Fertile Ground #15

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
An Alternative Birth Story by Stephanie Chockley
My Bonus Baby by Kristy Alley
The Many Faces of C by Elizabeth Alley

THE REAL DIRT
Urf! The Birth of a Blog by Richard J. Alley
The People in Your Cyberhood by Andria Brown
Memphis is Better than Portland by Courtney Miller Santo
Memphis A to Z by Shiloh Barnat
Friday After School by Shannon Dixon
Peeling the Onion by Vanessa Ross

FERTILIZER
Meet Kate Crowder Interview by Stacey Greenberg
Greet Robby Grant Interview by Stacey Greenberg

IN THE FIELD
CODEPINK by Naomi Van Tol
Children are Natural Protestors by Amy Banbury

RUTS INTO FURROWS
Diary of an Injury by Stacey Greenberg

Soil Chart

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg


Despite claiming that I was going to only do the zine every six months in the last issue, I had really planned to have #15 out by December 15th. Then I broke my leg in two places in my inaugural roller derby bout on December 9th and had to have surgery. But thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, I am almost fully recovered. Read my “Diary of an Injury” on page 36. It doesn’t have all that much to do with parenting, but these days I get as many inquiries about roller derby as I do about my monkeys. (Who, by the way, were extremely sweet while I was injured and unable to do much of anything.)

I am happy to bring to you issue #15, the Memphis issue! For the first time ever, all of the contributors are either from or living in Memphis. This is by no means a comprehensive look at our fine city, but I think it gives a taste of what life is like here. As much as I love shipping this zine off to mamas across the country (and on occasion across the globe), one of my goals in starting this zine was to help build a community of like-minded parents in my very own backyard. After almost five years of parenting, I feel very blessed (as we say in Memphis) to know so many awesome parents. Not only do I know them, I get to see them almost everyday—at school, at the grocery store, at the playground, at my house, etc.
Speaking of…we’re moving! Please note the new address on the back and send all of your packing and organizing tips my way! I plan to have #16 out in a few months. In the meantime visit www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com.

An Alternative Birth Story

An Alternative Birth Story
Stephanie Chockley

Some time after the “stuck-at-nine-and-a-half-centimeters-so-you’re-going-to-need-a-C-section” birth of my first child, I retroactively educated myself on the whole process. One night I explained to my husband all of the things that had gone wrong. “. . .and so basically without the pitocin my labor would have progressed more slowly so my body would have had time to dilate properly and I probably wouldn’t have needed the C-section,” I concluded with conviction. “So you will want to try the VBAC next time we do this?” my ever-supportive husband asked. My reply was just as full of certainty as my diatribe, “Of course not!”

It’s fair to say that I do not thrive on uncertainty and spontaneity. I try really hard to go with the flow, but even when it appears I’m doing a good job of it, the inner me is struggling to relax. Waiting on the baby to arrive was pretty hard on me in that regard. It wasn’t about my physical discomfort or the anxiety of what was in store- it was about not having it on the schedule. Not being able to plan my maternity leave to perfectly maximize my paid time off. Not knowing what day relatives would come to my house. Not knowing. So while I’m officially opposed to scheduling unnecessary C-sections just for purposes of planning and keeping order in your life, I was not about to turn down a semi-reasonable excuse to do so when I got pregnant a second time.

Also, I am a total fraidy-cat. I’m scared of everything. During my first labor experience, I had already told my husband that at the first hint that anything might go wrong, I was willing to be cut open. Because what if the baby got stuck? Umbilical cord around its neck? Upside down? Sideways? What if I ripped open to my tailbone and pooped out of my vagina for the rest of my life? Add to those fears the (admittedly small) possibility that the scar tissue from my first C-section might rupture, and I’m knocking on the surgeon’s door before the pee has dried on the EPT. Even though surgery should be infinitely scarier than the amazing, natural act of childbirth, I was willing to give myself over to it in a heartbeat. Probably because it can be planned for. They draw a line where they’re going to cut. They control the pain. They have a better handle on the baby’s condition. The certainty of the decision to plan a repeat C-section wrapped around me and made me feel safe. That was definitely something I needed amid the craziness of pregnancy.

I found myself disappointed, though. Not that I had made this decision - I was relieved and actually happy about that! But why was I willing to settle? I know people who work with midwives or have their baby at home in the bathtub or at the very least don’t get an epidural. I wish I was the kind of person who wanted that experience, but I’m just not. I wondered if maybe I would regret the decision later. “I hear second babies come out pretty fast- maybe if I go into labor before my date, and if I’m pretty far along by the time we get to the hospital, then maybe. . .,” I limply threw out one night over dinner. Chip just looked at me and smiled his knowing smile. “Whatever you want to do,” he replied, knowing better than I did that it wouldn’t happen that way. And it didn’t. And it turns out I’m perfectly fine with that.

My due date was March 22. We scheduled the C-section for the afternoon of Thursday, March 16. The Saturday before, I suddenly had high blood pressure. Since it was the weekend, my doctor’s office was closed and I had to go to the hospital. At one point I heard the nurse talking to the on-call doctor, “. . .since she’s already scheduled for Thursday. . .” “No!” I said to myself, and then to everyone within earshot. I had concert tickets for that night, and stuff to do around the house on Monday after Connor and Chip left for the day. I hadn’t even had a day off work! I didn’t have the cushions on my glider rocker re-covered yet! Many tears later they let me leave, promising to see me Thursday. I stayed home that night sulking while Chip went to the concert without me, but I was glad to be back on schedule. I cleared my to-do list by Tuesday afternoon, and looked forward to relaxing all day Wednesday.

But Tuesday night when I got in bed, I realized I was in labor. I tossed and turned for a few hours, checking the time of my contractions and making sure it was really happening. I had an unreasonable fear that I would cause a lot of commotion getting my mom over to stay with Connor and heading to the hospital, only to be embarrassingly sent home with some Tums. I felt I needed to be sure. Pretty soon I was, but I let Chip sleep awhile. I figured it would be good if one of us did. Around 1:00 a.m. I shook him a little. “It’s time,” I whispered. “Really? You ready?” And I was. I had a fresh mani-pedi (Don’t judge me-it was a gift!), there was a newly upholstered chair in the nursery and clean sheets on the guest bed. We called Mom to come stay with Connor, and she arrived in minutes. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to warn Connor, but I knew it was best to let him sleep. He knew it was happening this week and he was excited about it. He’d be happy to wake up in a world where he was a big brother.

We arrived at the hospital and I was monitored in all the appropriate ways. The contractions were strong and closer than I had realized, but I hadn’t dilated much at all. We called Mom and Chip’s parents to let them know it was happening. The on-call doctor came to see me. Dr. King! He did my first C-section. “Um, doc? Not to knock your work, but my previous scar is somewhat asymmetrical. Dr. Miller said we could fix that?” No problem. One more thing checked off my list. (My list of neuroses, that is!)

They wheeled me in, alone, to administer the spinal block and get me ready. I concentrated on trying not to move my immovable legs and asked repeatedly, “When can Chip come in?” I found myself more frightened of the surgery than I had been the first time, when it all happened much faster. I narrowly averted a panic attack after giving in to my instincts and trying to move my leg- the nurse talked me down from it and reminded me that it would all be worth it in just a few minutes. In came Chip, and it was on. No, I don’t want to watch. Yes, I know I’ll feel pressure. Just do it! In that moment all you want is to hear that baby cry, no matter how she’s getting out of you. And minutes later, she did. I exhaled and begged them to get her to me. “Hi Chloe! I love you!” I said through my tears. Although I wish I could have nursed her right then, I knew I would be able to soon enough. So, I relaxed a bit and watched them go about the business of welcoming a newborn. Nine pounds four ounces? At 39 weeks? Suddenly I was really glad I hadn’t tried that on my own. It wasn’t long before the three of us were in a room together, watching Chloe gleefully suck the skin right off my nipples. I hadn’t done it in my own living room, but I had done it and I was proud. And it was nothing to be ashamed of.

My Bonus Baby

My Bonus Baby by Kristy Alley
Photos by Heather Ashley




Saturday morning, the kids and I slept in while Big Daddy got up and went to work. I never thought I would consider 8:45 a.m. "sleeping in," but now it seems absolutely decadent. I heard the boys get up and turn on cartoons as Genevieve rooted around a bit in my bed and then looked up at me with her best "am I not the cutest baby alive?" smile.

The lady Somerset generally does not show her face before 10:00 a.m. on weekends, but this day she came padding into my room and crawled up into bed with the baby and me. The three of us snuggled and chatted for a little while until gradually the boys drifted in asking about breakfast. Sugar is the rule for our Saturday mornings, so Calvin and I made our favorite, chocolate croissants, and we all took them out on the front porch to eat.

The older three soon felt cartoons pulling them back inside, leaving Genevieve and me in relative peace. She likes to alternate between sitting in her exersaucer and rocking with me in the porch glider. While she practiced standing and reaching in the saucer, I gorged on chocolate and The New Yorker, reading a short story, a couple of poems (one good, one bewilderingly not good), an article about Bill Clinton's working post presidency, and a fascinating article about a WWII era sociological movement called Mass Observation. Somewhere in there, Genevieve fell asleep in the crook of my arm and I put her back in bed.

I sat there, rocking and reading and eating with my kids drifting in and out and the baby doing her baby things, and I tried to hold the sweetness of the moment in my mind. There were years when time seemed to be suspended in babyhood, when months seemed like eternities and I thought I would never see the end of diapers and sippy cups and “Blues Clues.” I never had baby fever. I lived for the day each one of them would walk and talk. Babies are sweet, but we had kids because we wanted kids. We became parents with visions of biking with them, going camping and canoeing, not of cribs and mobiles and pushing a stroller. Not that there weren't good things. Babyhood has its moments, but for the most part, I have wanted to kiss the ground as each child turned four, because the journey to that point has just about worn me out. Then one day, I realized I couldn't find clothes to fit Calvin in the toddler section anymore. Joshua was talking clearly and sucking his thumb less. Somerset, who was then our "last baby," potty trained and finally weaned on her third birthday. It felt like the end of an era, and it was bittersweet.

Two weeks later, I got pregnant. I have to confess that I was devastated. There was a time when I wanted a fourth baby, but then I had Somerset only fourteen months after Joshua. We decided that three was enough. We worried that we were pushing our luck. We had three healthy kids, why tempt fate? It was a hard decision for me, but once I decided I was done having babies, I felt good about moving on to the next stage. As it turned out, having babies was not done with me. When it started to dawn on me that I might be pregnant, I responded with strong denial. There was no way. I was so sure that I would never be pregnant again that I couldn't even wrap my mind around the possibility. I've had two miscarriages, so that always feels like it could happen again. I didn't want to miscarry, but I knew it could happen, and if it did, I would know that the whole thing just wasn't meant to be. The thought of starting all over with a newborn was just overwhelming to me. Then one day, I guess about a week (a very looong week) after I figured out what was going on, I saw blood. I walked into my kitchen, leaned back against the counter, and cried. It was crazy, I didn't even want to be pregnant, but at the same time, I felt like I had just lost something very real. I thought in flashes of everything that would never happen for that baby. I felt like I had wished away my chance to know one of my kids.

Happily, the blood turned out to be only a little implantation spotting. The baby was fine. I felt so relieved, but I still worried. I'm not the anxious type, and when irrational thoughts pop up, I usually shut them down immediately. But one day when I was driving the kids around, I looked to my right and saw a woman pushing what looked like a six-month-old baby in a stroller. A thought flashed into my mind with such force and certainty that it was almost as if it had been spoken aloud: "I'll never see this baby like that." I pushed it away, but the feeling that it was true was hard to shake. I never said a word to anyone, but through my whole pregnancy, some part of me was just waiting for the worst to happen. I did not allow myself to think about how it might go down, but I couldn't stop believing that it would. So when I was finally in labor and the nurse noticed that the belt monitor was not picking up the baby's heartbeat, that part of me just sort of detached and said, "So this is how it's going to happen." My incredible nurse, Marta, moved swiftly and expertly as she attached the internal monitor, rolled me on my side, put an oxygen mask on me, and unhooked the bed from the headboard so she could tip me on my head. As she moved, she calmly explained what she was doing and how it would get more oxygen to the baby. It all happened so fast, and I was able to listen to her, but at the same time part of me was thinking that this was how I would lose my baby. I don't know if it was the guilt over not wanting to be pregnant, or just hormonal irrationality, or what, but it felt so real at the time.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded and Genevieve was fine. She came out looking blue as Vishnu, screaming soundlessly, and when they laid her on my chest I said, "Are you sure she's ok?" They assured me she was fine, but I was still shaken. Then my doctor held up a length of the umbilical cord between her hands and said "Look, a true knot." It was tied in a perfect knot but not pulled tightly enough to cut off the blood supply. Only two weeks later, I would learn that the baby of a friend's acquaintance was stillborn because of a knot in the cord. But my baby lived, and she was beautiful and perfect and she relaxed in my arms the moment the nurses brought her back to me. She rested her head on my chest in a way that said so clearly, "Yes, you are the right one." I could write a million words and never be able to describe what I felt at that moment.

So, finally, with my fourth and definitely last child, I have been able to enjoy having a newborn. When she cries, I feel sympathetic but not like my own emotions are tied up with hers, which is how it always felt with the others. I do not feel like my head is going to explode. Ok, sometimes I do, but that's usually when I'm trying to do something else that seems important at the moment. Most of the time, I just hold her and smell her crazy hair that stands straight up, laugh at her babbling screeching baby sounds, smile at her smiling at me. She is indescribably sweet, and so much sweeter because I know now how fast it goes. I know that I wasn't even expecting her, my bonus baby, and she came to me through sheer luck, and before long she will disappear into the child she's bound to become.

The Many Faces of C

The Many Faces of C
Elizabeth Alley

Urf! The Birth of a Blog

Urf! The Birth of a Blog
Richard J. Alley

Why would a person start a blog? Narcissism. At some point a person believes that what he or she has to say is so interesting, so poignant, so goddamn witty that he must share it with others. And that others will necessarily enjoy it. That’s why I began Urf!, because I’m just so witty. That’s not entirely why I started it, of course. As the father of four young kids of varying ages, I am always amused by the silly things they’re saying or doing, or trying to say and do. These stories I would invariably email to my mother or sisters. I decided it would be easier to put them in one place, along with current photographs, for them to visit and to really feel a part of our lives no matter how far away they were.

Urf!, a term my then-three-year-old daughter would use to vent her frustration, was begun on March 31, 2006, with the post What is Urf!? I wrote online for about 10 days before telling anyone, posting almost every day. I needed to make sure it was something that would hold my attention before attempting to hold anyone else’s. I received positive feedback in the form of comments and email once I went public, and the URL was forwarded from family to friends to people I’d never met before. I’m a frustrated writer at heart and having someone read what I’d written – and like it – turned out to be just what I needed, what would propel me to write more, whether online or in my own composition book. It also helped me gain access to a community in Memphis that I wasn’t even aware I wanted access to. My wife owned a parenting store for a couple of years and, through that entity, she became close with a group of women and their families. Kristy’s Friends, that’s who they were to me. I knew of them, but didn’t really know them. Once she told them about Urf!, and they read it, they began to comment and email their thoughts on various posts and topics. Stacey Greenberg and I discussed using a post as an essay in this very zine. Instead of hanging out as individuals with kids, we started getting together as families and have all become close, a sort of extended family.

I consider myself to be a good father, though with room for improvement, but writing about the kids every day changed the way I looked at, and even interacted, with them. I began listening more closely to what they were saying and how they were saying it, always looking for that next hook to build a post around. They had become my muses. Suddenly I saw humor in their stubbornness, questions, eating habits, and even their arguments. I instigated conversations just for the reaction and dragged others out longer than I normally would have just to see where they’d lead. They usually led to one of the kids rolling their eyes at me, and that in itself was worthy of writing about. Urf!, as I’ve said, is a funny term of vexation, and that’s exactly what fatherhood is to me - a series of frustrations punctuated by intense moments of silliness and laughter. Urf! became my place to document and share the good times as well as the not-so-good.

My grandfather was the editorial cartoonist for The Commercial Appeal during the 1940s, 50s and 60s, and during much of this time he also penned a daily comic strip called The Ryatts. In this comic strip, he documented the antics of a family of seven, the parents and their five children, based on his own family. It was brought to my attention recently that that is what I’m doing. I’d never made that connection before, but it’s nice to find this link to the past; to think that, though I don’t have his skills with a nib and ink, I can still paint those pictures, convey that humor, in my own way. Hopefully in a way that will resonate with other parents, other families.

The blog also became a sort of archive or record book for me. My thinking is that when my kids grow and have kids of their own, reading Urf! will be akin to flipping through that old family album we always look through at my grandmother’s house. There will be some actual photos, but most of what is there will be drawn with words, some embellished, some silly, but hopefully with enough truth and feeling that they and their own children can be transported back to this time in their lives. It’s done the same for me. I find that I’m not only interested in writing about my kids’ childhoods, but my own as well, attempting to draw a parallel between our experiences at times and a contrast at others. I’ve written heartfelt entries about my family, knowing full well that they were being read by those people, and that has unexpectedly opened up lines of communication that may not have been there otherwise.

My kids don’t yet know about Urf!. I’ve kept it from the oldest, the only one who can read now, because it’s not time for him to read it. I’m not ready for them to know just how funny they are to me, how parents laugh at their children even when they’re exasperated by them. If that happens, we, as parents, lose our edge and the whole system breaks down. I also fear that if they know they’re being written about, and that people are reading it, then they will begin acting for it and I want them to be as natural as possible. The time will come for them to read it, and I look forward to emailing them the URL wherever they may be. Away at college, on scholarships, hopefully.

The People in Your Cyberhood

The People in Your Cyberhood
Andria Brown

It’s always a little awkward to admit having met someone online. There’s still a little bit of a stigma, the assumption that the parties involved had such a deep social delay that the only way they could come together was through the safe, flaw-hiding, digitized middle ground.

Even more awkward, then, to admit that pretty much one’s entire social circle stems from an online source, but I’ve slowly come to realize that I owe most of my daily interaction with other parents to the mighty Internet. In fact, I wouldn’t be on this page today if it weren’t for the HipMama message boards.

I met Fertile Ground’s own Stacey (or staleyg, as she was better known to me) while I was pregnant with Miss M. I’d been a fairly active message boarder before then, since I was telecommuting from a home office 600 miles away from my nearest three-dimensional co-worker. So when I got pregnant, I sought an online community that would cater to my personal parenting leanings. The board went through changes and the community wandered from one site to the next, but I kept tabs on staleyg and after nearly a year of virtual communication, we discovered that we lived less than 2 miles away from each other. A chaotic but enjoyable smoothie date between Pregnant Mom and Toddler Mom ensued, and pretty soon we were in regular contact, both in person and online.

One day I got an email from Stacey saying, “Hey, have you seen this store Mothersville? It’s really cool, you should check it out.” And since Stacey was my guide to all things cool in Memphis, I of course went right away. I discovered not only a store, but a community resource offering pre-natal yoga, childbirth classes and a full schedule of groups for new mamas. I immediately signed up for everything, and after slinking in six or eight times, I finally got the nerve to start talking to the owner, Kristy. And talking. And talking. And talking.

Looking back at the end of my pregnancy and my first year of motherhood, my most distinct memories are of sitting on the couch at Mothersville, among Kristy, Stacey and a revolving group of other new moms, talking, joking, advising and dishing about our lives. But even in real life, the virtual was still a factor. Most of the moms had found Mothersville through online research on slings, cloth diapers, or attachment parenting. We set up an outside playgroup and, naturally, emailed each other the meet-up details each week. The Internet was our lifeline in the often isolating world of new parenthood.

As time went on and children grew, trying to coordinate our social lives got even more complex. We outgrew playgroups or our maternity leaves ran out and our regular contact got less and less frequent. Since I was working 2-3 jobs, including the new ownership of Mothersville, I no longer had the free time to devote to the constantly active nature of message boards, and as each month passed, I was drifting even further out of touch with the women who had been my companions on the maternity journey.

And then, like a pixelated miracle dropped from the cyber-sky, my salvation arrived in the form of a blog. Fertile Ground Zine: The Blog, to be precise. Suddenly I had a way to keep up with the almost-daily doings of at least one other mom (guess who?), and thanks to the magic of blog comments, it was even interactive. Maybe I didn’t have the time to send regular emails, but it wasn’t so hard to read a funny post and then blurt back a couple sentences in reply. In fact, reading the comments from other people was half the fun of the blog itself. It’s like Stacey was telling a story and the rest of us were sitting around the table, goofing around and interrupting (like she loves!) and sometimes even agreeing with her. When Stacey expanded her bloggertoire to include Dining with Monkeys, and then opened it up to guest bloggers, the community interaction was even stronger. More local parents joined the blogosphere on their own and we formed a curious little pack: grown folks who rarely actually saw each other but still kept tabs on the regular goings-on of everyone else.

I didn’t realize how much this phenomenon had affected our social scene until we were at a birthday party at Kristy and Richard’s house (Sassy Molassy and RJA of Urf!, respectively) and Stacey mentioned that, despite standard birthday party conventions that usually just drag mothers to such events, Warren felt comfortable coming because “he felt like he knew everyone through the blog comments.” The feeling was collective as we all sat on the porch and drank beers and joked with each other as if we’d just been talking the day before, even though it may have been a few weeks since we were all in one (actual) spot.

Of course, those multi-week spans very rarely occur anymore, because there’s generally a Dining with Monkeys convergence to attend or an impromptu park date set up thanks to the wonder of cell phone text messaging. We used technology to come together, and now we use it on daily basis to create our own virtual neighborhood. We can’t walk out our front doors and holler hi at each other like our own mothers and their friends, but we’ve still found a way to connect our high-speed lives.

Ten Reasons Why Memphis is Better than Portland

Ten Reasons Why Memphis is Better than Portland
Courtney Miller Santo

Memphis is a city for passing through. Its history is that of a town of intersections, the site for exchanges, a layover in a cross-country trip, the spot before the final stop. It isn’t a place people stay. Since moving here, this characteristic has colored nearly every moment in Memphis. I can see it on the faces of those who call Memphis home, nearly everyone looks as if they got off at the wrong bus stop and are just waiting for the right moment to leap back aboard and travel to another place – a place of permanence. And because too many people don’t consider Memphis their home, they don’t recognize what this city has to offer – especially to parents.

I moved to the Bluff City from Portland, Oregon with my husband, our four-month-old son and three-year-old daughter in August 2005. I spent the first eighteen years of my life in Portland, and then returned for a four-year tour of duty – during which I became a mother. What I failed to understand while living there is that for many progressive parents, Portland is Mecca. It is the end-all, be-all for those who picture themselves riding their bikes to work, enjoying excellent public transportation and beautiful city parks, or sipping coffee in a child-friendly, environmentally-friendly, locally-owned and operated café. All these things are true, but it doesn’t make the city perfect. While Memphis has an issue with permanence, Portland has an issue with authenticity.

What you see is what you get in Memphis – its nickname (Bluff City) is geographical. There are steep bluffs along the Mississippi River on the Tennessee side, which protect the city from flooding. Portland got its moniker (City of Roses) after the wife of a wealthy newspaper mogul started the Portland Rose Society, which encouraged the city to plant 200 miles of rose-bordered streets in 1905 to draw attention to the centennial of the Lewis and Clark expedition.
With that, I give you my list of ten reasons why Memphis is better than Portland:

1. Cost of Living
A family of four living on the median U.S. income ($43,200) in Memphis, would need an additional $9,669 to maintain the same standard of living in Portland. One big reason it is much easier to make ends meet in Memphis is the cost of a house. According to the National Association of Realtors, the median house price in Memphis is $145,300 vs. $235,000 in Portland for the quarter ending October 30, 2006. For our family to afford a home in Portland, I would have had to keep my sixty-hour a week job in corporate communications. Instead, my husband works full-time, while I am able to work part-time from home.

2. Commuting Time and Congestion
At first glance there is not much difference between the time it takes to get to work in Portland (21.9 minutes) and Memphis (21.4 minutes). But these numbers come from census data, not real-world experience. And let me tell you, Portland is a much more congested city than Memphis. Traffic on all freeways, local highways and busy streets starts to slow down at 7:30 a.m. and again at 3 p.m. (and by slowing down, I mean bumper-to-bumper, less than five miles per hour). In Memphis, even during rush hour, I can usually drive at thirty-five miles per hour. I don’t have to plan errands and doctor appointments around commute times.

3. Memphis Zoo
The Oregon Zoo (located in Portland) is like an ugly stepsister compared to the Memphis Zoo. There are two schools of thoughts with zoos – either they create such animal friendly environments that it is nearly impossible to find the animals or they accept the reality that zoos are for people and embrace visitor friendly exhibits. At the Memphis Zoo my son watched a lion walk up to the barrier and let out an enormous roar. He then spent the rest of the day imitating the lion. There is one exception – the train at the Oregon Zoo (or the Washington Park and Zoo Railway) goes on a four-mile trip through forests to a world-famous rose garden. Which is amazing compared to the five-minute manure smell ride at the Memphis Zoo.

4. Minds Its Own Business
It is possible to walk the streets of Memphis and not collect stacks of leaflets and pamphlets for Greenpeace, the Peace Corps, peace protests, lactation sit-ins, or any number of pet Portland causes. It is possible to drink a caffeinated beverage, while pregnant, and not be lectured by three or four strangers on the dangers of this habit. I can fill the tank on my fifteen-year-old SUV at the local gas station and not be given a pamphlet on the danger of fossil fuel by a woman in head-to-toe Nike exercise clothing driving a brand-new Prius. It isn’t that I have anything against any of these causes, I just enjoy not constantly being lectured on my life choices. The “live and let live” attitude of Memphis is refreshing. And as a parent, it helps my sanity. If there is one topic everyone has an opinion on, it is how you raise your kids, especially in public.

5. Weather
Memphis is miserable from June to September. It is four months of muggy, oppressive, sweat-inducing heat. Those same months in Portland are beautiful, with sunshine and highs in the mid-80s. But what about those other eight months? Portland will be cold, damp and gray, while Memphis is enjoying moderate temperatures and lots of sunshine. When I was about ten, my mother received a circular from Sears for siding, which in big, bold letters said, “THE SUN BEATS DOWN ON YOUR HOUSE ON AVERAGE 68 DAYS PER YEAR.” If you live in Memphis, you get on average 118 sunny days – but you may have to repaint your house more often.

6. Southern Hospitality
It is so strange when a cliché is true. Portland is laid back and casual, even the whitest of white tablecloth restaurants wouldn’t blink if you showed up with socks and sandals, but it isn’t overly friendly. No one really talks about the great hospitality of the Pacific Northwest, but Memphis, well that’s another story. People are always chatting me up, asking me about my children, trying to find a personal connection between us. “Oh, your husband works at Memphis State …. My brother-in-law goes there.” In Portland, people will talk to you, and are happy to give directions, but you have to ask first. And at no point will your neighbors bring over food to welcome you to the neighborhood. They may however make sure that you are well-versed in the various ways you can best adhere to the recycling rules.

7. Diversity
In my high school class of 440, there was one African American, a couple of third or fourth generation Asians and a handful of Hispanics. And this was no uppity-up school – we had one kid (Alan Bond) whose father was a lawyer and we could never get over the fact that he went to school with us (the children of union workers, factory workers, and teachers). It is wonderful to have the opportunity to have my children grow up in a place where integration and diversity are the norm.

8. Downtown
All cities have panhandlers, but at least the panhandlers in Memphis are actually poor. In Portland, be prepared to be accosted by suburban teenagers “getting real” by leaving their parents’ McMansions, bathing in patchouli oil and moving to Portland to live on the streets.

9. Music
Portland’s greatest musical acts include the Kingsmen, Quarterflash, Everclear, and Storm Large (CBS’s Rock Star, season two). Memphis not only lays claim to Elvis Presley, B.B. King, Al Green, Isaac Hayes, Justin Timberlake, Three 6 Mafia, among others, but Sun Studio and Stax Records, and there are more songs about Memphis than I can list.

10. Soul
Memphis is a city with rhythm, deep blues and plenty of gospel. If you take it all together you get soul, you get authenticity. It is a city full of people making their way the only way they know how. It is a place worth putting roots down in, a place that deserves people who want to make it a permanent home.

Memphis A to Z

Memphis A to Z
Shiloh Barnat

Moving to Memphis from San Francisco means frequently being asked, “WHY?” usually punctuated with “And you’re STILL here?!” Memphis has a poor self-esteem sometimes and underestimates its hipster mystique. Even though, I must admit, I had my trepidations and it’s taken years to make friends here, yes, I am still here and, yes, I’ve grown to sort of like it (for now). Here’s why:

A – Anarchist art in the heart of Amerikkkana. Like the “Resistance is futile…” & “Futility is divine!” graffiti that graced either side of the train underpass gateway to my new neighborhood for so long when I first moved here. Or the Pepto-pink painted TVs scrawled with “We’re watching YOU!” scattered at populous commute junctions.

B – BBQ I’ve learned to love (it’s all about the sauce, ya know!). Even a dedicated vegetarian, as I was when I moved here (or the vegan friends I’ve come to love here) has to marvel at the temples to pig erected each Spring for the sacred secret ritual of the annual world BBQ championship that opens Memphis in May.

C – COGIC (Church of God in Christ) conventions which congregate the most magnificently ostentatious HATS on Earth. The Church Lady ain’t got nothin’ on these ladies of God. And even a die-hard atheist, as I also was upon arrival, has to admit to being moved by The Spirit at Al Green’s All Gospel Tabernacle. I’m sure I felt the Earth move there & they were just about to burn that church down with all that Holy Hollerin!

D – Dirty Delta blues, low-down gritty grooves that shake your soul and your booty. There are no spectators at juke joints like The Blue Worm. But stay away from Beale Street as they don’t know how to treat their musicians properly down there & drunk tourists get obnoxious every night.

E – Elvis paraphernalia, where else can you find such temples to schwagg?! Graceland wasn’t nearly as tacky or interesting as I’d hoped for, but the fried peanut butter-banana sandwiches & gold lame jackets are worth the trip. And you can find a gift shop with affordable hip-swivel Elvis bobble heads or clocks that chime “Thank ya, thank ya very much!” on just about every other street downtown.

F – Fried green tomatoes… and pickles… and turkeys… and bologna… and, well, just about anything. It’s ALL deep fried around here, which I hated at first. But every now & then a little grease to lube up yer insides is not actually a totally bad thing. It sure cuts alcohol quickly. Just try it…

G – Garage bands forever!!! In SF you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a Web Worker. Here you can’t spit without hitting a musician. And the talent that crawls out of the woodwork or converges at street festivals or in late night jam sessions boggles even the most sensitive ears (like my husband’s). Soulsville, USA. Sun Records. The Birthplace of Rock-n-Roll. AND a thriving forward-thinking musical undercurrent that never stops innovating & reinventing.

H – History on every street corner. The first supermarket, Piggly Wiggly, on Poplar. The projects where Elvis lived as a kid. The church where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his last speech. It’s a living history text with full color illustration.

I – Irony on every street corner. The Target soon to be built around the corner from the first Piggly Wiggly on Poplar. The ultramodern condos going up catty-corner from the projects where Elvis grew up. The parking garage towering over the church where MLK last spoke. An ongoing contradiction in priorities & vision that reflect the conflicts of a mixed up tacky nation.

J – Juke joints where dancing is not optional no matter who you are. I mentioned the Blue Worm (relatively new, but equally genuine), but did I mention Wild Bill’s? They only serve 40oz bottles of beer & I hear you can’t get 5 minutes into the place without a sweaty regular shimmying you onto the dance floor whether you like it or not. I’ve still not been, but vowed to go before I leave this place or it closes (whichever comes first). So, let me know when yer up for the next parents’ night out ‘cause I’m THERE!

K – King, Dr. Martin Luther whose demise here enshrined a legacy of conflict, conspiracy and hope. It took me a good 5 or 6 times through the Civil Rights Museum to not be in tears by departure, but the new wing across the street more dedicated to the conspiracy theories around his death & subsequent continued struggles for justice puts a whole new spin on events. Shakes a nay-sayer to the core & puts us all in our place.

L – Local flavor, lots of it. Hidden gems like the Poor & Hungry (the bar, not the movie named after it – though that’s a MUST SEE to grasp Memphis culture!) or Gus’s Fried Chicken that don’t look like much from the outside but host treasures inside only to be found in Memphis.

M – Memphis Mamas! (Y’all ROCK!!!) I really didn’t even begin to truly make friends here until congregating & commiserating in the uncertain sleep-deprived haze of early postpartum at Mothersville for playgroups & breastfeeding support. How did I miss all these fabulous conscientious women before we became mothers? You are my inspiration, my safety net & one of the biggest reasons I feel at home here.

N – Neighbors & neighborhoods. You definitely get to know the people in your neighborhood here… whether you like it or not. It’s not the anonymous faceless crowd of larger cities, for sure. A small town with Big City resources.

O – Opportunities. Where the culture is lacking, you make your own. And you’ll always find someone to join your party, yet the options are not as overwhelming as in a more-cutting-edge-than-thou place like San Francisco.

P – Porch swings. Especially on a breezy spring evening when the sky is purple & pink & orange. Our daughter calls ours the “break seat.” “I’m just gonna take a little break,” she says swinging away. It’s just such a lovely restful point between home & not quite in the door yet.

Q – Quilting is hip again? An art form lost in faster more urbane locales, quilting is back in favor here. Galleries feature vibrant mixed-material patchwork collages of past & present, not quite the bedspread kind my grandma made but the narrative kind you could lose yourself in for hours.

R – River views, the closest thing to awe-inspiring nature around here. Think Tom Sawyer & try to forget about the sludge the current is carrying through the entire country bound for “Cancer Alley.” It’s deceptively smooth top-currents & mysterious depths can be quite mesmerizing. My favorite view is looking north at night from Tom Lee Park or the Ornamental Metal Museum toward the great “M” bridge lights and the ill-fated pyramid.

S – Seasons, all four of them…. Just when you think the long hot sweaty summer will never end, the trees burst into rainbows. And just when the cold dark winter wilts your soul, the daffodils spring to life. Cycles are good and teach us to appreciate each stage.

T – Thrift stores galore…. I thrift every single week and after seven years am still discovering ones I hadn’t found yet. There are too many for them to all get picked over.

U – Underground railroads. As the gateway from the South to anywhere else, Memphis has facilitated many a secret passageway to freer ground and likely – as a central transportation hub – still does.

V – Vitality. You sense here that you are part of the train behind the Little Engine That Could climbing a hopeful hill to something better rather than fiddling while Rome burns. I’d rather be busy building than decaying, on the way up than down.

W – Watermelon-eating mammy figurine salt-and-pepper shakers. Such items are not at all rare and generally, though not always, passed on with full appreciation for their multiple levels of cultural irony and historical significance. Kitsch is kitsch only because the appreciation afforded in the cruel clear hindsight of progress.

X – Xtreme crossroads, of culture, history, politics. The South meets the Midwest. The true Belly of the Beast. Though the “real” Crossroads where the Devil supposedly bought Robert Johnson’s soul is well worth a pilgrimage to nearby Clarksdale, MS, we all know it’s Memphis where that bartered soul and others sought to leverage the bargain. It’s a point of confluence, the geographic center of the nation, center of the centrifuge. What a vantage point!

Y – Yard Sales. Even better than bountiful thrifting, every Spring brings an endless treasure trove of yard/garage/estate sales where bargaining is welcomed. The best are annual sales encompassing whole neighborhoods, more than even the most dedicated junk-sale aficionado can fully absorb.

Z – Zoo. The new polar bear exhibit is inspiring and the kids never tire of it.

Fridays After School

Fridays After School
Shannon Dixon

Peeling the Onion

Peeling the Onion
Vanessa Ross

I lived in Memphis from age one to twenty-five, minus a little over a year in Latin America and a few months in Chicago. As a younger person I felt like Memphis had its priorities all wrong: too much focus on appearances and religion, a definite dislike for those who rock the boat. I knew that not everyone was like this, but conservatism permeated the very air we breathed, so figuring out who I was wasn't easy. I was ready to leave before I graduated high school, but stayed for a scholarship to Rhodes. I finally left for good to go to midwifery school in San Francisco, lived for over 8 years in Northern California, and have now lived for a year in Northampton, Mass., a lovely, progressive college town. I try never to say never, but if I have my way, I’ll never live in Memphis again. So I took this writing assignment in stride, thinking it would be easy to explain why. But I found myself ruminating on the question for weeks, and I realized that my connection with the place in which I was raised is anything but simple. Too many layers of relationships and memories and feelings temper the lens through which I view this place. So I started peeling the onion.

The outermost, papery skin rips off easily, the seemingly small, but not insignificant things, like how I don’t like the layout of the city and how much driving one has to do there; or that I can’t stand being from, much less living in, the same place as Elvis (since he isn’t really dead). And the heat: the sweltering, elongated, one hundred percent humidity summers, requiring ridiculous amounts of energy to be spent on “conditioning” the inside air in most public places down to temperatures suitable for a meat locker. The irony of having to carry a sweater around in the summer to avoid freezing inside one’s workplace or whilst shopping, knowing that all this “cooling” is simply resulting in more global warming is another reason I don’t live in Memphis.

Then there’s the high crime rate that results from centuries of racial and socioeconomic oppression. The last place I lived in Memphis was on the edge of “Sherwood Forest,” off of South Highland. I got tired of being afraid if I had to drive home late at night alone or even if I wanted to walk two blocks to Walgreen’s in broad daylight. And these fears were not the unfounded imaginings of a skinny white girl: over approximately 4 years time and in various Midtown and Downtown locations, I was mugged at gunpoint, had my apartment robbed (luckily I wasn’t home), and my car was broken into three times—once while I was marching in a Martin Luther King Day parade. I was surprised to learn in San Francisco, a much more densely populated city with a huge homeless population, what it means to live in a safer environment; I never got ripped off once there, and now I live in a town where most people don’t lock their doors.

Deeper in I come to the cultural piece. Southern culture is extremely rich in many ways: music, literature, food, even the old “hospitality” still holds its charm for me. But beneath the surface, the South is still plagued with a culture of judgment and denial. In my own family, ignoring or hiding problems like rape, teen pregnancy, alcoholism, mental illness, and homosexuality was preferable to facing them, and still is. Of course religion informs this tendency to a large extent. Memphis might as well be the buckle on the Bible Belt; it is full of those whose religion gives them the right to sit in the judge’s chair. “God’s country,” as my grandfather calls it, is only a safe place to be if you are amongst the godly.

In the South I find magnified the things about this great country of ours that I have a hard time tolerating: consumerism, commercialized Christian holidays, artery-clogging food, guns in over half of our households, a frightening degree of ignorance about life outside the U.S., and an even eerier pride in that insularism. Most of the time I just want to turn-tail and run off to Europe, where they are older and wiser; or Canada, where I guess they are just smarter; or Bhutan, where they are the happiest of all despite (or perhaps because) they don’t have all the technology we do. But so far I stay here because I think how much worse our nation could be, how much more environmental and political destruction Americans would inflict on the rest of the planet, if everyone with a conscience and a brain abandoned ship.

Perhaps I should feel the same way about the South: I grew up there, and I should stay there in solidarity with the strong minority of progressive Southerners who are changing things, among whom I count numerous friends and relations. I don’t feel this affiliation with the South, because the truth is, the South doesn’t want me. I am a married lesbian with a child, and the Southern states have made it clear through their laws and constitutional amendments that my family is not welcome there. I’m sure if I loved the South with all my heart, I would stay and fight to change this situation. But I don’t, and I have other causes I’d rather devote my energy to.

Most importantly, beneath all these layers of reasons why not is the fact that Memphis doesn’t have what I do want. I want to live in a place where I am surrounded by woods and mountains and rivers; where my family is a welcomed part of the community; where people are serious about taking care of the land and fighting for political justice here and everywhere. I want to live in an environment where I can thrive and where my wife and son can thrive too; where Miles is allowed to be himself and never feel afraid or ashamed to find out who he is, not only because we support him in doing that but because our community does. And I think I do.

Meet Kate Crowder

Meet Kate Crowder by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Kellen Kjera


At 9:00pm on a Friday, I was busy trying to get my monkeys (Satchel, age 4 and Jiro, age 2) in bed so I could sneak out and interview Kate Crowder, the lead singer of my new favorite band, Two Way Radio (formerly known as Walkie Talkie and briefly as Side Walk Talk). At 9:25pm, I said goodbye to my husband and drove down the street to a local bar where Kate said she’d be hanging out until their 11:00pm show time. As I nervously walked into the nearly empty bar, I saw Kate and she said, “Let’s get a beer.”

“So,” I said in my official reporter’s voice, “Tell me how you got started singing.”

Kate: I’ve been singing with my dad (and my little sisters) for as long as I can remember. When I was twelve people decided that I needed voice lessons like I was going to evolve into this really talented opera singer—but that never happened. I'm lucky for the training though, because the classical foundation ended up paying for my college by way of choral and musical theater scholarships.

Stacey: How did you and (your husband/bandmate) Corey meet?
Kate: I had a boyfriend for a really long time and Corey dated his sister. We both went on a lot of family vacations with them where they would leave us out of what was going on. So we would be left talking and it was awkward for both of us. We all broke up around the same time. Then I ran into him a year later with Andrew (McColgin who plays guitar in the band) and the three of us started hanging out, but there was nothing romantic going on between any of us. I lived in Midtown by myself and I got robbed—like everything I owned. My dad wanted me to move to Collierville, but he and Corey made some arcane deal and I ended up moving in with Corey and Andrew. Eventually I told Andrew that I had a crush on Corey and he said, “I think he might have a crush on you too.” So we started dating seriously within a week and eight months later we were married—and still living with Andrew!

Stacey: So you started the band while you were all living together?
Kate: Corey and Andrew already had a “band,” but the band had no name and no songs. The songs consisted of two notes that went on for ten to twenty minutes. Even though I’m not this great musician, I was like, “We need to establish some structure here. You know, like a song should be verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge…and under three minutes and fifty seconds.” Me joining the band definitely made it more of a band and less of a jamming session. Then we strategically tried to get Joey (Pegram, the band’s drummer) to come over and play with us by offering him free food. It was like, “Andrew, make some hot wings and call Joey!” We didn’t know if he’d want to play with us since none of us had been in a band before and he had been in several. The bass player from the Grifters would come over too and we’d all get nervous. My hands would shake when I played piano.

Stacey: I read in the Memphis Flyer that you got a book and taught yourself to play piano. Is that right?
Kate: I realized I was spending too much time thinking about what other musicians should be doing with their bands or songwriting so I went to the library and checked out a bunch of musical theater scores (for the piano) since I was familiar with how they were supposed to sound, and practiced the heck out of them for a few months.

Stacey: And you do most of the song writing?
Kate: Corey talked me into using some of the songs I had written. On our first album, Residential Llama, I did about 80% and Andrew did about 20%. Corey and Joey each have one song. A lot of times Corey will say, “Your lyrics are awful,” and change them. He’s definitely the poet of the two of us. I’m a little too narrative and literal. Most of the songs are about things I go through at work or other things that really happened. On our next album, the song writing will be much more evenly distributed between all five of us.

Stacey: So you’re pretty young—25—when did you get married and start your family?
Kate: Between being 21 and 22 I got married, graduated from college, had a baby that summer, got my first job, and bought a house. So I was 18 one minute and then I was 35. I was like, “Wait a minute, how did all that happen?” It happened really fast.

Stacey: So were y’all planning on having kids right away or…
Kate: Corey was! We were at El Porton one night—we had been dating for like three weeks—and it was really informal and he just looked at me and said, “Let’s have a baby right now.” I was like, “Wait a minute, we’re not even married yet. Give me two years.” Then eight months later I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but it was good!

Stacey: Did Corey always envision himself as a stay-at-home-dad?
Kate: Yeah. His dad was home a lot—he was a painter too. He sort of shies away from any kind of 9 to 5 job. Which is good, because I really wanted to work. Corey is an architect, a painter, and a sculptor all rolled up into one. He’s a really great artist.

Stacey: So how do the two of you balance two kids (Oliver 2, and Polly, eight months), a band, your career, Corey’s art…
Kate: It doesn’t leave a lot of “me time.” I generally wake up at 4:30am and go to work. I usually get home by 3:00pm, which is good. I give Corey an hour to relax when I get home. I know my job (as a World History teacher at a middle school) is stressful, but I know it’s stressful for him too. We switch roles in the summer so I have a really good feel for what it is like to be home with the kids all day. Corey paints at night, or sometimes he works at Huey’s. I never do work at home. I try to spend all my time with the kids. I have a system at work like you wouldn’t believe to get my papers graded. I’m a great teacher. I teach World History but we have fun. I incorporate music and dancing and art and different activities.

Stacey: So is being in Two Way Radio the only thing you and Corey get to do together?
Kate: Um…yes. Corey and I really enjoy playing music together. When we play a show we get a babysitter. We practice once a week—during the day, for babysitting purposes—on Sunday for about 4 hours. The band members’ wives and girlfriends are like an extension of our family. They really help out with the kids. We try and only do gigs once every two weeks—everyone in the band is pretty busy. When the children go to bed, Corey and I practice together. Even when the kids are there, we play music together and write songs. The kids each have a piano and they play along. Oliver loves the drums, and the keyboards, and even the guitar. Polly is the one who likes the piano. She crawls over to it, pull herself up and plays for like ten minutes at a time.

Stacey: Other than playing at Shangri-La and at the Rock-n-Romp, have the kids gotten to see you play?
Kate: I try to book as many daytime shows as possible.

Stacey: I wish there was a Rock-n-Romp every week.
Kate: I do too!

Stacey: How does being a parent help you with the band? Does it ever get in the way?
Kate: The biggest way that parenting helps the band definitely manifests itself in the song writing. As trite as it sounds, there is nothing more inspirational or gut-rippingly emotional than learning how to be a parent. I've got a lot of emotions to write about now.

Another way that being a mom helps... it puts things into perspective. I don't walk around thinking that I have to do all these things before "I settle down and have kids." Now, I really feel like I have all the time in the world to make and enjoy music. It put a stop to that feeling of deadline for all things artistic and youthful. I'm glad to feel responsible and needed, while maintaining a slightly subdued wild side.

It also helps me to prioritize time. Being so busy (parenting, working, marriaging, socializing) makes me really appreciate and want to create time in which I can play or write music.

Of course, though, it definitely gets in the way of scheduling and running the business aspect of the band. That part I definitely hate. People in bands know it’s hard to get four or five people together to tour, to play shows, or to even practice—because everybody has jobs and girlfriends. BUT throw the coordination of two babysitters, wives/in-laws, and the situation only worsens. Corey and I have been so lucky to have family that really want us to play music, and are so helpful with the kids while we are doing it.

Being a mom makes touring really, really difficult. I would have a hard time being away from my kids for more than a couple of days. AND, babies really weren't made for a pauper's road trip. So the verdict is still kind of out on touring.

Stacey: What advice would you give other women who are mothers and musicians?
Kate: I would advise them to live close to their families. Oh, and it doesn't hurt to be married to the bass player.

Two Way Radio’s CD is Residential Llama. Get your copy via http://www.myspace.com/walkietalkieband

Greet Robby Grant

Greet Robby Grant by Stacey Greenberg
Photo by Bob Bayne


I’ve known Robby Grant since the sixth grade. (We also went to religious school and high school together.) We always ran in the same circles, but didn’t really get to know each other until about a year ago when I cornered him at the Children’s Museum and convinced him to help me get a Rock-n-Romp started. Now Robby and I often call on each other for favors—me more than him—and meet up for lunch downtown when we have the time. I recently sat down with him (tape recorder in hand) at the Majestic to talk about music, parenting, and the intertwining of the two.

Stacey: When did you start playing music?
Robby: I was in 7th grade so age 12, no 13. I had piano lessons when I was really young. I sucked at sports for the most part. Music was always a part of my life. My mom had a lot of great old 45s, a lot of great records. She was a fan of music. I got to choose what I wanted to play. I chose an electric guitar. I bought one with my cousin—we split it, but he never played it.

Stacey: That was a good deal for you.
Robby: Yeah.

Stacey: Why the electric guitar?
Robby: It looked cool. We went in the music store and it was the coolest thing in there. It was an Electra Phoenix with a whammy bar and it cost $100. My dad was a singer and my uncle played drums. My dad passed when I was really young (5). But I saw him sing when I was really little. Once I had the guitar, I immediately formed a band in seventh grade with my friend, Tom Martin. It was just the two of us for the first two albums. I like to learn by doing so I bought a guitar, formed a band, and started recording music.

Stacey: How did you record?
Robby: With a jambox and a tape recorder so I could multi-track. (This was all prior to being able to afford a 4 track.) It sounds a lot fancier than it was. We had skits and songs. We played at my Bar Mitzvah. We tried out for my high school talent show every year. In 10th grade we did Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” In eleventh grade we did “Pinball Wizard” by the Who, which probably wasn’t a smart choice since my high school had such a big hearing impaired program. (Don’t mention that.) In twelfth grade I played drums and we played “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

Stacey: Did you ever win?
Robby: No.

Stacey: So how did you go from not winning talent shows to being in the very successful band, Big Ass Truck?
Robby: It was a natural progression. We got a 4 track and did some recording with that. Then in college (The University of Memphis where Robby got a film degree) I got together with some friends (like Steve Selvidge) and started playing in a band called Thrill of Confusion. I spent a lot of time making videos too. TOC disintegrated and morphed into a band called Fester. Our drummer went away to UT (The University of Tennessee) so we never practiced. We got together and just played noise for 45 minutes when we opened up for The Simple Ones and surprisingly Jared (the lead singer) liked it. However, I wasn’t interested in pursuing a noise band at that point. Steve got five friends together to open for the Simple Ones at the Antenna in 1991 and that was basically Big Ass Truck. We had a lot of friends and hung up a lot of flyers. We played frequently—once a month for four or five years. Then did more regional shows. Then we toured the U.S. for four years.

Stacey: Where in all this did you get married and start having kids?
Robby: Rachael and I dated as seniors in high school and have been together ever since. We got married when I was 24, so 1997. I was gone a lot during that time. I was on the road a lot. There was the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” thing going on. We had a lot of time to do our own things. I think that contributes to the fact that we are still married almost ten years later. Five was born while I was still touring. I missed the whole first year of his life.

Stacey: What was that like?
Robby: I missed being there—we were really busy—but having never been a father before I didn’t know what I was missing. We were the first ones of our friends to have kids.

Stacey: Was Rachael like, “You suck?”
Robby: Not really. I’d be home for a few weeks at a time. I could never do it now. Five is seven now and he’d have like a million questions I couldn’t answer.

Stacey: So what did you do when Big Ass Truck broke up?
Robby: After Five was born, I started doing side work for Paul Ringger at Every CD and then later for Ringger Interactive. I took a laptop on the road and built websites while I was in the van. I didn’t have to wonder what I was going to do when we broke up. I just started going to work more. I had a desk at Paul’s house. I was always home every couple of weeks—it wasn’t like I was out of sight out of mind for very long. Paul taught me a lot and gave me a lot of books to read. We built a lot of sites together and I just learned that way.

Stacey: So Five is two, you have a day job, how do you express yourself musically at this point?
Robby: Three or four years before Big Ass Truck broke up, I was already doing my own thing—I released two solo records, one under the name Vending Machine. It actually gave me a chance to express myself without the constraints of being in the band. You know worrying about things like are people going to like it? Is there going to be a guitar solo, etc. When it’s just me it’s like, “I like the beat, let’s record it.” I also just wanted to play guitar and not necessarily write songs, so I started playing in Mouserocket with Robert Barnett (from Big Ass Truck).

Stacey: Do you have like a whole in-house recording studio?
Robby: I’ve recorded all my records at home. I wouldn’t call it a recording studio, but I can go up at 5:30am and record what I want. I can’t schedule a whole session with other people—that’s hard to do. I like recording early morning, but no earlier than 5:30am.

Stacey: When do you go to sleep?
Robby: I usually go to bed at 11pm or midnight. I’ve got bags under my eyes.

Stacey: Do you do a lot of jumping up from the dinner table?
Robby: If it hits me I capture it immediately. I literally leave the dinner table. I have a whole catalog of 20-30 second recordings. I save them until I have time to flesh them out.

Stacey: What about including Five in your music?
Robby: The record before this, he’d scream and I’d loop it. On the last one I hit a wall a couple of times when writing a song and I’d play it for Five and say, “What does this sound like to you?” On one of the faster ones, he was like, “It sounds like cobras.” It actually inspired me to name the album King Cobras Do. He even wrote the lyrics to the Saturn National Anthem. He was sort of free associating words. I rearranged them a bit, but they’re his words. We also do a lot of recording where he’ll come up and he’ll play drums or guitar or keyboards and just make some noise on the weekends. We’ll take turns being boss. He’s a hard boss. For the past three years we’ve done a holiday song as a family and sent it out to friends.

Stacey: Is Sadie (Robby’s two-year-old) getting involved?
Robby: She’ll bang on the drums and do her thing. She inspired a new song called “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop Teasing You.”

Stacey: How often do you play shows?
Robby: Once every other month, but since it’s December I’ll probably play every weekend. My other band, The Glitches, has a few gigs.

Stacey: Ok, wait, you are in another band?
Robby: I saw Jared (from the Simple Ones) at a PTA meeting—our kids go to the same school—and the school was like, “We need a band to play at the thing at the end of the year.” We hadn’t had a chance to play together so we formed the Glitches, which is a cover band, and now we’re good friends. We play a lot of the school functions and it’s fun. We’re currently looking to play private parties…you know if anyone is interested?

Stacey: So what do you do when you have a late show? Does Rachael come?
Robby: Sadie is experiencing the terrible twos so it’s hard to find a babysitter. Rachel probably comes to every other show. But we practice at the house so she’s very aware of our set.

Stacey: Do the kids ever get to see you play other than at Rock-n-Romp?
Robby: Yeah we did a show at the Shell and the Center for Southern Folklore. I got Sadie some big soundproof headphones so she could listen.

Stacey: So is being in three bands now somehow easier than being in Big Ass Truck was?
Robby: Big Ass Truck was a lifestyle commitment. We practiced two times a week, we had beers after practice, we toured, etc. Now I’m more focused on end goals, like finishing a record. I have a show next week and the band has practiced for the last month so we can do several shows now.

Stacey: Do you go out and hear music very often?
Robby: I don’t go out near as much as I used to. But with the Internet I can keep up with music via Myspace, websites, and various message boards. It’s a pretty good alternative to going out. I can get ten firsthand accounts of any show sitting at my desk.

Stacey: What are your musical ambitions at this point?
Robby: At this point, just to keep making music. Big Ass Truck did some shows with Ben Harper and he was touring with his family. They had a separate camper. I saw him kiss his daughter goodnight before going to a show. I could see us doing that in a few years, but not quite on that scale. Rachael likes to travel. For now, music from my last two albums was featured on “The Real World” and I just released some new songs to “Pimp My Ride.” I’m interested in doing movies. I just scored (our mutual friend) Glenn Hopper’s movie—The Hanged Man.

Do you see yourself having a family band someday?
Robby: Five takes piano lessons. I see music as a way to express myself and I hope Five has something like that. I want him to be happy and to have something that he enjoys doing forever. I might get Sadie to take cello lessons. We need someone in the family to play a classical string instrument.

Robby’s latest album is King Cobras Do. Get your copy at www.chocolateguitars.com.

CODEPINK

CODEPINK
Naomi Van Tol

As we trudge into the fourth winter of the Iraq War, our soldiers are dying at an average rate of two per day. Our country's human losses now total more than 2,800 dead and 21,000 wounded soldiers. The latest estimates of Iraqi dead range from 50,000 to 600,000 people. We may never know the true death toll because our military command has refused to keep an official count of Arab bodies.

Since early 2003, when George W. Bush declared "Mission Accomplished" two months after the U.S. invasion of Iraq, we have spent $347 billion to plunge a sovereign nation into chaos. Our treasury is hemorrhaging two billion dollars every week to feed the war machine.

Why are we still allowing our government to squander our resources on a fruitless war of aggression that violates international law? I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know that nothing will change if we choose apathy over action. I also know that it's impossible to feel hopeless about the future when you're wearing a fuschia feather boa for CODEPINK.

CODEPINK is a national women-initiated grassroots movement that is working to end the war in Iraq, prevent new wars, and redirect our national resources into education, health care and other life-affirming activities. I first learned about the group while searching for a positive and creative way to speak out for peace.

On November 25, our fledgling Memphis chapter of CODEPINK held its first event. We deployed four large peace banners on a pedestrian bridge over Sam Cooper Boulevard and our group -- eight women, six men and five kids -- got all gussied up in pink clothes and silly hats to wave at traffic for nearly two hours.

We had no idea how people would respond to our message. We were thrilled when cars and trucks started honking their horns as soon as the banners went up. A large majority of motorists waved and honked, and a passing ambulance even gave us a quick siren whoop. It was very inspiring to see (and hear) that so many people in our community want peace.

Our future plans include a "Santas for Peace" event in late December, a Valentine’s Day lovefest in February, and a Mother's Day Picnic for Peace in May. If you want to take action with the Memphis chapter of CODEPINK, contact me at naomi@spiny.com or 901-278-2396. You can learn more about CODEPINK's national and regional work at www.codepinkalert.org.

Children are Natural Protestors

Children are Natural Protestors
Amy Banbury


Children are natural protestors. They instinctively know to go limp when they are being dragged by an authority figure to an unwanted destination. They have the fantastic ability to loudly repeat the same thing over and over again without tire, and have been known to hunger strike.

I didn’t think twice if I was going to bring my kids to the CODEPINK peace rally or not. They had already been to many marches, parades for peace, political meetings, etc. and were well versed in making fun of George W. Bush. They’d love it! Right?! I told them about it in advance so they could look forward to it and help out if they wanted.

This is a brief summary of the days preceding the rally:

Random day #1—Scour the thrift stores looking for blazing pink apparel for the family. I manage to find my daughter a kickass pair of cords and a cheetah print sweater. Let me repeat, cheetah print. That’s her favorite pattern, other than pink camouflage. “Oh, I’m not wearing THAT- I haaaate pink,” she whines. “No, you don’t understand,” I say. “we’re all going to wear goofy pink stuff to catch people’s attention- but you! You’re going to look like a rock star out there!” This doesn’t work and the conversation quickly melts into a tantrum and a rant on what is appropriate for seven-year-old girls to wear. My son seizes the opportunity to jump into the unexpected chaos and repeatedly remind me that he is not wearing pink no matter how hard I try to make him. Never mind that I never said he had to.

Random day #2—Kade wants to know if he can pee off the pedestrian overpass we’ll be on. Brighid expresses her fear of walking on the overpass. They make sure I understand they still don’t want to wear pink.

Random day #3—The kids are outside drawing on the sidewalk when their dad comes home. I hear them call him over to look at their art. Much laughter ensues and I come out to see what it’s all about. Among their drawings is a figure that is supposed to be George W. Bush, and Kade is especially proud to show that he has drawn him with his peter hanging out of his pants. As I was going to say something about the inappropriateness of it, my husband grabs the chalk and reprimands him himself. “No Kade, that’s wrong. There’s no way the president’s peter is that big.” The kids spend quality time with their father laughing and creating unusable potty talk slogans for the rally until dark.

Random day #4—I am making a banner for the overpass. Since it is rather large, I am in the family room. “Whatcha doin’ mom?” is the question of the evening. I have patiently answered it approximately 54 times, along with saying “Please don’t stand on the banner” and “Please don’t walk on the banner” and “I TOLD you not to let the cats back in!” many, many times. I’m pissed. I try a new tactic. I employ the children in helping me brush the glue on the letters and then roll them with a brayer after I place them. This works for seven minutes before the bickering over who does what and how boring this is starts. We continue this way until Dad comes home. All four of us are working on it now and the kids are telling him how much they like making banners and how hard they’ve been working on this one. What?! Kade is still talking about how he wants to pee off the overpass. Brighid wants to know if she’ll be in the newspaper.

Morning of the peace rally—Of all the days, this is the one my kids sleep in on. I wake them up an hour before it begins. I can get ready in 5 minutes. I, again, forget that kids can’t do that. I quietly lay out Brighid’s hip pink outfit at the foot of her bed. She obviously feels the pinkness radiating up her toes because she is crying and whining about how much she hates pink. She hasn’t even opened her eyes yet. I bribe her with Pop Tarts to wear the pants. I make sure Kade pees before we go, and we rush out the door.

We were the first ones there. I ate most of the snacks I packed for the kids while we waited. They were already (or still) tired and I was the one who had to pee.

Luckily, they did not need to use their usual protesting skills. They had a great time of tallying the honks, finding treasure on the overpass (broken Harry Potter flying key, some bottlecaps, etc.), eating pretzels and Nutella, and laughing at all the burly men waving their pink feather boas. Brighid did get her picture in the paper and Kade managed to control his primal desires.

Diary of an Injury: From Roller-Girl to Robo-Girl

Diary of an Injury: From Roller-Girl to Robo-Girl
Stacey Greenberg




Saturday, December 9, 2006
It’s the third and last period of my first pre-season bout. My team, the Legion of Zoom, is down by 15 points. Two of our players have been ejected. I’m trying to stay focused on winning despite being exhausted and somewhat demoralized.

As I skate around the bend, I look behind me for the opposing jammer. Out of nowhere someone blocks me hard. Before I can see who it is or even register what has happened, I hear my leg snap. As I fly off the track, I see my ankle and foot swing out from under me at a very unnatural angle. Then I am down.

"FUUUUUUUCK!" I screamed as I pounded my fist on the floor.

A half hour later I am on a stretcher heading out the door. People are standing around applauding even though I am moaning and screaming and grasping my leg, begging the EMT not to bump my foot. I am in total survival mode, like an injured animal, snapping at anyone who tries to touch me.

In the ER, the radiologist comes for me and parks my wheelchair next to the X-Ray table. “Okay,” he says, “we just have to get you up —"

"NOOOOOOOOO!" I wail, still wearing my sparkly silver mini skirt and hot pants, torn blue fishnets, and big bulky knee pads. "Please don't put me on that table. PLEASE."
He looks at his nurse and they start scrambling, trying to figure out a way to X-Ray me without moving my deformed leg.

"Is it broken?" I ask sadly.

"In a couple of places," he replies.

Strangely this makes me happy. I don’t feel like such a wuss anymore. MY LEG IS BROKEN IN TWO PLACES! Not one, but TWO. I imagine getting wheeled into a room, getting a nice little cast, some drugs, and then getting sent home ... or, better yet, to the after-party at the Young Avenue Deli. A cigarette and a beer sound really good.

The doctor informs me that I have a "pretty nasty spiral" break in my tibia and a "pretty normal" break in my fibula and that he’s pretty sure that I will need surgery. On Monday. When an orthopedist will be in.

"We can give you some pain medication and a splint and you can either go home and wait or get a room and wait," he says.

The thought of going home to my very active two-year-old and four-year-old with my broken leg is not appealing. I can’t imagine even getting myself to a toilet. I look at my mom and my husband and say, “Can I stay?”

Sunday, December 10, 2006
I wake up in a narcotic haze and am informed that I might not have to wait until Monday for surgery. Unfortunately, this also means that I can’t eat or drink anything. I haven’t eaten anything since my normal shin-splint-fighting two bananas at 5 p.m. the day before and I haven’t had anything to drink since right before the third period. I realize my only nourishment was going to come from licking off the remains of the 16-hour red lipstick that Robin-n-Stealin had put on me before the bout. (The entire time I was in the ER my mom kept saying, "That lipstick is fabulous. Your teeth look so white!")

At 5:30 p.m. someone brings me a meal tray and informs me that I have been bumped from the O.R. I can eat and drink until midnight.

I take a peek at the Salisbury steak and black-eyed peas under the pink plastic cover and immediately call my mom. I take advantage of her love for me and convince her to swing by Sekisui Pacific Rim on her way to visit me.

Monday, December 11, 2006
I am whisked away to surgery much earlier than expected, which is a nice surprise. A resident comes over to see what happened to me.

"Roller Derby," I say.

"Oh my god," she says. "My dream is to be in the roller derby."

I laugh a little and say, "Well, try-outs start tomorrow."

She thinks it over for a minute — is she looking at my leg? — and says, "I'm not sure I'd have enough time."

Somewhere along the way I fall asleep, get operated on, and then wake up with a start. "Ow!" I scream as my leg bursts into flames. The anesthesiologist rushes over, activates a nerve block, and then I am thankfully — mostly — pain free.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006
I am told that after two physical therapy sessions to learn how to use a walker, I will be sent home.

Yes, a walker.

My brother, a doctor, picks me up and I am enthusiastically greeted on the lawn by the monkeys and Warren. I hobble in to find Jill B. Nimble and Rattleskate, both of the PrissKilla Prezleys, in the dining room with a giant bucket of chicken and two kids’ meals. Derby girls from all four teams have signed up for three weeks of meal deliveries!

Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Sometime in the night, the nerve block that the anesthesiologist gave me officially wears off. I have to wake up every few hours and take some pain meds and deep breaths. When the kids get up for school, I hobble to my station on the couch and try to look happy until they leave. On his way out the door, Satchel kisses me and says, "I missed you when you were in the hospital."

Once I hear them drive off, I call the doctor's office to see if I can double up on the medicine. I spend the day napping, complaining, and watching bad pay-per-view movies. When the kids get home, Satchel asks, "Is a derby girl bringing dinner tonight?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yay! Which one?"

"Duchess de Muertas."

"Is she the one who broke your leg?" he asks.

"Well, technically she did not break my leg, but she is the one who blocked me when I was looking the other way and initiated the fall that resulted in me breaking my leg."

Satchel looks at me funny and says, “Oh.”

The Duchess and Chica Bandita, also of the PrissKilla Prezleys, soon arrive with a huge pan of lasagna, a big bag of salad, a loaf of French bread, and a video of the bout. We make some small talk and then do some reminiscing about the game.

"I've watched the video over and over and over trying to figure out what happened," The Duchess says. "It looks like your skate gets caught on the track and then your toe stop does something weird and that's it."

"Our VCR isn't hooked up, but I'll definitely take a look at it," I say. "The whole bout is kind of a blur."

"It's in the third period, seven minutes and 30 seconds in," she says as she bursts into tears.

"Oh my god, stop," I say. " I'm going to be okay."

"I feel so bad," she says. "I don't know if I can do this anymore. I'm so sorry."

"Duchess, it's roller derby. I don't blame you at all. I plan on getting back out there and you will too."

She wipes her tears and gives me a big hug and leaves looking like she has just lost her best friend. It is terrible.

But the lasagna is delicious.

Thursday, December 14, 2006
I place a few calls and by the end of the day I have a laptop and a free Netflix subscription.

Saturday, December 16, 2006
I hit an all time low. I can’t handle having the monkeys bounce around the room. I haven’t had a proper shower or bowel movement in 10 days. I call my mom in tears. She comes over with laxatives and leaves with the monkeys.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Warren drives me to Collierville to see my doctor. I can’t wait to get the nasty splint off of my leg. I had to resist tearing it off for a week. I imagined that once it was off, I would be good as new. Instead I freak out at the sight of my misshapen leg and end up in tears. A nice nurse takes pity on me, cleans my leg, and properly fits me for my new robo-boot.

When I get home, I discover that the monkeys love the robo-boot. “Cool!” Satchel shouts as I walk in. “Can I wear it?”

Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Our refrigerator and freezer are overflowing with derby daily meal deliveries. If that isn’t enough, Lizzie McFighter, who was first to come to my side after the accident, came by with a $100 restaurant gift card and reminds me that my first words after breaking my leg were: "I can't believe those bitches did this to me!"

Thursday, December 21, 2006
I launch the “Pimp my Walker” contest. Suggestions include rope lights, silver red and blue flames in glitter automotive paint, a boom box that plays the “Zoom, Zoom, Zoom” song, and spinners on the front wheels.

Sunday, December 24, 2006
To top off Christmas Eve at my mom’s house, I watch the video from the bout with my heart pounding. After viewing the fatal blow over and over and over and over, I come to the conclusion that my initial suspicions were correct. While my skate clearly hit the track and caused my foot to spin out at a bizarre angle, it happened after it was already broken.

“Think Santa will bring me some calcium supplements?” I ask Warren.

Saturday, December 30, 2006
We take the monkeys out for pizza and a movie. At the restaurant, a tween in a pink-and-black-striped cast speeds past me on her crutches, prompting Warren to say, "Why can't you go fast like her?" Before I can give him a dirty look, I notice an elderly woman with a walker about to pass me on the left.

Thursday, January 4, 2007
Officially done convalescing, I return to work. As I crutch my way through the parking lot and up to my office, coworkers glance at my robo-boot and casually ask,

“What happened to you?”

“Roller derby,” I say as their eyes grow wide and they wonder if I am actually telling the truth. People at work generally think of me as quiet and shy.

Tuesday, January 11, 2007
I attend the last night of Boot Camp to check out the fresh meat. Seasoned skaters were invited to attend, so about half of the league is there. I enter to cheers and applause. Before I can make it out to the rink to properly greet everyone as they stretch, I am whisked away to be interviewed by a reporter from Memphis Health & Fitness.

I smile and try to make the nice man understand why I am still interested in skating. I give my now almost automated response, "If I would have broken my leg in the championship game then maybe I'd be ready to quit. But I broke it in the pre-season. I haven't gotten the full experience yet."

While this soaks in, ignoring the pain and suffering of the last month I say, "Besides, the health benefits totally outweigh the risks."

Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My doctor says my leg looks great. She tells me to start weaning myself off of the crutches. To top things off, she gives me papers for a temporary handicap decal so I can have my fill of excellent parking spaces while learning to walk unassisted. I never thought that after becoming a derby girl — the epitome of cool — that I would not only become the owner of a walker, but of a handicapped tag!

My follow up visit is February 21st. I plan on walking in to the office, having her take one look at me and say, "Smashimi, it’s time to lace up your skates!"