Author: Chris Herrington

This began as a quest of sorts. Actually, a quest of mythical proportions, because I had visited the Reelfoot Lake area only once, at night as a small child, and had only a memory of a dark, murky place with very strange relatives in a very strange house. I don’t recall there being any color whatsoever, save for gray and black. It’s an eerie memory that has been slightly unsettling most of my life.

I had also heard stories about Reelfoot over the years from my father, who grew up there as a child in the tiny town of Samburg. There were stories about my great-grandfather, who was married to a Cherokee Indian. The legend goes that he was out on the lake, fishing from a boat, when he was struck by lightning and instantly decapitated. My grandparents, during the Depression, operated some kind of little catfish shack on the lake. When people had no money for food, they occasionally came in and ordered hot water, then sat and mixed it with ketchup to make tomato soup – a free meal that my grandparents, though very poor themselves, were happy to provide. There were tall tales about the infamous Lake Club, a rough-and-tumble roadhouse where barroom brawls were the nightly entertainment. It seems that I was related to the folks who owned that as well.

Until this past fall, I had never been back to Reelfoot Lake, just a two-hour drive north of Memphis, never had any contact with the cousins who still live there. To be perfectly honest, I believe something in me was scared to go there. I had only the memory and a mental image of a very mysterious place.

When I got there I found just that – and much, much more.

My good friend and I arrive on an unseasonably chilly Saturday night, and check into our tiny cabin at the Cypress Point Resort on the lake in Tiptonville, Tennessee. It has no place to eat, so we head across the street to the restaurant at the Blue Bank Resort. (There are plenty of “resorts” at Reelfoot, but don’t get any ideas about lounging around while white-jacketed men bring you drinks; this is fishin’ and huntin’ territory and accommodations, for the most part, are pretty simple).

What we get is a fairly nondescript meal of fried frog legs and fried quail. The only standout is the green-bean casserole that comes in a big bowl as a family-style side dish. It’s a mixture of fresh, not-cooked-to-a-limpy-death pole beans, chopped in small pieces and mixed with smoked bacon and cheeses, and it’s delicious.

Our waitress is very friendly, answering all of my weird questions about my family – including one cousin I actually knew years ago and am looking for, and have been told by everyone I’ve talked with that he is less than sane these days. By the end of the meal she is sitting at our table running down a list of which joints might be open tonight. Unfortunately, the Lake Club closed many years ago, but its reputation lives on; everyone I ask about it describes it as “real rough.” We want to investigate what’s there now, but are tired, and instead take a few moonlit photos from the pier/boat launch that extends from the parking lot of our motel into the water. The lake looks dank, dark, somewhat swampy and dangerous, with the strong cold wind whipping at the black water, creating fairly torrid whitecaps that are illuminated by the moon. My quest is quickly bordering on validating my vague memory.

The next morning, however, the sky is a classic, deep October blue. The water near the shore is the rich green color of Cerignola olives, which fades into cobalt-blue in the distance. The clouds seem to have purple shadows, and the needlelike leaves on some of the cypress trees have just started to throw down with fall colors. It is savagely beautiful, and I am surprised at the contrast from my childhood impression, and from the night before.

At 8:30 a.m., I find my way to the coffee machine in the resort’s clubhouse, and meet Jeremy, who will be taking my photographer friend and me on a guided boat tour of the lake later in the afternoon. Decked out in a thick camouflage jumpsuit, he is watching wrestling on a small wall-mounted television and I join him. Three fishermen drinking Budweisers come in to shoot a game of pool before they take off for the day’s catch. I ask Jeremy about the cousin I’m looking for, and get a similar response from everyone else I’ve asked: “He’s crazier than a run-overed dog.” He then adds, “Man, I don’t know about you, but you’re from the weirdest damn family that ever lived on this lake.”

Just as the wrestling match is at full-tilt violence, Jeremy points to the window, looking out toward the cypress grove that shades the boat launch and very matter-of-factly says, “Look ‘ere.” When I glance up, I see a bald eagle sailing from the sky into the top of one of the trees. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one out of captivity, and I am fairly awe-struck. It’s one of the reasons I’m here, because Reelfoot is a well-known home to both migrating eagles and resident eagles, birds that build nests weighing up to 4,000 pounds and who mate while falling rapidly from very high altitudes. In fact, the months of December and January are peak eagle-watching times at Reelfoot. When hundreds of shiny little martins flutter in like a hailstorm and line themselves along the wires hanging over the parking lot, I have even more hope for the day.

With some time to kill before our afternoon lake tour, we head down the road to check out Samburg, which has a few motels, restaurants, some old houses, and plenty of manufactured housing. There’s not enough charm to hold us here for long, so we head up another road, and find ourselves lost in Kentucky, ending up at the dead end of a gravel road in a field that is bordered by a tiny finger of the lake. The water is milky green with algae, but it looks like a beautiful carpet dotted with lily pads that surround one lone cypress tree that has already turned a fiery orange. We could stay here for hours, but decide we’d better find our way back to the resort for the lake tour. We are a little apprehensive about not being equipped for the cold and the wind, but once back we hesitantly ask Jeremy if he really feels like taking us out. He’s all for it and we set out.

Reelfoot is indeed a dangerous lake. Because it is basically a flooded forest caused by the great earthquake of 1811-1812 – when the land cracked open and the Mississippi River dumped its water over some 15,000 acres – there are huge stumps in the lake. If you don’t know the water, it’s easy to slam the bottom of your boat into them repeatedly. Part of this navigational treachery, too, is that Reelfoot is so shallow, averaging just five to seven feet deep and nowhere more than 20. Because Jeremy has been giving lake tours since he was “little bitty,” he knows the water, knows where most of the large stumps are. But the lake continually changes, as trees that were once above the water snap off and leave new obstacles below, and Jeremy says he has respect for that. “Once you lose respect for the lake and take it for granted,” he says, “you’re in big trouble.”

The water is so rough today that we have to launch at a point several miles north of the motel, where it’s not quite as choppy. And for the next two hours, we are in a world I never knew existed. Once out in the lake, we stop for awhile in the middle of what seems to be acres of lily pads that rise from the water like leafy chartreuse satellite dishes. Some of them are four feet high – taller than I am sitting in the boat, and they seem to own the water from which they grow. Puffs of clouds are still floating through the October sky and another bald eagle sails overhead until out of sight, the sun shining all the way on his stark white head.

It’s difficult to leave, but from here, we inch our way through a cluster of immense cypress trees, where the only sounds are that of the water flapping against the boat and thousands of birds singing in the tops of the trees. It’s the kind of moment to which only the prose of John James Audubon could do justice. In his journal, he describes the earthquake that created Reelfoot Lake. In fact, I think I know how my naturalist/artist childhood hero must have felt during his travels in this area in the early-nineteenth century, when he lived not far away in Henderson, Kentucky.

As we cruise closer to the bank of an island that’s home to several duck blinds, dozens of white egrets and blue herons emerge from their hiding places in the trees, showing off their imposing wingspans as they careen against the backdrop of their natural habitat and fly elsewhere to places not invaded by the sound of a boat motor. There are no other humans in sight. The scene is so raw, so beautifully prehistoric in feeling, it’s as if we are special guests invited to witness the very dawn of creation.

I don’t know exactly what I came looking for at Reelfoot Lake. I knew I wanted to see the eagles, and I was just a little nervous about finding a parcel of my family heritage that has been shrouded in mystery for most of my 41 years. I never found the reportedly whacked-out cousin, but after the lake tour we did locate his brother, whom I’d never met – a man in his 70s who is sweet but nonetheless has the Reelfoot wild card in his demeanor. He and his wife opened their home to us with warmth, love, venison stew, and lots of family I would never have known existed. He told me some stories about my late relatives, showed me his paintings, and hugged me when we left.

I may have even more questions now about Reelfoot Lake and my lineage there than I had before. Unfortunately, my father is no longer here to answer them. But the natural beauty I found at this little spot on the earth makes me think that I may just meet up with him in some other world someday and have a long, long talk. Nothing like this place could ever have happened by accident or the hand of man.

[Note: This article was first published in Memphis Magazine.]

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This time last year, the Center for Southern Folklore was plagued with debt and desperately seeking a new home. In the hole more than $100,000 to creditors, the center was forced to move from its location at 209 Beale Street and faced a bleak future.

Today its director, Judy Peiser, looks back at that period with a smile. “It was a crazy time,” she says. “But people weren’t going to let the center disappear. I always felt it would survive.”

Located since September at 119 South Main in Pembroke Square, the 28-year-old cultural institution not only has a new home, but – with approximately 1,000 more square feet than its Beale Street location – plenty of room to grow. The new site has a gift shop with books, CDs, art, and novelty gift items; a stage for regional blues, gospel, and jazz musicians; and more gallery space for traveling and permanent folk art exhibitions.

It boasts several new features as well, including a cafe that dishes up Southern specialties; a “video bar,” where visitors can learn about quilting and other folk art; a CD listening post; and the First Church of Elvis Impersonators, a coin-operated shrine to the King that once stood in Java Cabana, the midtown coffeehouse. Peiser says the center also plans to add a cybercafe with computers, and a reading room complete with folk-art-related literature.

The funky splashes of color that greet visitors to the center are courtesy of New Orleans folk artist “Dr. Bob” – whose real name is Robert Shaffer – and Tim Jordan, both of whom had helped design several House of Blues sites around the country. “They asked me what I wanted,” says Peiser, “and I said when people walk in I want them to gasp and go aaaaah!”

Now with most of the debt forgiven and a board that has raised several hundred thousand dollars in public and private donations, the center’s future looks as vibrant as its decor. Peiser is particularly grateful to Belz Enterprises, which owns Pembroke Square. “I always knew the basic work of the center would continue to draw people,” she says, “but I had no idea we’d be lucky enough to get the right kind of support and backing from the Belzes. They’ve allowed us to have such a playful, wonderful time here. It’s a win-win for everybody.”

And as for future goals, she laughs and says, “Right now our goal is to stay in one place for more than three years.”

NOTE: This article originally appeared in The Memphis Magazine’s “City Beat.”

Urged to think big and avoid practical details for now, Memphians sounded off about plans to redevelop the riverfront, Mud Island, Front Street, and Tom Lee Park. Listening were members of the Riverfront Development Corporation (RDC), a public-private partnership looking at ways to improve the riverfront.

Key players of the RDC include Kristi and Dean Jernigan, patrons of AutoZone Park, and Benny Lendermon, former director of public works for Memphis and a designer of Tom Lee Park. At this week’s series of meetings, commission board members and politicians stayed in the background while consultants presented broad themes and encouraged small groups of Memphians to respond.

“This session was specifically meant to provoke people,” said consultant Brian Shea. “It’s not that we’re personally pushing any of these crazy notions.” Shea is director of the lead planning team of Cooper, Robertson & Partners, a consulting firm based in New York City. He went on to say that the goal of these discussions was to determine, “what are the most important battles to fight,” and which aspects of the riverfront should be left until after major renovations are complete.

This could be difficult considering the myriad of special interest groups, whose concerns stretch from the historical to the environmental to the residential. However, Randy Morton, a member of the consultant team, warns that the current plans will not have a specific thematic approach, such as concentrating on every historical marker on the river. “We can’t make everything on the riverfront special or it would all be normal,” he said.

Ideas tossed around included: developing housing in Tom Lee Park to raise money for other riverfront projects; a museum spanning the Wolf River and connecting downtown to Mud Island; commercial and residential development of Mud Island; turning the Wolf River harbor into a lake blocked by a dam; taking traffic off of Riverside Drive or rerouting it even closer to the Mississippi River; and making Memphis in May a street festival spanning Beale Street to Main Street instead of a Tom Lee Park festival.

Here’s some of what they said:

• Shea said one of the consultants’ starting principles is that “it is difficult to enjoy and access the riverfront because of barriers.” These include Riverside Drive, the cobblestones, and the hands-off development policy toward the west side of Front Street.

• Planners suggest taking traffic off Riverside Drive and putting it on Second and Third Streets and turning the trolley from a “tourist toy” into a real transit system.

• Mud Island has the potential for a “point park” at its southern tip where the Wolf River harbor and Mississippi River converge. Shea cited Pittsburgh as a city with such a point park.

• Developer Robert Snowden urged planners to not get carried away with plans that ignore Memphians’ disinclination to walk. He also discounted the need for any more public parks. “We don’t need another park, we need to enhance what we have,” he said. And Snowden warned that current residents and tenants on Front Street “are going to raise holy hell if you block their view of the river.”

• Candace Damon, an economic feasibility consultant, said “downtown desperately needs new office development.” Planners see Front Street as the most likely site for such development if Memphis can overcome restrictions in the Overton promenade agreement with the heirs of the city founders.

• Shea said that as a visitor he found the existing museum on Mud Island inadequate because “for one thing, you never see the river.” But others defended the museum. “The concept of having that kind of Mississippi River museum must be maintained,” said Susan Jones. She also urged planners to consider running tour boats to destinations such as Chucalissa or Shelby Forest.

• Options for the Wolf River include leaving it alone, closing it off at the foot of Beale Street, or closing it off closer to Harbor Town to create a smaller lake that would not fluctuate with the rise and fall of the Mississippi River. A show of hands in one group found the most support for the smaller lake.

• Such a lake, however, would close off the existing Wolf River marina from access to the Mississippi, potentially alienating boat-owners. One possible solution is to build a lock at the proposed lake’s mouth, which — though costly — would provide a better access road to Mud Island, and a dam for the Wolf River. The opposing argument is to create a land bridge at the site, providing development space that could pay for the cost of construction as well as serving as a dam.

• Parking downtown was another major concern of one of the focus groups. Morton said that the problem is not so much in quantity as in organization. “Downtown [Memphis] has 20,000 parking spaces, more than the current developmental need,” he said. However, he noted that people are not able to find parking when they need it. The problem, Morton said, is that most of the parking in Memphis is not shared, but is used for a single purpose. As an example, Morton noted that the Pyramid boasts 6,000 spaces which are not used except during Pyramid events. By opening up such spaces to the public, parking problems could be lessened.

• Tom Lee Park shapes up as one of the most controversial elements in the planners’ inventory. Damon said developing it residentially could provide money to do other things, but realistically “you can’t take a park without giving a park somewhere else.” Others suggested such development would detract from the view of the river from the Bluff Walk.

The RDC will continue these discussions with the public for the next three months as part of its year-long study of the riverfront. Memphians can continue to contribute to the discussion via online access at the RDC’s website at www.memphisriverfront.com.

It should have been one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life. I was in Blockbuster with my 15-year-old sister when we saw two magazine covers sitting side by side: Christina Aguilera on Rolling Stone and Britney Spears on Teen People (or maybe it was the other way around).

My sister suddenly ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over Christina and I looked at her in disgust. I asked, “You like Christina Aguilera?”

I shouldn’t have cared. My sister is almost 10 years younger than me and her music choices are entirely her own. But I couldn’t let it go.

I said something not entirely nice about the blond pop tart and before my sister could say anything else, I asserted, “Besides, Britney is so much better.”

There it was. Loud enough for the entire Blockbuster to hear. I was a Britney fan. But it gets worse. My sister and I began a full-fledged debate — dare I say an argument — about the subject: who had the better voice, who was the better dancer, who was nice, who wasn’t, who was smarter, and — descending further into the mire in which I was now stuck — who was prettier and who was a stank ho’.

I’m not entirely sure how this happened. I grew up during the reign of NKOTB (that’s New Kids on the Block) and I knew enough, even in eighth grade, not to like them. Their music was pure marketing, a bottled beat and some chiseled cheekbones. Maybe it was the “Oh, baby, baby,” in that slightly synthesized voice that begins “Baby, One More Time.” Or maybe it was the can’t-sit-still-if-you-try dance beat. But I think what really got me was Britney’s jaunty choreography: the wolfish walk and the crisp arm slinging, like she’s dishing something out and maybe, just maybe, you can take it.

From there it was only a matter of time, really, before I fell into a pit of pop wonderment. Suddenly 98 Degrees didn’t sound that bad. The Backstreet Boys rocked. And ‘N Sync? Musical geniuses.

I know, people will scoff. And I should be at least a teeny bit embarrassed, liking music specifically designed for 12-year-olds. But I’m not. It’s not the only music I listen to. Also, I can’t name the members of the 98 Degrees or any of the boy bands and liking bottled pop shouldn’t be three types of shameful.

Listening to pop is easy. There’s not an emotional divide to cross wondering about the lyrics. The rhythm and harmony don’t take a master’s degree in musicianship to appreciate. And I think it can be almost as satisfying as your

run-of-the-mill criticsâ darling. While Sleater-Kinney or Radiohead communicate feelings, ideas, and emotions, there are times when I don’t want to hear or feel or think anymore. I just want to be. And when that time comes, there’s something to be said for the plain old panacea of ‘N Sync.

Pop is the dessert of music, the chocolate ice-cream after a nourishing meal of rock or jazz. We know it’s not chock full of nutrition, but it sure tastes good. And while no one wants a diet that consists purely of empty calories (you’d make yourself sick), a diet without the occasional confection doesn’t sound that appealing, either.

I would explain it more, but I don’t have time. I have to go practice my dance moves.