Dear Vance: Is it true that Memphis was once “the ambulance capital of America”? I came across that reference years ago, but now can’t find the source of it. I hope you can enlighten me. — V.T., Memphis.
Dear V.T.: Pondering this claim, I thought our city deserved this recognition because we have so many bad drivers here (and I include my own chauffeur, Basil, among them), and so the ambulances would stay busy, day and night, transporting the victims of automotive misadventures. But like you, I can’t recall any specific source for such an honor — or perhaps it’s a dishonor — so wasn’t sure how to answer this query.
But then two things happened. First, while prowling around on a certain online auction site, I found a 1953 sales booklet for the Economy Coach Company, located here, and I’m using their illustrations to make this column more colorful. About the same time, I came across the website COACHBUILT.COM, devoted to every company in America that made coaches — and by that I don’t mean stagecoaches, but rather ambulances, hearses, and other specialized vehicles.
The sales catalog noted that with their Chrysler Limousine Combination “the change-over from ambulance to funeral coach is completed in a matter of minutes.” So I suppose if they were speeding to the emergency room and you didn’t make it, the driver simply pulled over, spent a few minutes converting the vehicle to a hearse, and drove you to Elmwood or Memorial Park.
Sure enough, beginning in the 1930s, Memphis was home to four different companies that built ambulances and what they called “funeral coaches” — “hearses” apparently not sounding classy enough. The correct term, in fact, for these vehicles is “professional cars.”
Now this is where, once again, I express my consternation at what I consider an inappropriate overlap between the ambulance business and the funeral industry. It’s a flagrant conflict of interest, if you ask me. In the early to mid-1900s, anyone in need of an ambulance didn’t call 9-1-1 (because it hadn’t been developed yet) or call an ambulance company. Instead, they contacted one of the city’s large funeral parlors — Thompson Brothers, Hinton, or Spencer-Sturla — all of which promoted their speedy ambulance divisions.
My concern is that if a funeral home operated an ambulance company, was it really in their best interest to rush you to the hospital on time? If the victim failed to survive, perhaps the company thought they could then offer funeral services, but the two shouldn’t be linked, if you ask me.
Years ago, I wrote a column about Memphian Jack Ruby, who ran the largest and most well-known ambulance company in town. Ruby had, I presume, received the proper training to deal with medical emergencies, but what really disturbed me was learning that — here we go again — he was a licensed funeral director and embalmer. Readers, would you find that knowledge reassuring, knowing an embalmer was your ambulance driver?
And sure enough, the two coach companies I’ve mentioned not only provided separate ambulance and funeral coaches, but the sales catalog noted that with their Chrysler Limousine Combination “the change-over from ambulance to funeral coach is completed in a matter of minutes.” So I suppose if they were speeding to the emergency room and you didn’t make it, the driver simply pulled over, spent a few minutes converting the vehicle to a hearse, and drove you to Elmwood or Memorial Park.
I certainly hope they turned off the siren and flashing red lights.
But back to the question at hand. According to the experts at COACHBUILT.COM, the four Memphis companies were Weller Brothers (located at 1150 Madison), Barnette (Dudley and Eastmoreland), Comet (later called Pinner, at 3723 Lamar), and Economy (later called Memphis, at 2087 York). And since the booklet I purchased is for Economy/Memphis, I’ll focus on that firm, which opened here around 1945. It’s too confusing, in my limited amount of space, to present the histories of four companies producing similar products, and it certainly doesn’t help that the co-founder of Economy Coach — a fellow named J.K. Barnett — had no business or family connection with Guy Barnette (spelled with an extra “e”), his main rival.
Maybe I’m cynical, but if I’m in dire need of an ambulance or hearse, I doubt I’ll be in the mood to appreciate its “authentically styled interior appointments,” and I probably won’t be in any position — alive or dead — to admire its “striking beauty.”
I should explain that Economy didn’t build their vehicles from the ground up. All of these were “conversion companies,” not automobile manufacturers. Instead, they took the latest model Ford, Pontiac, Chrysler, and Chevrolet delivery vans and rather drastically transformed them by extending the roofline, adding rear doors, installing specialized equipment inside and out, and making many other modifications. By the time they were done, the only feature still recognizable from the original car might be the front grill.
I don’t have actual sales figures, but working out of a factory at 2087 York in the Cooper-Young neighborhood, Economy not only provided vehicles for the Memphis market, but was a subcontractor to ambulance companies in other states. The models depicted in the sales booklet focused on their so-called “economy” line: the Chrysler 2100 Economy Straight Ambulance, the Chrysler Limousine Combination, the Pontiac 1500 Master Limousine Ambulance, and the Pontiac 1000 Junior Ambulance.
“Junior” ambulance? That sounds like something a child would drive. Even so, the Economy Coach people insisted this vehicle “is built to give you years and years of dependable service. The long, flowing lines of the rugged all-steel body, and the richness of authentically styled interior appointments create an impression of striking beauty and unsurpassed quality.” Special features included a fold-down attendant’s seat, roller shades, “art-leather trim,” and “flipper-type vent windows.” Since these were utilitarian vehicles, they didn’t have carpeting. Instead, they were floored with a material normally associated with kitchens more than cars: “fine-quality inlaid linoleum.”
Maybe I’m cynical, but if I’m in dire need of an ambulance or hearse, I doubt I’ll be in the mood to appreciate its “authentically styled interior appointments,” and I probably won’t be in any position — alive or dead — to admire its “striking beauty.”
The top-of-the-line Economy Coach model in 1953 was the Chrysler 2100, offering “the finest engineering of all, plus practical designing that foresees and precisely fills the exacting requirements of the funeral director.” As a Lauderdale, this would be the only one suitable for our family. Built on the Chrysler New Yorker chassis, one of that carmaker’s top-notch models, “the Limousine Straight Ambulance gives you more power than you’ve ever driven before, and unsurpassed beauty of line and appointments.”
Buyers could have the seats covered in “highest-quality art-leather” or mohair was available “at an extra cost.” Now keep in mind that in 1953, none of these vehicles had air conditioning — the main ventilation was a “fan in the rear compartment” — so it’s hard to believe mohair was a popular option in the South. Customers who preferred the 2100 Model, though, had their choice of “the new Fire-Power V-8 engine with 180 and MORE horsepower, or the 119-horsepower Spitfire engine.”
Flipping through the Memphis Coach catalog, one detail certainly stood out — their paint colors. Despite my swashbuckling lifestyle, I’ve never needed an ambulance or a hearse (not yet), but most readers, I imagine, would expect to see ambulances in red or white, and hearses in black or white. Memphis Coach, however, bragged that “any color paint is available” for their cars, and their sales booklet shows hearses in forest green and navy blue, and a “master limousine ambulance” painted in a lovely shade of canary yellow (shown here).
Despite this fine selection of vehicles, the experts at COACHBUILT.com noted that Economy ran into trouble with their main supplier — the Detroit car companies: “General Motors stopped building delivery sedans at the end of 1953, and professional car builders were forced to switch to the much more expensive station wagons. The additional costs involved eventually forced many of them out of business.”
In 1955, Barnett’s business partner, J.B. Norfleet, left the firm, and Economy became the Memphis Coach Company, even introducing a special luxury model called the “Memphian.” This was available as an ambulance, a funeral coach, and a “flower car” — used to carry the floral arrangements for services.
Memphis Coach Company closed in 1961, though the COACHBUILT website offers no reason why it went out of business. Their competitors here had also shut down by this time. A broken concrete slab on York is the only clue to the factory’s former location.
Hospitals and funeral parlors still needed ambulances and other “professional cars,” though, so where do they get them today? A spokesman for Memphis Funeral Home told me their vehicles are Cadillacs, provided by two different companies — Federal Coach and Sayers and Scovill — both located in Ohio.
V.T., you probably noticed that I never answered your question. I can’t confirm (or deny) that our city was ever the “ambulance capital of America” — but it seems that distinction now belongs to the Buckeye State.
Got a question for Vance?
Email: askvance@memphismagazine.com
Mail: Vance Lauderdale, Memphis magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38101
