When I was growing up in Southern Illinois, my grandparents liked to vacation where they could listen to country music. Most Saturday nights, my grandfather had the Grand Ole Opry on the radio--AM 710 on the dial--so I became familiar with names like Roy Acuff, Grandpa Jones, Minnie Pearl, Ernest Tubb, Chet Atkins, Porter Waggoner, Dolly Parton, and Tammy Wynette. This was not the new, Disney-commercial, theme-park fancy, Grand Ole Opry-land. This was hardcore Ryman Auditorium Opry.
But one year, we broke with tradition and went to Florida. I think it was 1976. I had never been to Florida, never more than a state away from Southern Illinois. My grandpa always avoided driving through cities on our trips, preferring to take the bypasses and go around them. He said this would save us time in the long run and avoid the big traffic jams that always occur in a city. So early on, cities were places of great mystery for me that we always avoided. I will never forget what he said about New York more than once:
"Chris, did you know that in Central Park in New York, you have a one-hundred percent chance of getting mugged after dark?"
"No Pa, I didn't know that that. Wow."
I guess that must be why I like to drive over into New York City with my wife and kids now from our home in suburban New Jersey and go to Central Park. We've never stayed after dark though.
When we finally got to the Florida state line that year, my Mom and I rolled down our windows and stuck our arms out to feel the warm Florida air. But there was nothing magic about crossing the line as we had supposed; it was about 32 degrees as the chilly air blasted us, just as it had done throughout the trip when my grandpa cracked the window each time he smoked one of his Camel cigarettes. This was one of those early disappointments in life where you realize that life is not as magical as you thought it was. The entire week we were in Florida, it was cold. It was cold when we drove along Daytona Beach, cold when we visited one of my grandparents’ friends who had retired from Southern Illinois and moved to Lake Okeechobee to become a security guard. (We visited him on duty at the guard shack since we never arranged visits in advance.) Finally, on the last day of our visit, it warmed up to 70 degrees in Fort Myers, so my mom and I sat around the pool at the Howard Johnson motel and I finally got in the icy waters, just to say I went swimming in Florida in March.
We usually stayed at cheap motels on our trips and did not seem to make reservations ahead of time. This made our trips more of an adventure, and the quality of the accommodations was quite uncertain. We stayed at the Albert Pick motel in Nashville and the Purple Heart motel in Memphis on the last day of our vacation, the purple neon sign with a red heart and hourly rates suggesting it was one of those kinds of motels. But to a fifth grader, it was cool that for a quarter, you could get a massage from the vibrating bed. Elvis was still alive, although by 1976, he was feeling the effects of too many fried peanut butter sandwiches and all those prescriptions he was taking that would lead to his death the next year.
We drove to Graceland the next day and parked a few blocks away. We walked over and stood with the small crowd of people who were waiting to see the King, who was apparently at home on this particular day. A guard was on duty at the gate was chatting it up with the onlookers, some of whom were carrying signs expressing their devotion to Elvis, dressed up like him, or carrying his LPs or 45s.
While we waited, a car entered through the gate. Excitement buzzed in the air as people thought they might be about to gaze up on the King of Rock N' Roll in all of his glory. But it wasn't him. Another car left Graceland amid gasps of anticipation, but again no Elvis. Finally, a white limo with tinted windows was spotted coming in from the street toward our gate.
"It's him!" someone shouted.
"Elvis, I love you Elvis!" a woman shrieked.
The car went through the crowd, gasps and shrieks from middle-aged women who covered their mouths and appeared faint. But as the car went through, darkened, tinted windows preventing us from seeing inside. Had we just seen Elvis through the murky windows? Was it Elvis’ physician arriving to give him a checkup and prescribe some more medicine to counter the effects of all that peanut butter? Was it his financial advisor, arriving to discuss his taxes? It was March and April 15 was just a few weeks away. We don't really know, but at least we could all say that we might have seen Elvis at Graceland on that Saturday in March, 1976.
We walked back to our car and drove away. We'd been to Florida and Graceland. We might have even seen the King. I hear that people still gather at Graceland even now hoping to see him. Some even say they did. I'll just say I might have seen him.
But one year, we broke with tradition and went to Florida. I think it was 1976. I had never been to Florida, never more than a state away from Southern Illinois. My grandpa always avoided driving through cities on our trips, preferring to take the bypasses and go around them. He said this would save us time in the long run and avoid the big traffic jams that always occur in a city. So early on, cities were places of great mystery for me that we always avoided. I will never forget what he said about New York more than once:
"Chris, did you know that in Central Park in New York, you have a one-hundred percent chance of getting mugged after dark?"
"No Pa, I didn't know that that. Wow."
I guess that must be why I like to drive over into New York City with my wife and kids now from our home in suburban New Jersey and go to Central Park. We've never stayed after dark though.
When we finally got to the Florida state line that year, my Mom and I rolled down our windows and stuck our arms out to feel the warm Florida air. But there was nothing magic about crossing the line as we had supposed; it was about 32 degrees as the chilly air blasted us, just as it had done throughout the trip when my grandpa cracked the window each time he smoked one of his Camel cigarettes. This was one of those early disappointments in life where you realize that life is not as magical as you thought it was. The entire week we were in Florida, it was cold. It was cold when we drove along Daytona Beach, cold when we visited one of my grandparents’ friends who had retired from Southern Illinois and moved to Lake Okeechobee to become a security guard. (We visited him on duty at the guard shack since we never arranged visits in advance.) Finally, on the last day of our visit, it warmed up to 70 degrees in Fort Myers, so my mom and I sat around the pool at the Howard Johnson motel and I finally got in the icy waters, just to say I went swimming in Florida in March.
We usually stayed at cheap motels on our trips and did not seem to make reservations ahead of time. This made our trips more of an adventure, and the quality of the accommodations was quite uncertain. We stayed at the Albert Pick motel in Nashville and the Purple Heart motel in Memphis on the last day of our vacation, the purple neon sign with a red heart and hourly rates suggesting it was one of those kinds of motels. But to a fifth grader, it was cool that for a quarter, you could get a massage from the vibrating bed. Elvis was still alive, although by 1976, he was feeling the effects of too many fried peanut butter sandwiches and all those prescriptions he was taking that would lead to his death the next year.
We drove to Graceland the next day and parked a few blocks away. We walked over and stood with the small crowd of people who were waiting to see the King, who was apparently at home on this particular day. A guard was on duty at the gate was chatting it up with the onlookers, some of whom were carrying signs expressing their devotion to Elvis, dressed up like him, or carrying his LPs or 45s.
While we waited, a car entered through the gate. Excitement buzzed in the air as people thought they might be about to gaze up on the King of Rock N' Roll in all of his glory. But it wasn't him. Another car left Graceland amid gasps of anticipation, but again no Elvis. Finally, a white limo with tinted windows was spotted coming in from the street toward our gate.
"It's him!" someone shouted.
"Elvis, I love you Elvis!" a woman shrieked.
The car went through the crowd, gasps and shrieks from middle-aged women who covered their mouths and appeared faint. But as the car went through, darkened, tinted windows preventing us from seeing inside. Had we just seen Elvis through the murky windows? Was it Elvis’ physician arriving to give him a checkup and prescribe some more medicine to counter the effects of all that peanut butter? Was it his financial advisor, arriving to discuss his taxes? It was March and April 15 was just a few weeks away. We don't really know, but at least we could all say that we might have seen Elvis at Graceland on that Saturday in March, 1976.
We walked back to our car and drove away. We'd been to Florida and Graceland. We might have even seen the King. I hear that people still gather at Graceland even now hoping to see him. Some even say they did. I'll just say I might have seen him.