When Roller Derby came to Memphis in 2006 — organized into teams with such catchy names as the Legion of Zoom and the Priskilla Presleys — lots of fans thought it was a reincarnation of the matches they watched on television back in the 1960s. But it turns out the sport is actually much older than that, and the Lauderdale Library has recently acquired a souvenir program for a 1939 event with the long-winded title of Leo A. Seltzer’s Trans-Continental ROLLER DERBY or Coast-to-Coast Roller Skating Race.

Now I have no idea how this race could take place “coast-to-coast” since the participants, then as now, raced around in a circle. But that’s how they promoted it, anyway. And this entertainment spectacular took place here in Memphis every night from 7 to 11 p.m. for two entire months — January and February 1939 — at the Municipal — better known to Memphians as Ellis — Auditorium.

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I’ve written before about gravestones in Bethany Church Cemetery, a shady burial ground tucked away in the county north of Collierville. It’s filled with old and interesting markers, but none are so intriguing as a row of seven flat stones marking the last resting place of the children of the Archer family. Why are they so mysterious? Because the gravestones show that, over a period of 14 years in the 1920s and early 1930s, eight children were buried here, and not one of them lived more than a few months. Anyone who stumbles upon these simple markers must wonder: What on earth happened to these poor children?

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I’d be the first to admit that “Ask Vance” doesn’t address the larger issues of our day: Is there other life in the universe? What does the future hold for our beleaguered planet? What IS the capital of North Dakota? Instead, the column focuses on the little things that often vex my readers — and me.

And here’s the perfect example. What is the purpose of this post, or sign, or whatchamacallit, that is poked into the ground on South Bellevue, right in front of Central High School? The base is a sturdy metal pipe that stands about three feet tall, and riveted to the top is a circular metal disk about 10 inches in diameter. When I snapped this picture, I didn’t actually step out of the Daimler-Benz to measure, but you get the idea. If there was ever any paint on it, it’s long gone now. The whole thing is a layer of rust.

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Hanging beneath the old Frisco Bridge is a sign that has baffled me for two years now — ever since I discovered it during one of my drunken “explorations” (I was looking for a shortcut to West Memphis). But as you can see from the scan, a bright red metal sign dangles from the underside of the old bridge. Neatly cut into the quarter-inch steel are the words “S.L. Lipe 1943-2004.”

Who was S.L. Lipe, and why is he memorialized in such a strange location?

This isn’t that easy to find. To see it, you have to get on Crump Blvd. heading west and take the Metal Museum Drive exit. Be careful, because if you miss this exit, the next stop is West Memphis. The drive loops beneath the old bridges, but just as it passes beneath the Frisco Bridge, there’s a dirt road on your right, which heads towards the river and deadends below the bridge. Look up — after you’ve parked your car, NOT while you are driving! — and you’ll see the lozenge-shaped sign.

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For reasons that only my team of highly paid psychiatrists, psychologists, venipuncturists, and ventriloquists can explain, I’ve always found these dire warning signs amusing. Not because of what happens to the people (if you can really call these “people”), but by the sort of noncommittal, unemotional way these tragedies are depicted.

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Years ago, I think people took more pride in their work, even when their jobs involved routine labor. It’s also possible that they saw marketing opportunities that we just overlook today. Of course, nowadays when you want to find the name of a builder, or a contractor, or any sort of manufacturer, you search the Internet or flip through the phone book. But years ago, you could actually admire a fellow’s work, and often find their names right on it.

What I’m getting at, in my roundabout way, are the names impressed in the sidewalks of our city, imprinted there by the men — and yes, it was always men — who poured them. On Thursday afternoons, the only day when I was permitted to leave the Lauderdale estate, I would run across our lawn, slip out through the gates, and scamper along the sidewalk — until the chain pulled me back. But in those rare moments of freedom, I was always fascinated with the ancient (or so it seemed to me) name embossed in one particular square of concrete just outside our house: CAMPODONICO was all it said, I recall. I used to imagine this burly fellow, turning off his gritty cement mixer after pouring the long slab of concrete, smoothing the surface with wonderfully named tools like “darby” and “float” and then, when he was satisfied that it was JUST RIGHT, he would pull out a special mold, press it into the still-soft cement, and leave his mark for others to see and admire.

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Ever since I began scribbling this column back in the early 1940s (as Swiss neutrals, the Lauderdales weren’t permitted to help with the U.S. war effort), certain places in and around Memphis keep popping up as queries sent to “Ask Vance.” They aren’t necessarily landmarks, but they have certainly left their mark on the collective (or individual) memories of my half-dozen readers. And all too often, though I would like to write about these places, I don’t do so for the simple reason that I cannot locate a decent photograph of them. And without a photo (or postcard, or matchbook cover, or menu, or ANYTHING visual), that means I have to fill the column with tedious WORDS, and who wants that?

So here’s the “Vance Lauderdale Top Ten” — a listing of the places around town that most people know, or at least have heard about, but I have never seen photographed. If you HAVE a photo of any of these places, Read more…

Old postcards often provide history buffs with fascinating views, showing everything from monuments to main streets. But they are notoriously unreliable fonts of information. And here’s the perfect example — a detailed, full-color image of the magnificent Eads Bridge at Memphis.

Just one problem. The Eads Bridge was — and still is — located in St. Louis, and this card actually shows the Frisco Bridge that crosses the Mississippi River here. The problem, you see, is that postcard manufacturers Read more…

Although Memphis had quite a number of nightclubs in the 1940s and 1950s, the two that get mentioned the most by readers of my column are the Silver Slipper and the Cottage Inn. I’ll talk more about the Silver Slipper someday, and — if I feel like it — even post some photos of what’s left of the property, which once stood along Macon Road.

But today I just wanted to share a couple of interesting images of the Cottage Inn, which was tucked away between present-day Park Avenue and Poplar Avenue, just east of Ridgway. Years ago, if you were driving east on Poplar, a narrow road angled off to the right and intersected with Poplar Pike. The Cottage Inn was Read more…

I wish I could tell you more about Joe’s Cabins, but then I wish for a lot of things these days, and none of my wishes ever comes true. I suppose it’s because I didn’t go to Sunday School as much as I should have, but after I got to be 27 years old, all the other kids in the classes laughed at me, especially when Mother was still driving me to the church.

But it’s interesting (to me, anyway) that many old places in Memphis are demolished instantly and something horrendous is erected in their place. And then there are other places that are left alone, to silently fall into ruin over the years. And so it has been with this cozy old tourist court on Summer Avenue (or Highway 70) close to the Highway Patrol Station. At one time, I found a reference to this as the Floral Hill Motel, but I’m not entirely sure that’s accurate, because for years and years it was known by the Read more…