August 16, 2002

ELVIS, R.I.P. August 16, 1977

I was 9 when Elvis left us to make our own way in the world. My sister and I were sitting on the carpet in front of the TV, like all good American consumer children learned to do in the 70s, while eating Chips Ahoy!^® and drinking cherry Kool-Aid^®. The Brady Bunch was on. In COLOR.

Right after Jan broke her glasses, a message began scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Did the President break into someone's apartment building again? No — worse. Elvis had left the building for the final time.

We went for a walk to collect our thoughts, and when the sun hit my face, I felt grateful to be 9 and alive. A slight summer breeze blew through my bowl-cut hair, sending tree germs directly to my allergy-sensitive sinus cavity. Then the sneezing began.

Watching television in a darkened room had somewhat atrophied my optic muscles, but if I squinted enough, I could see Mom driving up our quiet Arkansas street, home from a quick trip to Wal-Mart^®.

"Elvis is DEAD!" My sister and I shouted together as we ran to meet Mom before she made it to the driveway. We both wanted to be the first to deliver the tragic news, and I guess my sister won because I was interrupted by a sneeze. Luckily, this was before the advent of the power window and Mom couldn't swerve to avoid us and crank the handle to roll the window down at the same time, so my news ended up as more of a spray on the driver's side window. She could tell that we were upset, and in her infinite wisdom, she knew just the right way to ease our loss and hopefully save us from years of expensive therapy.

Time for more cookies. It's what the King would have wanted.