Elvis and us
The date was August 16, 1977. Mom and Dad were both home that day and I honestly can't remember why. It was a Tuesday and normally Dad would have been at work.
I was at the Kimbell Park swimming pool, about five blocks from our house, being my typical 15-year-old-at-the-time self. Hanging out with my buddies, flirting with women (we called high school girls "women" at the time), and generally having another great day on summer break.
A younger kid, probably around 10 or 11, swam up to me and said, "hey, did you hear Elvis died?" I responded (I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday), "bullshit, get away from me you little asshole." His smiled changed and he replied, "no, really...he just died."
Flashback... In 1972, my parents took me and my sister to see Elvis at the Myriad in Oklahoma City. I've seen KISS 7 times. I've driven rock bands, written songs on country artists, etc. and I will tell you that there was nothing to ever compare to what I saw that night. It was as though something truly ethereal, something from another plane of existence, had come to earth. It now reminds me of what it would probably feel like for a die-hard Christian to actually witness the second-coming of Jesus, and I promise, I'm not being sarcastic. It was electrifying.
My only thought at the moment the kid told me the news was 'oh no, my parents are at home and I bet they know this already'.
I got out of the pool, ran to the front counter and asked the man who ran the place if Elvis really had died. He looked at me and his eyes said it all. I knew it was true. He said, "that's what the radio is saying. I hope it's not true," which I find interesting looking back on it. He did not look like the kind of guy who would give a shit about Elvis Presley. He was about 22 or so, had a pierced ear and his hair was about halfway down his back. Looked more like an Aerosmith fan to me.
I grabbed my clothes, changed and ran as fast as I could to the house. I busted through the front door and ran into the living room.
Keep in mind that my parents were both avid Elvis fans. They weren't the trailer park, black-velvet-Elvis-on-the-wall, "oh I can see his face in that cloud formation" kind of fans, but they were both BIG fans. Like many people, they felt a kinship with him and I had inherited that kinship. At that time, I was FAR more into KISS and Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, etc., but I never tossed Elvis to the side either. I continued, as my parents always did, to put him in that place. You know, the place that, if you're not there yourself, you've heard of; "there will NEVER be another Elvis."
When I cleared the entryway, I first saw my father. He was solemn and staring at the television. I immediately looked to his left and saw my mother, Brooks. Tears were streaming from her eyes and it completely reminded me of the way she looked when her father had died ten years earlier.
Knowing the answer already, all I could manage was, "is it true?" Mom left the room. Dad simply nodded.
That day was one of the saddest of my life. Dad spent the day recording (onto an 8 track recorder) a local radio station playing nothing but Elvis songs and reporting any information they had on his death. Mom went to her room and cried. I simply sat beside Dad...stunned.
It was only later in life that I understood why that day was so relevant.
Mom thought Dad was the hottest thing ever when they met because she loved Elvis and Dad sang like him (to a degree). Not to leave James Dean out of the equation. She loved him too and Dad used to comb his Bril-creamed hair like James, wear the jacket, etc. But Mom loved the music more and Dad had a way of, cheesy as it may have been, "doing" Elvis. Uncle Rick knows what I mean and maybe he will expand someday.
I remember a company function that we went to when I was about 13 or 14. Dad got up in front of his whole company, complete with white dress shoes, white polyester pants and sunglasses, and sang some Elvis song. I thought he was a dumbass. Mom thought he was the shit (or "hot as he can be", as she called it).
I remember asking her one time, "Mom, if Elvis asked you to marry him, would you?" I saw that "I wish..." look in her eye and she patted me on the leg. "No, honey, I love your Daddy," she replied. Even at my young age, I knew she was full of it. She would have DAMN well married him and who could have blamed her? At my age all I could think about was me and Lisa Marie riding ponies at Graceland while Elvis and Mom lounged around the pool.
I guess what I'm saying now is that Elvis wasn't the point. He was simply a catalyst for some of the very relevant moments of our (me and my mother's) lives. When I hated her (and I'm pretty damned sure she hated me like Mommas do), we could still agree that Elvis was the king. When I hurt, I knew it probably wasn't as bad as the day I saw her cry over his death. When I went to my first KISS concert and she asked, "how was it?" I replied, "it was awesome, but it still wasn't Elvis".
August 16, 1977. We both hurt badly that day and I thought that was some pretty serious pain.
Unfortunately, it's not nearly as bad as waking up today and not being able to tell her I love her.
I miss her really, really badly.
I love you Mom. Happy Birthday.
I was at the Kimbell Park swimming pool, about five blocks from our house, being my typical 15-year-old-at-the-time self. Hanging out with my buddies, flirting with women (we called high school girls "women" at the time), and generally having another great day on summer break.
A younger kid, probably around 10 or 11, swam up to me and said, "hey, did you hear Elvis died?" I responded (I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday), "bullshit, get away from me you little asshole." His smiled changed and he replied, "no, really...he just died."
Flashback... In 1972, my parents took me and my sister to see Elvis at the Myriad in Oklahoma City. I've seen KISS 7 times. I've driven rock bands, written songs on country artists, etc. and I will tell you that there was nothing to ever compare to what I saw that night. It was as though something truly ethereal, something from another plane of existence, had come to earth. It now reminds me of what it would probably feel like for a die-hard Christian to actually witness the second-coming of Jesus, and I promise, I'm not being sarcastic. It was electrifying.
My only thought at the moment the kid told me the news was 'oh no, my parents are at home and I bet they know this already'.
I got out of the pool, ran to the front counter and asked the man who ran the place if Elvis really had died. He looked at me and his eyes said it all. I knew it was true. He said, "that's what the radio is saying. I hope it's not true," which I find interesting looking back on it. He did not look like the kind of guy who would give a shit about Elvis Presley. He was about 22 or so, had a pierced ear and his hair was about halfway down his back. Looked more like an Aerosmith fan to me.
I grabbed my clothes, changed and ran as fast as I could to the house. I busted through the front door and ran into the living room.
Keep in mind that my parents were both avid Elvis fans. They weren't the trailer park, black-velvet-Elvis-on-the-wall, "oh I can see his face in that cloud formation" kind of fans, but they were both BIG fans. Like many people, they felt a kinship with him and I had inherited that kinship. At that time, I was FAR more into KISS and Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, etc., but I never tossed Elvis to the side either. I continued, as my parents always did, to put him in that place. You know, the place that, if you're not there yourself, you've heard of; "there will NEVER be another Elvis."
When I cleared the entryway, I first saw my father. He was solemn and staring at the television. I immediately looked to his left and saw my mother, Brooks. Tears were streaming from her eyes and it completely reminded me of the way she looked when her father had died ten years earlier.
Knowing the answer already, all I could manage was, "is it true?" Mom left the room. Dad simply nodded.
That day was one of the saddest of my life. Dad spent the day recording (onto an 8 track recorder) a local radio station playing nothing but Elvis songs and reporting any information they had on his death. Mom went to her room and cried. I simply sat beside Dad...stunned.
It was only later in life that I understood why that day was so relevant.
Mom thought Dad was the hottest thing ever when they met because she loved Elvis and Dad sang like him (to a degree). Not to leave James Dean out of the equation. She loved him too and Dad used to comb his Bril-creamed hair like James, wear the jacket, etc. But Mom loved the music more and Dad had a way of, cheesy as it may have been, "doing" Elvis. Uncle Rick knows what I mean and maybe he will expand someday.
I remember a company function that we went to when I was about 13 or 14. Dad got up in front of his whole company, complete with white dress shoes, white polyester pants and sunglasses, and sang some Elvis song. I thought he was a dumbass. Mom thought he was the shit (or "hot as he can be", as she called it).
I remember asking her one time, "Mom, if Elvis asked you to marry him, would you?" I saw that "I wish..." look in her eye and she patted me on the leg. "No, honey, I love your Daddy," she replied. Even at my young age, I knew she was full of it. She would have DAMN well married him and who could have blamed her? At my age all I could think about was me and Lisa Marie riding ponies at Graceland while Elvis and Mom lounged around the pool.
I guess what I'm saying now is that Elvis wasn't the point. He was simply a catalyst for some of the very relevant moments of our (me and my mother's) lives. When I hated her (and I'm pretty damned sure she hated me like Mommas do), we could still agree that Elvis was the king. When I hurt, I knew it probably wasn't as bad as the day I saw her cry over his death. When I went to my first KISS concert and she asked, "how was it?" I replied, "it was awesome, but it still wasn't Elvis".
August 16, 1977. We both hurt badly that day and I thought that was some pretty serious pain.
Unfortunately, it's not nearly as bad as waking up today and not being able to tell her I love her.
I miss her really, really badly.
I love you Mom. Happy Birthday.
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