Stomp Music Festival, the CDC
confirmed the first official U.S. death from “swine flu”. The disease then
spread widely throughout the U.S. population and by the end of May 2009 had
infected citizens in all 50 states. The pattern continued through the summer
and into the fall of 2009. It took until early October of 2009 for a vaccine to
be developed in sufficient quantities for distribution. On December 10, 2009,
the CDC reported an estimated 50 million Americans or 1 in 6 people had been
infected with the 2009 A H1N1 Virus and 10,000 Americans had died, by which
time the vaccine was beginning to be widely distributed to the general public
by several states.
On
December 23, 2009 the CDC reported a reduction of the disease by 59% percent
and the disease was expected to end in the United States in January 2010. In total, it was estimated that 57 million
Americans had been sickened, 257,000 had been hospitalized and 11,690 people
had died (including 1,180 children) due to the “swine flu” from April 2009
through mid-January 2010.
Biblical.
That's the only way to describe day one of my road trip. I left Minneapolis
about noon with the temperature hovering in the low forties. After a chilly
hour and a half of riding I stopped in Rochester, MN for the obligatory meal
(BBQ pulled pork sandwich) at John
Hardy's Bar B Que and later at Best Buy for a 2 GB memory card for Marlena's
camera, thanks girl!
Finally I escaped destination Rochester aka the Mayo Clinic and the Midwest
home of Big Blue (IBM), at approximately 2:30 P.M. under darkening skies with a
lot of ground to make up. I hit the
throttle hard until I was nearing Waterloo (Iowa) , then all hell broke loose. Now I know how Napoleon must have felt except
instead of battling the armies of the Seventh Coalition, my battle was with the
elements.It rained so hard that I had
grey out conditions near Cedar Rapids, IA.This is not good if you are riding a white colored motorcycle and
visibility , even with lights on, was down to less than 3 car lengths.To make matters worse I was soaked to the
bone because I did not don my rain gear as I figured it would not fit over the
layers of clothes and winter jacket I had on to fight the cold.Big mistake.The combination of a temperature still in the low forties, soaked to the
bone and the wind chill from traveling at highway speeds was the perfect recipe
for hypothermia.When I could no longer
fight off my uncontrollable shaking I pulled over at one of those dual A &
W and KFC restaurants in the middle of nowhere Iowa.The look on the teenage employees faces as I
waddled into the deserted restaurant was as if they had just seen a ghost.
Still
full from my meal at John Hardy’s, I ordered a coffee, more
for the warmth than anything else.I
settled down in a booth and called my daughter, Genevieve, to give her an update
and hoping to bide a little time until the storm died down and I could get my
shaking under control.But this was not
to be.
Perhaps it was the fact I had
tracked a trail of water across their establishment, including the large puddle
of water forming under my table. Perhaps
it was the fact I had only bought a coffee and in their calculus I had
overstayed my purchase. More likely though, it was the fact I was on a motorcycle
and shaking like a heroin junkie going through withdrawals and they thought
that they were about to be robbed.
I notice the staff whispering to
each other while giving me the “stink eye”.
Then one of the little shits musters up the courage to tell me: “Hey mister, if you don’t leave now we’re
calling the sheriff”. The lawyer in me
immediately kicks in along with the anger and adrenaline. My fight instinct is telling me this is
discrimination, something I was all too
familiar with having represented many a motorcycle club member over my
years practicing law.
Luckily for me that my flight
instinct won the argument as that same experience also told me I didn’t want to
get into a pissing match with some narrow minded deputy sheriff in bumfuck Iowa
with an exaggerated sense of self-importance.
I probably shouldn’t rush to judgment on the local constabulary but if
they are anything like their community’s youngens, I want no part of them. With a moan of disgust and dread, I saunter
out of the fast food Formica dump making sure to flip them the finger as I go.
After ten or fifteen minutes of white knuckle, terrified riding in the pouring rain it finally stopped. “Finally”, I thought to myself, “…now I can make up for lost time” as I resumed my trip in the early evening hoping to make it to the home of “Make A Buck Chuck” Chuck Berry, Wentzville, Mo. Unfortunately, God had other plans and decided to throw pestilence at me.
Still wet from all the rain and traveling at highway speed, I had no choice but to drive through the clouds of insects hovering over the roadway directly in my path. It had the effect of causing the bug splatter to cling to me, my gear and the bike. I looked like one big adhesive fly strip. While I make no claim to be an entomologist, based upon the proximity of my route to rivers and the time of year, I am fairly confident it was a May Fly hatch I just encountered.
When the clouds started to look ominous again and it was not from insects, I wussed out and pulled off the road for the night in Canton, Mo. I stayed at the Comfort INN where everything was comfortable but the price. Not even the make your own waffle bar or the free entertainment in the form of the construction crew drinking in lawn chairs outside my first floor window in the parking lot well past midnight could make it worth the price.
Anyway, I'm out of here in two minutes (7:14 AM) so Hold On I'm Coming.
Well
at least it was dry today and a good day for kite flying. The torrential
downpours gave way to gale force winds as I was blown across the state of
Misery (i.e. Miserlou aka Missouri). Jeez these people drive fast down
here.
I left Canton @ 7:14 AM as reported earlier with my mind set on taking pictures
of the woman's room at Chuck Berry's Berry Farm where he was busted for
allegedly having hidden cameras under the toilet seats. I pulled off at the
Wentzville exit and stopped at the local QT gas station to ask the locals where
Make a Buck's farm was. (Note
this was written before Mr. Berry’s passing and may seem caustic and somewhat
disrespectful and were unduly colored by an encounter I witnessed years earlier
with Mr. Berry . Since his passing, I
have read of many stories, like that of blues musician Doug McCleod, who as a
young serviceman returning home to St. Louis on a commercial flight, spied Mr.
Berry and asked him for his autograph only to have Berry insist he stay next to
him in first class as his guest.)
The first person I encountered was a very cool brother about my age who was
sitting in his car with the windows down as I pulled up. He commented on my
nice bike (all covered in bug guts) so I figured I had the opening so why not:
"Do you know where Chuck Berry's farm is?" I questioned. "Ya
know, I've lived here 5 years and still don't know, if you find out please tell
me" the man replied. "Sure" I told him and went inside the
convenience store. Inside I asked the someteen something kid behind the counter who
looked at me like I was an alien and said "I dunno
mister, but we have maps over there". I went over to the rack and went
thru all the St. Charles and St. Louis county maps but no reference to Mr. Hail
Hail Rock
N Roll. A couple of older white folks walked by so I popped the question, at
least they knew who I was talking about and confirmed it was "somewhere in
Wentzville" but they didn't know, "we're from Troy" they told
me, as if that meant something to me.
It was obvious I was getting nowhere so I headed back outside to my bike and
the black guy in the car was still there: "Well, what'd you find
out?", he asks. "Hell, those white people never heard of him", I
tell him. "Figures" he replies, so we start chatting.
I tell him about my one personal
encounter with the originator of "Maybelline" back stage at the
Minnesota State Fair in August of 1988 and the tantrum he threw at my friend in
the back up band. The man laughs a knowing laugh and then waits so as not to
appear like he is trying to one up me and then goes on to tell me a similar
story about Chuck, shortly after 911. Apparently Chuck wanted to drive his
Cadillac up onto the grounds of some park and the powers that be would have
none of it and boy did he throw a temper tantrum. He then adds, "My cousin
works for the people in charge of the rights for Miles Davis' estate. He tells
a great story about those two going at it one time". "My Gawd",
I stammer, "talk about the clash of the titan egos". "You said
it", he laughs, and then adds "You drive safely" after I
announced my trip plans before heading out.
My next stop was a gas station and
convenience store that I only mention for my friend, Andy, who owned a custom
motorcycle shop with the same name. The name of the place was "Fast
Lane" and the sweet attendant told me she had three drive offs because she
forgets to ask people if they had gas when they come up to the counter.I copped to my gas and paid the nice lady.
About an hour later, needing a
break from the gale force winds, I pull into a rest stop. A nice couple about
my age were eating sandwiches outside their immaculate, champagne colored Prius
as I pull into the stall next to them. The guy says: "It must be tough
trying to keep it on the road today". "Yeah" I answered,
"but it's better than the rain in Iowa yesterday". "Iowa"
the couple says in unison, "where are you from?"
"Minnesota" I answer. "White Bear!" they exclaim. We get to
talking and they are a couple of psychologists, John and his wife(?). Turns out
they are heading to New Orleans too. They are going to do a Habitat for
Humanity project, God bless them. When I asked if they were driving thru to New
Orleans today, they said no they were stopping in Memphis. "Me too" I
tell them. After filling them in on the Ponderosa Stomp and asking if they knew
my psychiatrist, they did, I tell them "if we see each other again, I'm
not following you" to which the psychologists both respond, "don't
worry we're not paranoid". "That's good“, I laugh, and then deadpan
"I am" as they drive off.
I reach Memphis a little past 3 PM.
It's 84 degrees and due to the lack of space in my saddle bags, I am wearing a
winter coat, jean jacket, turtle neck, t-shirt, snow mobile gauntlets and a
stocking cap under my helmet. To say I am hot is in understatement. To make
matters worse I have taken the wrong turn into a rough part of town, and in
Memphis that is saying a lot. I see a cop car parked at a gas station so I pull
in and as I pull up to the pump I start to ask a person standing nearby for
directions to the Stax Studio Museum but before I can, he
ducks into the store. Like most business
establishments in Memphis, the gas station looked more like the county jail
with bars securing all windows and doors.
As I pay for my gas I ask the
clerk where the Stax Studio museum is and he starts to explain: "Just a
couple a blocks" and proceeds to tell me in a half decipherable southern
accent to go to the corner of McLemore and College which is about all I
understood.
Rather than asking for
clarification, in typical male fashion I set off trying to replicate his
instructions and, of course, get lost.
Luckily I just happen to come upon Willie Mitchell Ave (the famous Hi
Records producer) which I take as a sign from the Music Gods and turn onto
it. I follow that until I see a car wash
fund raiser and pull in and ask the somewhat amazed crowd of high school aged
African-Americans (all of whom gave me a quizzical look as if to say “who is
this sweaty Eskimo honky?”) but when they hear I am looking for the Stax
Studio, they warmly greeted me and gladly gave me directions.
As I
proceed down McLemore I begin to see in the distance the Stax Museum marquee
and my emotions start to take over. I am
so excited about finally reaching one of the highlights of my trip that I do
not notice the large “NO PARKING Tour Bus Landing Only” sign on its side that
had been toppled by the wind. Like an
idiot I pull up and park smack dab under
the marquee, precisely where you are not allowed to park. As I am standing in
the middle of the street taking a picture of my illegally parked bike, a large
African American Memphis police officer comes out shaking his head, incredulous
that not only is a motorcycle parked in a no parking zone but its rider is
standing in the middle of the street with his back to traffic. The officer frantically motions for me to
“Get over here!” and greets me with
“What in the Hell do you think you‘re doing!”
Totally oblivious to the situation, and
with dialog straight out of an Albert Brooks movie, I run up to the officer
gushing a mile a minute about how I am
from Minnesota and rode all the way to see the home of some of my favorite
music and ask him if he would take a picture of me and my bike posing under the
marquee. Fortunately for me it was at this point that the exasperated officer
notices the blown over no parking sign and chuckles as he goes over and lifts
the sign back up to the standing position.
“This is a no parking zone” he says, to which I apologize profusely and
inquire as to where I can purchase a ticket for the tour.
The officer then informs me that I have
missed the last tour of the day and the museum closes in about Fifteen
minutes. “Oh no!” I cry out. I then proceed to tell him how this was my
only opportunity to see it as I am on my way to New Orleans and touring
Graceland in the morning on my way out of town.
Rolling his eyes at me and then looking up with a “Why me Lord”
expression, he says in a somewhat resigned fashion, “Wait here, let me see if I can talk to
someone inside for you”. Before leaving
the officer sizes up all the gear strapped to my bike and highly recommended I
move my bike around back and into the secured lot. So cool.
Before I can take the officers advice, a
member of the staff comes out and I repeat my neurotic homage to “Lost in
America”. Trying to soak up all the
information and emotion being thrown at him in nano-second time, I notice the
person I am blithering at eye’s are darting around as if he’s thinking “Is this
guy for real?” and “Where are the candid cameras?” In an incredible act of
graciousness he agrees to take a couple of pictures of me and my bike under the
hallowed, replica marquee of the former movie theater come studio.
Even though the museum closes at four and
the last tour of the day had ended I am allowed to go in for what amounted to a
whirl wind private tour. Since time was
tight and I was by myself, they dispensed with the pre-tour orientation and
therefore I missed the part about no camera or picture taking allowed.
Remembering the camera I had in my jacket
pocket, I thought nothing about snapping
photos throughout the museum until I had reached the very end of the tour. At this point a woman who was obviously
connected to the museum staff (or possibly the museum director?) approached and
informed me there were no cameras or picture taking allowed. Woops.
I apologized and immediately put it away.
The following video is a slideshow of the photos I took.
Like most museums, the tour ended at the gift shop. Thankfully they were still open, ringing up the sales to the last couple of straggler shoppers from the last tour. I quickly made a beeline for the iconic snap logo t-shirts and looked at a sweatshirt for my brother but realized I did not have room in my saddle bags. I did buy a t-shirt as well as mementos for my kids and a mouse pad I proudly used at work for over 10 years. As I power shopped I had a delightful time talking with the hip and keenly music knowledgeable staff in the store. I earned some cred and envy from them when I told them about my motorcycle trip and my ultimate destination, the Ponderosa Stomp. I knew I had found my community when finally I met people who were familiar with it. In fact, post Hurricane Katrina, the Stomp was relocated the following year to the Gibson Guitar factory in Memphis.
When I said I would like to see Beale Street that night and that I had not yet obtained lodging, they turned me on to a little secret they share only with friends. Normally anything on or close to Beale Street are fancy tourist trap hotels which even back in 2009 were running well over $150 a night for a single. They told me about a little known Motel 6 hidden away in a small industrial park not more than a half mile from Beale Street that was still relatively safe.
Even though I could have talked music with my new friends half the night, I could see that my hosts were wanting to finish closing down so they could go home. However I just could not resist the opportunity that presented itself and had to press my luck with a final request. I mean, how often does one get the chance to ask some of the most knowledgeable music heads in a town like Memphis for a recommendation as to the best live music show on a Sunday night?
As I recall I don’t think they even had to consult the local music weekly or hesitate before recommending an excellent young trio called City Champs that do a regular early show on Sundays at a hip music café and bar called the HiTone.
I thanked the staff at Stax again profusely and headed straight for the Motel 6 located on the edge of the hospital district where I booked a room from an incredibly helpful motel clerk named Edward for under $50.00! Since I did not have a laptop on my trip, I was relying on the places I was staying to have a business center with access to computers and the internet. Obviously this was not going to be possible at a Motel 6 so as I was asking Edward for directions to the HiTone he suggested a Kinkos near there where I can rent time on a computer and get my daily travel blog written and posted. Problem solved.
Edward hands me the key to my room and I move my bike to in front of my room door and begin to take the saddle bags off my bike. It was at this point when I was introduced to a phenomena, that in all my travels, I found to be uniquely Memphian. In the less than 24 hour period I was in Memphis, I must have handed out at least thirty dollars to seven different panhandlers only turning down one person because he approached me while I was writing this post. It wasn’t so much the panhandling, you encounter that almost everywhere, the unique thing was they all said the same thing. I know this will sound terrible, but I swear to God its the honest truth, they all said: "I need to buy chicken".
As I was kneeling down unfastening my saddle bags, a large shadow enveloped me causing me to look up only to see a very large African American woman who, based upon how she was dressed and her proximity to my room, I mistook for a member of the motel housekeeping staff. She was holding a Tupperware tub of peeled oranges and as she was eating one of her orange slices she made her pitch for money so she could buy some chicken.
Thinking I was being generous and not wanting to spoil the good karma I had so far in Memphis, I pulled three dollars out of my pocket and handed it to the woman expecting a pleasant “thank you”. Instead, the woman seemed almost insulted, emphatically telling me she needed $7.99 for her chicken. Not $2.00. Not$5.00. Not $8.00, mind you but $7.99. I told I had limited funds for my trip and $3.00 was all I could spare and just hoped she wouldn't sit on me. The song “Memphis Women and Fried Chicken” had a completely new significance now.
After unloading my bike I took a quick shower and headed out around 5:30 P.M. for the Kinkos to make a quick post to my travel blog. Parking my bike out front, I go inside and order some computer time. I am then directed to the back of the store where they had it subdivided into little booths each containing a desktop with internet access.
As I sat in the back of the Kinkos, in a booth totally out of sight, typing away the days activities so far, I am approached by a scruffy looking middle aged black man. “Excuse me sir” he says “Can I trouble you for some money to buy me some chicken”. Perhaps I was annoyed that he interrupted my train of thought as I was writing or maybe it was finally beginning to dawn on me that my Minnesota plate was making me a mark to the locals but I waved him off saying “no, man”. (I noticed he did not approach anyone else in the Kinkos and it was not hard to associate the sun and wind burned guy in motorcycle apparel with the bike out front.)
I wrap up my blogging at Kinkos and make the quick ride over to the HiTone. Talk about a great hole in the wall and my God, the musicians in this band were monsters. City Champs are Joe Revisto on guitar, George Sluppick in the pork pie hat on drums and what appeared to be the leader, Al Gamble on the mighty organ. Don't let the fresh looks of these cats fool you, they are incredible musicians, easily the best in any town in the country perhaps except, Austin, Memphis, New Orleans and New York, where they would still be ranked among the best. The final two songs of the night were an awe inspiring version of Ray Charles' "I'm Busted" and a tour de force "Poppa" that had the whole house on fire.
Well I've got to run cuz it's about 8:30 PM and I'm headed for Beale Street. That's in Memphis, Esmond!
It was at this point when I had one of those near misses with death that haunts all motorcycle riders. I had just left the HiTone thoroughly relaxed from listening to good music and with a warm glow from quaffing a couple of beers. I was stopped for a light just a couple blocks from the bar and let my mind wander. As I became impatient waiting for the semaphore to turn green and with my mind focused on remembering the route back to my motel and my night on Beal Street that lay ahead, I revved my throttle and took off as soon as the light changed to green. Nearly a fatal mistake! Luckily I have good peripheral vision and caught the blur out of my right eye of a speeding motorist who miscalculated and was running the solid red light in his direction. I locked up both my front and rear brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop barely avoiding laying the bike done. The speeding car whizzed past me with only a couple of inches to spare.
Picking up where I left off, I headed back to my motel on the edge of the hospital district and stopped in to see Edward the clerk, who made my stay in Memphis so enjoyable providing me with directions, calling ahead to the club and giving me a recommendation to the best restaurant on Beale Street, the Blues City Cafe. Following Edward's directions, it was a short hop down Linden Street to Fourth Avenue, where the arena is that the Grizzlies play at. Funny thing, I never saw one Grizzly the whole time I was in Memphis.
I get down to Beale Street and its
a no driving zone where people are free to promenade, drinks in hand. A very
cool thing about Memphis is the number of young African Americans riding
motorcycles.I don’t know whether that
was a weekly gathering Sunday nights but there were literally hundreds of
bikers on Beale that night and I was the only white one. “So cool to be part of
the brotherhood” I think to myself.But
the thought didn’t last too long. With all the bikes on Beale that night it was
very difficult to find on street parking.When I finally found a parking spot on the street and in light of my
parking difficulties earlier that day at the Stax Museum, I decided to ask a
couple of brothers if it was okay to park here.“Sure” they told me withquizzical looks on their faces.Thankfully I was not towed because when I got
back to my “confirmed” parking spot, I noticed I was parked in a bus
stop.
After my illegal parking job, I walk the three or four blocks of Beale Street
trying to get the low down on where all the action seems to be happening. I
check out who's playing at the Rum Boogie, where Jimmy Thackery often plays and
then try to enter the Black Diamond, former home of Keith Sykes
singer-songwriter series. Despite the local gossip, it was good to see the
Black Diamond was still in business, under its owner, Bob. Unfortunately it was closed to the public
for a private event this night.
Having built up a powerful hunger, I head over to the Blues City Cafe and upon
Edward's recommendation, I try to order spaghetti and ribs. The waiter looked
at me like I was crazy, (he was right of course, but that's besides the point,
shut-up, you said it). Instead, upon the waiter’s
recommendation I ordered a 1/2 rack, dry, spice rubbed rib dinner and it was
excellent. The meat fell off the bone, the sauce on the side was just right and
the toast was to die for.
I
had the nicest conversation about the history of Beale Street with my
waiter. He had been there 17 years, I
just wished I would have gotten his name. He caught me up to date on all the
local music gossip. I was heartbroken to hear of the Parkinson-like illness of
Andrew Love, the saxophone playing half of the Memphis Horns. Along with his partner, trumpeter Wayne
Jackson, they had played on over 300 #1
records but most notably they babysat my young children backstage at a gig they
shared with Roomful of Blues before a Gopher/Memphis State football game
outside the Metrodome. Then Gopher Athletic Director,
Pat Forcia
will always have a warm place in my heart for booking that gig.
I
said my goodbyes to the staff at the Blues City Cafe and then it was back to
the motel to get some rest for tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
Looking back, I still cannot get
over how things could have turned out differently and I mean different in a bad way.After all, I had missed the last tour of the
day at Stax and the museum was closing in a matter of minutes.I was leaving town the next day and my tight
schedule as well as the museum’s hours of operation left no chance I could
reschedule.To make matters worse, I had
the audacity, or so it must have seemed to the police officer, to illegally
park my bike right in front of thebuilding , in a tour bus landing no less.I had blatantly disregarded pedestrian and
safety laws for what we would now call a selfie and when I was confronted by a
police officer who was witness to it all, I made no attempt toexculpate myself, rather I blurted out
incriminating statements and invited the officer to document my behavior with
my own camera.
The acts of kindness extended to me
that day by the wonderful Stax staff, including the Memphis police officer
working security as well as my motel clerk Edward, the cool waiter at the Blues
City Café, have made an indelible favorable impression of Memphis with me which
I will always cherish.Not only did
their seemingly modest acts of kindness make for an enjoyable experience, it
also taught me an important lesson.It
taught me that kindness is contagious, even in small doses and can have ripple
effects that reverberate far beyond
the contemporaneous act and sometimes have a lasting effect.
Hopefully this will all make a little more
sense as this story progresses.But
for now I simply want to thank those individuals.One thing that the COVID19 virus has driven
home these past weeks is how easy it was in our formerly
busy lives to forget about the power and importance of simple things like
kindness.Those are the things that
really matter now.
Road to the Stomp Day 3: Biscuits & Gravy, Graceland and on to the
Big Easy
Monday April 27,2009
New Orleans, La.
Well I made it in one piece to New Orleans but I left a little of my heart in Memphis. Like what Minneapolis is to Chicago, Memphis is to New Orleans: a little city with big aspirations, but unique unto itself. Despite all its recent troubles and bad press about its soaring crime rate, the people of Memphis have a dignity and graciousness that is incredibly endearing.
The day started in Memphis, early as usual. My motto on vacation is "Men plow deep while sluggards sleep". (I stole that one from a beet farmer friend of mine from Ada in the Red River Valley.) I scrawled a handwritten "Do Not Disturb" sign for my door handle and headed out at 7 a.m. to scout Elvis Presley Boulevard for a breakfast joint before being first in line for when Graceland opens at 9 a.m. I headed out Bellevue which turns into Elvis Presley Boulevard and did a drive-by of Graceland before making a U-turn and heading into the parking lot across the street to chat up the security guard, who seemed amused at my enthusiasm and naivete when I asked if there would be a line already formed when they opened at 9. I then headed out to a nearby Krispy Kreme and some caffeine and sugar rush. I asked the young black woman behind the counter for a recommendation for a biscuit and gravy breakfast and the only place she could come up with was I HOP. I told her I avoid that place like the plague and after consuming my coffee and donut I left. As I was getting on my bike I chatted up the maintenance man who was sweeping the parking lot. A very dignified and friendly African American man in his late fifties or early sixties.
When I asked him where I could get a real southern breakfast, his eyes lit up and he
gave me directions to Brooks Ave and the Kettle where I had one of the best all
you can eat southern breakfast buffets complete with pork chops, bacon,
scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy and fresh fruit. Janice, my waitress got a
kick out of the sun burnt Minnesotan on a motorcycle who was not afraid to try
the local establishment over the chain restaurants.
When I asked if it was okay to pull out my camera and take some pictures of the buffet she said sure and then asked if she could add my ugly mug to her camera phone collection which included the tourists from England who shared my sense of adventure and weren't afraid nor aware of any color line either.
After my belly bursting meal it was on to Graceland. As it was still only 8:30 a.m. I pulled up in the service lane right in front of Graceland and asked a couple of female tourists from Holland if they would take my picture in front of the gates, which they were more than happy to do.
As we were doing this, a couple of heavy set sixty year old white women came sauntering down the long driveway from the mansion, dressed in garish black Elvis t-shirts. I asked if they were on a VIP tour and they said no, the memorial garden was open to the public be ween 7 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. as a free alternative for the faithful. Boy I wished I knew this ahead of time as I was about to drop a small fortune with the company that runs Graceland, known for being one of the tightest ships in the tourists business. Nevertheless, it was money well spent and I was truly amazing how well run this operation is. I understand this is the same company that runs the tours at my hometown’s version of Graceland, Prince’s Paisley Park and I highly recommend the VIP tour if you are ever in Minneapolis.
I soon discovered the demographics of the early morning Graceland visitors. I was by far the youngest and nearly half the visitors where from Europe, predominantly England. I had a good time chatting with some of the English tourists, like offering to take their picture next to the framed picture and letter from George Bush in the entryway to the "Trophy Room". When I asked the young black guard if they were going to replace the picture of Bush with "something more recent" (aka our recently elected first African American President) she went into a rehearsed explanation how it was up there because President Bush had hosted the Prime Minister of Japan on a visit to Graceland. I could not help from being struck by how small Graceland actually was as well as the fact that it isn't nearly as garish as one was led to believe. Furthermore, I commented out loud at how incredibly sad it was to which several of the English tourists nodded in agreement. On the positive side, it was very cool that the overwhelming majority of the staff were African American and I never missed an opportunity to remind them that if Elvis was alive today he would be at the Stax Museum. The following video is of my photos of Graceland.
After spending a small
fortune on nick knacks I could fit in my saddle bags I left Graceland and
headed out of Memphis with New Orleans and King Creole on my mind.
Compared with the
previous two days of riding, day three was rather uneventful except for a bad
stretch of road around Jackson, Mississippi and some brief showers in southern
Mississippi. About 3 p.m. I stopped at an unmarked exit at a former Stuckey's
for gas and what else, some chicken. The place struck me as somewhat strange as
it was run by a Hindu woman and staffed by black guys. The toothless local
white guy tried to chat me up about motorcycles but his heavy southern accent
and lack of teeth made him almost indecipherable. Perhaps he felt a kindred
spirit to me in light of my recent oral surgery. Nevertheless, the place had no
other business and was giving me the willies so I got the hell out of there before
I got mickey finned.
The most memorable and
white knuckled part of the ride on day 3 was the last 25 miles before New
Orleans. My fuel light had started to blink the one-gallon warning
for the last 5 minutes, shortly before I started on what turned out to be the
22.8-mile-long Manchac Swamp twin trestle bridge. Being above water
there were hardly any exits and certainly none with gas stations. Luckily, I
made it to the first exit at the other end of the bridge in Kenner and coasted
into the gas station literally riding on fumes.
After replenishing liquids for both
rider and bike I was exhausted and really looking forward to checking into my
hotel which was just minutes away. I soon got distracted thinking abouta nice long shower andrelaxing a bit before the big decision:where would I eat dinner that night.In a city with so many great restaurants and
the fact that my best friend at the time was a head chef back in Minneapolis,
the matter had been the subject of considerable discussion and thought.
So as I was going over in my mind the list of
gastronomic possibilities rather than paying attention to which of the 6 lanes
of traffic I should be in, I blew right by my exit to the French Quarter.I quickly learned that driving in New Orleans
demanded one’s full attention as the road system is unforgiving and mistakes
are costly in time and frustration to correct.
By missing my exit to the French
Quarter, I wound up trapped in out-goingfreeway lanes,leaving New
Orleans, going over the Mississippi River bridge before I was able to exit and
turn around.Eventually with much effort
and three quarters of an hour of my precious time wasted,I was able to double back and find my hotel,
the French Market Inn in the heart of the French Quarter.
