All photos by Eric England Crystal ball provided by Galactic Gateways All photos by Eric England Crystal ball provided by Galactic Gateways You cannot grow up in the South, and Middle Tennessee in particular, without a healthy respect for the weird. At various points, my boyhood home, Murfreesboro, housed a cave-cum-former-nightclub that supposedly served bootleg rotgut to Al Capone. It had a stone eagle that according to legend flew off of a monument. It had a market near MTSU that someone had determined was the exact geographical center of the universe. Its big attractions included a huge flat rock and the world’s largest cedar bucket—and thanks to arsonists, the bucket’s title is now up for grabs.But I didn’t know what weirdness was until I moved 30 miles up the road. I’m not talking about the usual suspects. The Edgehill polar bears? Cold. S&M Communion Wafers? Crusty. The Parthenon, and its big-ass gold-plated Athena? OK, that’s weird, but still. After much (well, some) thought, my team of abnormal investigators and I compiled a list of local oddities only a sharp-eyed Nashvillian with wide-open senses would notice. Some are already the stuff of local legend. Others are the kind of bizarre civic bric-a-brac that provokes discussion, speculation, even…fear. So join me, Jim Ridley, your merchant of menace, your maestro of the macabre, your sultan of the shady, your auditor of the odd, your arbiter of the bizarre, and a group of weird authorities on a guided tour of who, what, where, why and “Huh?” Here are hidden marvels guaranteed to raise eyebrows, drop jaws, quiver livers and freeze knees—all beneath the periscope of the city you thought you knew. Quickly, now—step this way. The creepy Pyramid Tomb of Mt. Olivet The fearsome factory of Elf-made men It’s generally disappointing to see the graves of accomplished members of society. The inventor of the Steak-umm, for instance, is not likely to be memorialized with anything as befitting as an eternal flame or a giant waterslide. Happily, at tour stop No. 11 in Mt. Olivet Cemetery, Major Eugene C. Lewis very nearly hits the mark. Less remembered than he should be—given that he was responsible for two of the more noteworthy structures in Nashville, the Parthenon and Union Station—the major makes up for the inattention with an almost garish grave consisting of a pyramid sepulcher and a pair of sphinxes on apparent guard duty. Though we’ve never actually tested it out, we have it on good authority that the sphinxes will, when necessary, rout, gnaw or otherwise mutilate any visitors who approach too closely. The arrow on the pathway leading to Major Lewis’ tomb is said to point to true north, which we assume the major thought was the best direction for him to head in the afterlife. We can only guess he was sorely disappointed. —JUSTIN JONES The famed Wizard Tree of Old Hickory The fearsome factory of Elf-made men Of all the strange things produced in Nashville, this may be the strangest. By day the fires of Mordor burn, hidden from the eyes of dwarves and men, in a secret workshop near the crumbling Chestnut Street industrial district. Here, artists Michael, Paul and Sara Bielaczyc and sculptor Brian Hulsey forge implements with the power to turn humans into otherworldly beings—“elf ears.” Since 2002, their elf-centered Aradani Studios has done a brisk business at Renaissance fairs (duh) and their online hub www.aradani.com, trafficking in Nashville-produced latex items such as orc masks, “deep space” nose prosthetics and mermaid gills. But as far as retail goes, the ears have it—whether it’s the sporty “sea elf” model, the enticingly nubby hobbit variety, or the Cadillac Escalade of prosthetic ears, the Aradani Large Anime (“Perfect for Wilde Elves, Lodoss Elves”). Not only will these 6-inch wonders draw the ladies like Aqua Velva—you know what they say about big ears—they’ll pick up the sound of moon dust shifting. You can try finding the studio, but be warned: the Bielaczycs may be hobbit-forming. —JIM RIDLEY The famed Wizard Tree of Old Hickory Christ the Lord has risen—in Berry Hill! Local oddities, both human and nonhuman, are often assigned supernatural attributes. A woman with too many lawn ornaments, for instance, is apt to become, in the eyes of neighborhood children, something as sinister as a vampiress, based solely on our inability to perceive ceramic representations of Dutch children kissing as anything but creepy. The famed Wizard Tree of Old Hickory has, we imagine, undergone a similar metamorphosis. Located in front of the house at 912 Debow St., in that part of Old Hickory adjacent to Lakewood, the half-tree with the face carved into it has been the subject of local lore and the object of late-night drive-bys for years. It has been rumored to be, among other things, the work of a dying young man who, having driven his car into the tree and being subsequently thrown through the windshield, saw a vision of the face and, with a presence of mind foreign to most who find themselves in the throes of death, managed to carve its image there. We prefer to believe that it’s the trapped soul of a man who was bested by the devil in a pie-eating contest. Either is more suitable than the truth, which we suspect involved someone with a good deal of boredom, a six-pack and more than a negligible amount of loneliness. Whatever the case, approach this arboreal oddity with a mix of fear and caution. —JUSTIN JONES The incredibly frightening, possibly murderous dolls of Old Hickory Throughout the ages, devout Christians have occasionally been granted unearthly talents. Just above martyrdom and stigmata in the long list of lame powers traditionally attributed to the holy is the incorruptibility of the body after death. Though somewhat less useful to its bearer than laser vision might have been, the ability to avoid rotting still manages to impress more than a few of us. In a side chapel at the rear corner of St. Mary’s of the Seven Sorrows Catholic Church, on Fifth Avenue North, is the tomb of Nashville’s first bishop, Richard Pius Miles. In 1969, 109 years after his death, the bishop’s body was exhumed and reported to be perfectly preserved. It is unfortunate for the morbidly inclined and skeptical alike that the body was soon after reburied, thus preventing the phenomenon from being witnessed firsthand by subsequent generations. It’s also unfortunate for the otherwise curious that Saint Mary’s of the Seven Sorrows is often locked; for best results, plan your visit to coincide with one of the many scheduled masses. —JUSTIN JONES Their glass eyes stare out from the old corner drugstore display windows, so lifelike. Clad in their foofy Victorian dresses, the malevolent-looking dolls who live inside Something Fancy, at 2011 Old Hickory Blvd., have been known to scare the living crap out of Lakewood and Old Hickory residents. “My husband is a grown man, and he won’t look at them,” says resident Jamie. Another neighborhood denizen, Wayne, puts on the brave face and jokes about one Doll Gone Bad, who busts out after hours, works the Boulevard and rides around with Old Hickory Village Barbie. But Billy, 13, is in the know: “A dude lives back there,” he says. “Bet he worries about one of them coming out at night with a dagger.” That dude is owner/“Master Artist” Carl Armstrong, whose mom was a doll costumer for the Smithsonian. Carl started repairing dolls when he was in the second grade (and got the crap beat out of him every day, we assume). His doll shop is creepier inside than out, with torsos and tiny heads everywhere. It’s a big operation—Carl’s an international doll mogul, of sorts. Buy some freakin’ curtains, then, Carl—before the Lakewood cops start pulling people over for driving by with their eyes closed. —BERNIE SHEAHAN Christ the Lord has risen—in Berry Hill! Pity the poor theology student who treks to Jerusalem to visit the purported tomb of Jesus Christ, when an exact replica is no farther than .7 miles from the Cone station on Thompson Lane. Tucked away on the first floor of the Woodlawn Memorial Park mausoleum is a manmade grotto that reproduces the holy site down to the last ficus plant and ceramic cherub. Here, koi swim dimly in an underground pond, basking in the historically iffy glow of a 5-foot video screen. But it’s the opposite end of the indoor cave that commands a visitor’s attention. Step inside the stone doorway, and you’ll find a convincingly musty re-creation of the sepulcher that may have housed the Savior’s body, however temporarily: a cell ringed in wrought iron, empty but for one item within easy reach—a crown of thorns. Snicker all you want, unbeliever, but you couldn’t get me to try on that crown any more than I’d say “Candyman” three times into a mirror. As you wander through the mausoleum, you may also pass the much-decorated resting place of Tammy Wynette and a spot reserved for Little Jimmy Dickens (unused for many years to come, we hope); the cemetery also houses the remains of Owen Bradley, Johnny Paycheck, Felice and Boudleaux Bryant, Webb Pierce, Marty Robbins and Red Sovine. At least during his short stay, Jesus did not hurt for music and good company. Follow the wall signs and arrows to “Christ Tomb,” just as you would in the Holy Land. —JIM RIDLEY The bishop who refused to decay Throughout the ages, devout Christians have occasionally been granted unearthly talents. Just above martyrdom and stigmata in the long list of lame powers traditionally attributed to the holy is the incorruptibility of the body after death. Though somewhat less useful to its bearer than laser vision might have been, the ability to avoid rotting still manages to impress more than a few of us. In a side chapel at the rear corner of St. Mary’s of the Seven Sorrows Catholic Church, on Fifth Avenue North, is the tomb of Nashville’s first bishop, Richard Pius Miles. In 1969, 109 years after his death, the bishop’s body was exhumed and reported to be perfectly preserved. It is unfortunate for the morbidly inclined and skeptical alike that the body was soon after reburied, thus preventing the phenomenon from being witnessed firsthand by subsequent generations. It’s also unfortunate for the otherwise curious that Saint Mary’s of the Seven Sorrows is often locked; for best results, plan your visit to coincide with one of the many scheduled masses. —JUSTIN JONES The amazing gravity-defying hill It has something to do with physics. Unfortunately, I didn’t study physics in high school, when my friends and I used to drive to Gravity Hill in Edwin Warner Park late at night, put the car in neutral, release the brake and miraculously drift backwards up the hill in the dark. Of course, we longed to call it supernatural, but scientific authorities assure us that it’s an optical illusion created by the juxtaposition of two skew lines, one being Old Hickory Boulevard, the other being the part of a scenic park drive that is Gravity Hill. These days the greater mystery is how to experience the phenomenon for yourself: park authorities have locked and gated the entrance, meaning that only a modern-day Houdini can get his car up the hill. —CARRINGTON FOX It’s not such a Small World, after all There’s something about the white landmark of a house rising out of the terraced hill at 1644 Chickering Road that makes you want to drive by again, just to be sure you saw correctly the first time. It could be the size: it is massive. Or the shape: it is triangular. Or the singularity: there is nothing like it among the conservative Georgian, Mediterranean and ranch-turned-Tudor architecture situated along the tony, wooded drive across from the entrance to Percy Warner Park. The gleaming paper football of a façade seems to hover over the rich green vista in a sublime ether of expensive lightscaping, as if it were just being projected onto the hill. If the lights were turned off some night, would it simply disappear? If so, a lot of people would be looking for the kill switch. Instead of columns, the untraditional house known as Small World has a black champagne glass of a turret in front and itty-bitty bubbles of windows bouncing across the façade. But kudos to Richard and Rhonda Small, who took an architectural risk on a majestic plot of land and created something to remark about and drive by—again and again, just to be sure. —CARRINGTON FOX The desperate, deceitful Creature of Sugar Flat Road The mysterious beer-drinking Chet Atkins statue For every creature from the unknown that has managed to capture the public imagination by eating family pets or allowing blurred photos to be taken of them, how many more have fallen into obscurity out of ignorance of those essentially simple tactics so effectively employed by Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster? Desperation being a common circumstance among them, it’s not surprising to learn that at least one such creature should have been driven to commit acts of deceit, violence and betrayal. According to legend—available in an informative brochure—the Creature of Sugar Flat Road made its first known appearance when its presumed mate was conveniently struck and killed by a passing car. The driver of the car reported seeing two creatures, both of which he described as furry men. Though no one has ever publicly suggested that one creature pushed the other creature into the car’s path, consider the facts: one is rumored to be presently wandering the hills of Lebanon, living the footloose and fancy-free life to which the Yeti and the Mothman are already so well accustomed, while the other has its head on display in the window of Cuz’s Antique Center in the Lebanon Public Square. Readers may draw their own conclusions. —JUSTIN JONES The strangely unbeatable Ms. Pac-Man Man has walked on the moon and discovered Pop Rocks. It is not unreasonable, in the face of such conquests, to suppose that the universe is here solely to be hectored into serving our merest whim. For those times when immortality elixirs, time-machines and death-rays begin to seem like good ideas, the overreaching should head to House of Pizza in the downtown Arcade, where the Ms. Pac-Man machine in the back room mercilessly metes out humility to those who would overestimate their human powers. Casual frequenters of the eternally popular video game will agree that most people who aren’t drunk or missing fingers should, with little effort, be able to accumulate upwards of 20,000 points; that 50,000 points is a reasonable, if underachieving goal; and that 100,000 points seems to be the standard for a really good game. At House of Pizza, the heady world of the coquettish yellow orb is turned upside down. In this version, Ms. Pac-Man is slow, while the ghosts are quick and appear smart enough to clone sheep, let alone employ rudimentary teamwork skills. The moderately proficient will find themselves capable of only the most meager score. If hubris is what ails you, leave it and those plans for the world’s first atomic shrink-ray at the door, and let Blinky, Inky, Pinky and Sue take you down a peg. —JUSTIN JONES The biggest Taco Bell sign ever—well, OK, it’s just REALLY BIG For years, people have flocked to the intersection of Buchanan Street and D.B. Todd Boulevard to bear witness to one of the city’s strangest culinary phenomena: Ed’s Fish & Pizza drive-through. Unbelieving and hungry, they’d pull in warily behind a line of cars before putting in their order: a fish sandwich, piled with onions, pickles, mustard and hot sauce. (Side of spaghetti and tomato sauce optional.) Then they’d wait. And wait. And wait. And wonder why on earth it would take some 20, 30, even 40 minutes to make a glorified Filet o’ Fish sandwich. And then, the explanation would appear: somebody in the car ahead had ordered a pizza. Now bereft of the name Ed’s, the Fish & Pizza drive-through is still there; if you’re feeling culinarily adventurous and have some time on your hands, pull in and order a sandwich. —JONATHAN MARX Add to the list of Nashville’s bizarrely unexplained phenomena the oversized Taco Bell sign at 2100 Gallatin Pike North, near Rivergate Mall. Admittedly, it takes a special person to appreciate what amounts to a slightly larger-than-normal version of the everyday fast food sign. But when judged in relation to its parent building and the surrounding signs of other businesses, this Taco Bell sign appears to be shockingly out of proportion. The appreciative viewer, being suddenly awestruck, is able only to express himself in the simplest of terms: “Man, that’s one big Taco Bell sign!” Theories should abound as to why the sign is so unnecessarily huge, but they do not. Our carefully researched journalistic inquiries suggest that the sign acts either as some sort of primitive calendar or as an alien radio antenna with eerie powers that the taco people use to manipulate our brainwaves. —JUSTIN JONES The mysterious beer-drinking Chet Atkins statue The subterranean passageways of Vanderbilt University The beloved guitarist and producer Chet Atkins passed away in 2001, but he lives on in a life-size bronze statue that sits in front of the Bank of America building at the corner of Fifth and Union. Atkins was always known for his impeccable touch as a musician, but when it comes to beer, these days it seems Mister Guitar isn’t very particular: whether it’s a bottle of Heineken or a 40-oz. Icehouse, the guy always seems to be enjoying a cold one. There he sits, perched on a stool with his signature Gibson guitar, an empty stool sitting beside him waiting for any passerby who might wish to join him for a duet. I have yet to see anyone take him up on that offer, but it does seem that someone’s been routinely joining him for beer, as it’s a rare occasion when he doesn’t have a can or bottle resting casually at his feet. Are they gifts, offerings or just an inevitable result of his close proximity to the downtown clubs and honky-tonks? The mystery remains, but either way, Chet doesn’t seem to be complaining. —LEE STABERT The Liberty Bell imposter In 1950, the U.S. Treasury Department gave each state its very own replica of Pennsylvania’s famous Liberty Bell, with the intent that each would be displayed to the public and rung ceremoniously on special occasions. Tennessee’s bell is displayed on the southeast corner of the State Capitol grounds but, as far as we know, has never been officially rung. We say officially because, despite restraints designed to prevent ne’er-do-wells from ringing the bell through the traditional means of swinging it from side to side, industrious passers-by have managed to circumvent the powers-that-be by swinging the clapper. If, say, after eating a particularly delicious ham sandwich, you are prompted to mark the day as a special occasion, head on up to Capitol Hill and properly employ this oft-overlooked replica. The reader should expect from his or her efforts something startlingly loud and surprisingly satisfying—and, depending on the time of day and their individual temperaments, perhaps an appearance by a stalwart member or two of the Capitol Hill Police Force. If necessary, head to the northeast corner, where capture can be easily evaded by feigning interest in the tomb of President and Mrs. Polk. —JUSTIN JONES McDonald’s, this ain’t Learn about the blood-spattered history of Printers Alley! The terrifying tiki god that repeats sandwich orders at a Vanderbilt Munchi Mart! The pound of pot supposedly hidden behind a wall at Hillsboro High! The city’s largest rocking chair! The Musk Ape of West Meade! The Murfreesboro bridge chilled by a witch’s cold breath! All this and more—believe it, or…you know. For years, people have flocked to the intersection of Buchanan Street and D.B. Todd Boulevard to bear witness to one of the city’s strangest culinary phenomena: Ed’s Fish & Pizza drive-through. Unbelieving and hungry, they’d pull in warily behind a line of cars before putting in their order: a fish sandwich, piled with onions, pickles, mustard and hot sauce. (Side of spaghetti and tomato sauce optional.) Then they’d wait. And wait. And wait. And wonder why on earth it would take some 20, 30, even 40 minutes to make a glorified Filet o’ Fish sandwich. And then, the explanation would appear: somebody in the car ahead had ordered a pizza. Now bereft of the name Ed’s, the Fish & Pizza drive-through is still there; if you’re feeling culinarily adventurous and have some time on your hands, pull in and order a sandwich. —JONATHAN MARX The incredible growing bison Bison haven’t roamed these parts since the 1800s, and yet drivers pass them every day, oblivious, on their commute to and from Williamson County. What’s even stranger about these creatures at the northwest corner of Tyne Boulevard and Hillsboro Road is that they never seem to move, no matter how many SUVs whiz by the intersection with their xenon high-intensity beams aglow. But the herd is moving—or at least growing—very slowly. Formed by topiary yews trained to grow on metal armatures built by sculptor Alan LeQuire, the beasts of Bison Meadows recall the herds that roamed what is now Hillsboro Road in search of a nearby salt lick. Landscape architect Tara Armistead conceived of Bison Meadows a decade ago as part of a beautification project for the city of Forest Hills. Today, the naturalized wildflower meadow is pied with native grasses and plants—coneflowers, ironweed, butterfly weed and rudbeckia—and the bison feel right at home there. They’re still not mature—some parts of the armature are still exposed, as the topiary hasn’t fully grown around it—but that’s part of the ethos of the park. “People can watch the process as it happens,” Armistead says. They’ll just need to drive by a lot more slowly. —CARRINGTON FOX The subterranean passageways of Vanderbilt University Underneath the manicured lawns and austere buildings of Vanderbilt University lies a netherworld few people have seen: a haphazard series of tunnels carrying steam and electrical lines to buildings all over campus. No one, save for those subterranean dwellers in the university’s deepest inner circle, had ever seen these passageways until a few years ago, when a group of spelunkers called the Urban Explorers broke into the tunnel system and posted images on their website. Since then, the tunnels have become a hotspot for amateur urban spelunkers and drunk college kids alike, who refuse to be cowed by rumors of festering bones and threats of unholy punishment at the hands of university officials. And so each new school year finds a crop of underground explorers determined to make their way past a series of locks and passwords. But somewhere on campus, the story goes, is the one unlocked door that leads to the tunnels. Enter at your own peril. —CLAIRE SUDDATH The amazing, and somewhat disturbing, Toy Museum Sometimes you just really need to see a Howdy Doody doll. Or maybe a display of Victorian china dolls and taxidermied woodland creatures, meticulously arranged in a somewhat disturbing picnic scene, is just the thing to brighten your day. If so, take a trip to the Nashville Toy Museum, at 162 Eighth Ave. N., and recapture your childhood (assuming that you grew up sometime between 1850 and 1970). Owner Ted Lannom started collecting toys in the fifth grade, and in the 40 years since he has amassed one of the world’s foremost collections of antique toys and models. Do you want to see epic battles between lead soldiers? A Hopalong Cassidy clock? Antique teddy bears? Wooden sailboats? A fully operational train layout that takes up half of the museum? But don’t get too close to our favorite toy—the “Atomic Energy Lab,” a junior scientist kit from 1949 that came with real uranium. “I called some experts after I bought it,” Lannon explains, “and they said that uranium’s half-life was about 50 years, and it should be safe.” How reassuring. The Toy Museum doesn’t have set business hours; call 742-5678 if you want to see what real uranium looks like. —CLAIRE SUDDATH COMING SOON TO RIDLEY’S BELIEVE IT OR NOT! Learn about the blood-spattered history of Printers Alley! The terrifying tiki god that repeats sandwich orders at a Vanderbilt Munchi Mart! The pound of pot supposedly hidden behind a wall at Hillsboro High! The city’s largest rocking chair! The Musk Ape of West Meade! The Murfreesboro bridge chilled by a witch’s cold breath! All this and more—believe it, or…you know.
