(See Cover)
It was Cotton Carnival time in Memphis. Skyrockets whooshed into the muddy Mississippi; searchlights glared above crowds along the riverfront. There were street dances, the crash of band music, the clack and jangle of noisemakers. Bunting was everywhere.
It was, as Memphis newspapers proudly pointed out, the biggest celebration in the Carnival's 75-year history. Warmed with blended bourbon, many a Memphian decided that in this year of peace & plenty it was even better than New Orleans' historic Mardi gras. Despite occasional rain, the city echoed to the sound of countless parades; of parties and balls at which Carnival satraps made glittering entrances. The Cotton King and his Queen were regal with crowns, scepters, robes and brocades. Memphis' secret organizations (Osiris, Ra-Met, Scarabs, Sphinx, etc.) had princes & princesses of their own, dressed them almost as brightly. So did Memphis Negroes, for whom their first citizen—blues writer W. C. Handy—tootled a horn (see cut).
The Memphis of Carnival Week looked wonderful.
The river was down. Cotton was up (26.9¢ a lb.) and so was the city's population (approx. 375,000). Memphis was the world's greatest cotton market, the hub of ten railroads, three airlines, and a big and busy river port. It had boomed during the war, and it was booming still. Better yet, it was running just the way Edward Hull Crump—the most absolute political boss in the U.S.—wanted it to run.
For in Carnival Week, as in any week, the most spectacular figure in Memphis was still 71-year-old Mister Crump. When he passed, in a gleaming new Chrysler, sidewalk idlers gawked as if they had spied the Mad Mullah of Tud, nose ring and all, cracking pecans on the Hope Diamond. Ed Crump did not ignore them. As he rode on casual journeys through his domain he watched the pavements as sharply as a kingfisher hunting shiners; his pink face lighted at the first sign of recognition. If people turned, he snatched a wide-brimmed grey hat from his ear-long white locks, nodded majestically as if thousands cheered, and cranked down the car window with incredible dexterity to bawl, "Hiya, boy!"
"They Like Me." He beamed as voices lifted in startled salutation. "They like me," he said. "To have a friend, be a friend. Some say live and let live. I say, live and help live." He looked a little annoyed when a passer-by simply goggled without replying.
From time to time he noted defects—park grass which needed cutting or a building which needed paint—and scribbled manifestoes on a pad at his side. But the city boasted amazingly clean streets, dozens of parks and playgrounds, fine schools, libraries, one of the finest zoos in the U.S., a fairgrounds, an E. H. Crump Stadium, good hospitals, good health.
By virtue of Crump's irascibility toward the "interests," it owned its own power, gas, water systems. The streetcar company had been slugged into kicking through with 6% of its gross receipts. Utility rates and taxes were low.