The Day My Dad Angered Elvis' Ghost

My parents are at that age where they can just pick up and travel when ever they want, and now that there are no kids in the house, they do just that.  My parents have been to some pretty cool places over the years, as a result.  They may head off for Quincy, Illinois, to visit family, then jaunt over to Branson so my dad can indulge in his fishing.  Other times, they just drive. Sometimes they send us pictures from the road, like that time they found a Bigfoot BBQ joint and had to take a picture for Zane.  But most of the time, it's just the two of them.  And for some reason, one day earlier in the decade, they decided to hit Graceland, the home of Elvis.

For those who weren't born at the time, Elvis was a big deal.  I cannot even find a equivalent for how big a deal Elvis was. When he died, in 1977, the world mourned. Many people still see him at the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store, they're so convinced that such a man could not possibly be dead.  Elvis was impossibly larger than life, and once he became famous, he was determined to build a nice house.  What he got was Graceland, which, for the seventies, was the height of decorative sophistication. 

If decorative sophistication was high on cocaine, that is. Elvis wasn't known for his interior decorating skills. This was the seventies, the time of the avocado and gold color combination, shag carpeting, mirror tiles, and disco.   It was all about loud and boisterous, not quiet and sedate.  Elvis had the money to buy all the things, but he didn't always stop to think that maybe all the things wouldn't look good stuffed into one house.

My dad was on his cell phone with my sister-in-law that day, chatting.  Denise asked how the tour of Graceland was going. My dad might have mentioned that the decor of Graceland was tacky, while he was walking around in Graceland.

I don't know if haunted houses are real, but I think they are. What I do know, based on my movie watching experience, is that you should be respectful of the deceased when you are in their house.  After all, you're a guest in their home, whether they are living or dead.  Come correct, as they say.

But no, my dad commented that Elvis' home was tacky, and the next thing my sister-in-law heard was a thump.  She was starting to wonder what was going on, when my mom picked up the phone, and brought her up to speed.

"Bob fell down the stairs," she said.  "He'll call you back." 

As Jim and Denise and their family walked into meet Larry and I for lunch, Denise told us what we knew. And we all waited for my dad to call us back.   What we did not know was that my dad was busy being bundled off to the ER, because he dislocated his shoulder when he fell down the stairs. It was my mother who finally called to let us know that; because my dad was likely doped up on pain medication, and also a bit embarrassed.   When I finally got to talk to him about it, he seemed a little chagrined, and I had to give him a hard time.

"Dad, you don't talk smack about Elvis in his own house! You're lucky that he only pushed you down the stairs."  I was happy that he was okay, but it was really hard not to laugh at the situation. So we did.  My father had gotten the attention of Elvis, I joked, although certainly not the attention that he might have wanted. 

A ghostly autograph would have sufficed to get the point across.






Update: My father insists now that he commented that he never knew that Elvis played handball as he and my mother passed by the Graceland handball court. That is not how I, or Larry, remember it.  I don't believe that Elvis would care about whether or not my dad knew about handball.  Elvis, as well as his Mama, would care deeply if someone thought that their house wasn't up to snuff.  It's a Southern thing.  My mom, ever the pragmatist, merely stated that my father should know better than to try to negotiate stairs while talking on the phone. 

RemembeRED: Embarrassing

Prompt: Know what's NOT funny? People laughing at you. Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life. Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself? Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now?


As an Army brat, we moved around a lot. I often ended up in places where the kids at my school had known each other since kindergarten. The pecking order had already been established; I was the outsider. Consequently, I tried extra hard to be 'cool', which was an exercise in futility.

I was a twelve year old starting seventh grade wearing hand-me-down clothes. This included polyester pants with a seam on the front crease. You read that right. Polyester. With a seam. On the crease.

Elvis himself wouldn't have looked cool in those kind of pants.

I couldn't wear jeans like all the other kids did. Not me. My mother refused to buy them. They cost too much, she said, completely oblivious to my pain.

I distinctly remember trying to explain to her that ALL the kids at my school wore them. Even the kid who wore a helmet all the time wore jeans, Mom! I really WAS the only kid, Mom!

My general lack of denim automatically placed me on the bottom rung of the social ladder, an object of ridicule for the free for all that is junior high. The other girls would smirk at me, then lean toward their friends and start whispering and giggling. I hated it, of course. To a teenager, negative publicity is traumatizing.

One day, I was morosely standing around by myself in the courtyard one morning waiting for school to start, and I noticed a group of boys looking in my direction. I warily moved a few steps over. Their eyes followed me. They were smiling, and talking to each other, but I was too far away to hear them.

Were they looking at me? I looked around again, certain that there was someone behind me or in my vicinity which was the object of their attention. I found myself alone; those boys WERE staring at me! ME. I stood up a little straighter at the happy thought that I had been finally noticed. My toes curled in delight at the idea.

"Hi." I turned. There was a girl standing next to me.

"Hi." I smiled, giddy at my sudden popularity. I remembered that this girl, who had curly blonde hair and thick framed octagonal glasses, was named Cathy. She was in my choir class; we sat in the soprano section together.

"Your pants are unzipped."

I looked down, horrified. The zipper on those stupid polyester pants had 'unzipped' on a day that I wore the only pair of hot pink underpants I owned. At that moment, my face turned the exact same shade as my underpants.

"Thank you," I managed weakly. I zipped that stupid zipper, and the boys lost all interest in me. As far as social status went, I was no longer on the bottom rung; I was underneath the ladder.

But then a funny thing happened. Cathy started talking to me! She wasn't sneering at my polyester pants! She wasn't looking at other girls and rolling her eyes! She wasn't laughing at me! I was nonplussed; this had not ever happened to me, and I wasn't sure if I could trust it. I was so desperate to have a friend, however, that I started talking to her back.

We are still friends.