Various biographies mention that I "probably" am the only person on the Memphis magazine staff (if not the entire city) who has his own personal shock-treatment machine.
I can't say if that is absolutely true, because I have not visited the tumbledown shacks along the railroad that are occupied by my co-workers, and since I rarely invite my colleagues to the Mansion, it's not like they have ever spotted my own device and claimed to have one just like it.
But never mind about them. This blog is about ME, and since several people have actually asked if this claim is true, here's the proof.
I obtained this interesting item more than 30 years ago, from a fellow who had purchased it (or so he said) from a now-closed mental hospital somewhere in North Carolina. It's an impressive gadget, that's for sure — encased in a dark wooden cabinet, with a thick and very heavy glass lid covering the dials and switches and knobs that the doctors used.
And it did all sorts of marvelous things. Various switches allow you (meaning: me) to attach electrodes that perform "diathermy" and "auto condensation" and even something rather gruesomely called "electro-coagulation." And when it's switched on, it looks like a device you'd find in Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. Electric blue sparks jump across gaps that you adjust by turning four dials, and you control the power with the lever that swings from o to 10, and that's when you understand why the machine has such a heavy glass lid — to protect the operator from instant electrocution while this thing is running (though too bad for the poor patient).
But there is so much voltage running through it that the spark-gap modulator is actually balanced on inch-thick glass rods, for insulation, and all the top-mounted controls are attached to an inch-thick slab of white marble, for even more protection from electrocution. Beneath that marble is a maze of diodes and transformers and capacitors and magnets and wires. It's an incredibly complicated device, and all that glass and marble and metal means it's also an incredibly heavy device — the whole thing probably weighs 300 pounds.
I haven't really researched it that much, but a nice engraved plate on top says that it was manufactured in Cincinnati, Ohio, by the Liebel-Flarsheim Company. It gives the model and serial number, but doesn't tell me the date of construction. Early 1900s, I'd say.
I have lots of wonderful curiosities in the Mansion, but this is still one of my favorites. And oh, after a hard day of answering "Ask Vance" questions, it's such a relief to come home and get a good half-hour of diathermy. There's nothing quite like it.
Here are a few other photos of the machine, just for the curious.
