House of the Century - Going to Graceland

As fans from all over the world converge on Memphis, Tennessee to celebrate "Elvis Week" it's a good time to remember and reflect.

I first went inside when they had just opened the house on the hill in Memphis. It was the summer of 1982. What had once been just a man and his talent had long since been elevated to legend, and legend had become a full-blown phenomenon. I never met him, never knew him, but there we were, my family and I, going to his house, not as guests, but as visitors. This was no ordinary house. This was Graceland. I knew when I left, that I would be back.

Seventeen years later, in August of 1999, I returned, alone, to a place that drew me ever more strongly and to be part of a phenomenon. This time it would be during “Elvis Week” in Memphis. I wanted to see, too, what had become of the legacy here in this tiny part of the world where man and reality had met myth and found their place in the permanent folklore of immortality. "Why" is what you try to explain, but you can't in any concise way. If you're a fan, you'll understand. And you sure can't touch on all the different layers of it. You just know that you're one of many who are drawn to the same place. This is no ordinary journey. This is going to Graceland.

I remember exactly where I was almost to the square inch of driveway at our family home when I first heard the news that Elvis Presley died. I was 15. I had just started getting into the music of the day a couple of years back with Elton John and other 70's big shots. Elvis was part of the past, a comfortable, familiar, and integral part of American culture. You knew his voice and face and music by the age of 5 like you knew nursery rhymes and fairy tales. He was like George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Santa Claus, a unique iconic figure that was always there. My friend Linda from our nice suburban Illinois neighborhood, whose family had moved there from Memphis, was coming over as us kids on the block began gathering out in the street as we always did on those summer days. She was 15, like me, and it was about 4:30 on just a regular August afternoon. She came walking up and greeted me with "Elvis Presley just died." She said it like she was still trying to believe it. Of course, I thought she was joking. But she wasn’t.

Now, what goes through a 15 year-old mind upon hearing something like that can be just about anything or nothing at all. All I know is that for some inexplicable reason that remains a mystery to me to this day, it was mind-blowing, as if someone had just broken the news that the president had been shot. With those few words of hers, a whole new era began and with it a whole new wonderful world opened up. I just couldn’t know it while in that moment. I still remember the kind of day it was - overcast and warm and humid. It had rained. I loved that kind of day. Up to that point it had been so ordinary.

"It must be weird back home," she said. How ironic that it was from a friend from Memphis that I first heard the news. Memphis was back home for her. Memphis suddenly got real close to home for me. The news programs got going, fumbling their way through unexpected - and overwhelming - news. This was news that suddenly no one knew quite how to report. This was someone, I guess, who everyone just assumed would live forever. But, the images and the accolades were enough. This 15 year-old was mesmerized, and the feeling would never go away.

Elvis Presley was only 42 when he died on August 16th, 1977, and to a 15 year-old, 42 is old. Now at 37, "old" takes on new meaning. With the wisdom of "age" comes a new appreciation for just how young 42 was and just how short a lifetime it was in which to accomplish so much.

The bus ride from Chicago to Memphis was 9 hours long. It was August 13th, another warm, overcast day, just like 22 years before. The day changed into evening with a silver-lining twilight that broke through the clouds. I got to Memphis about midnight that Friday night, and it seemed like just another ordinary town. That would begin to change the next day.

Saturday would be spent going to Sun Studio on Union Street where it had all begun. At first I was struck by how ordinary it all looked, how small in relation to how big a thing had happened there. Just a small town feel on a cross road street. Stepping into the recording studio was like stepping into a time machine, and that's where the magic began. No fancy sound systems, no star wars technology, just solid, decades old equipment in one high-ceilinged room. Our young tour guide gave us visitors a musical lesson in history, telling the story and playing the music that was over half a century old but echoing through the room as if it had just been made. What these walls had seen and heard they will hold for as long as they remain standing.

There was the silver, old time microphone standing in the corner. We took pictures with that microphone, touching a piece of legend and smiling self-consciously as we posed as amateurs, just as he might have done those many years ago when the voice first began its recorded journey through time.

Then it was on to Beale Street. Memphis was coming alive, and how alive it became there on that small stretch of Technicolor and sound. This was the street where the unknown teenage boy had hung out and now thousands were coming to congregate. This was the Bourbon Street of the Blues. The blues clubs in Chicago are good, but here, boy, here is where the soul was. It wasn't long before the street was overflowing with people and the sights and sounds injected an energy into the air that one can only experience by being there.

The next day was Homage day, Sunday, August 15th, the day which would culminate in the anniversary Candlelight Vigil. This was the highlight of “Elvis Week”. This was when the “entertainment” celebrating the life would give way to the respectful tribute commemorating the end of that life. Along with the many others who had come, I spent hours just hanging outside of Graceland, reading the countless messages that had been handwritten on the stone wall along the sidewalk and browsing the shops that had, over the years, been transformed from cheesy purveyors of "Made in Taiwan" memorabilia to classy, clean shops that reflected a deserving respect for the man whose image they were selling. I missed the cheesy shops of years ago, but there, on the edge of the strip, I found them, familiar, fun and oddly reverential. This was souvenir heaven, and it was easy to sell souvenirs of a pleasing image.

There in the plaza, too, was the Elvis Automobile Museum, an absolute must see for anyone who appreciates really cool cars and motorcycles. Another museum, “Sincerely Elvis” displayed real life mementos behind glass windows that drew you into an unreal life that was made real with the presence of these saved real life things. There, also, were the two personal planes you could walk through. These were another must see, for how often will you have the opportunity to enjoy an airplane furnished with cushy, plush chairs and sofas, a full-length dining table, gold plated powder room fixtures and a full-sized double bed complete with seat belt!

One could go on the house tour at one's leisure and as twilight approached I joined others on the shuttle trip up Graceland’s winding circle driveway, and through the front door we went. The home was pretty, to be sure, and impressive, but one is immediately struck at how hospitable it feels inside. It was grand enough but with enough 70's cheesecake and warm down home comfort to be something for everybody. And it welcomed everyone. I was struck at how almost ordinary and small it seemed, considering what it had housed. It's the record of achievement on display in the huge trophy room and the racquetball building that blows your mind with the impact of just how extraordinary the life of the man who had made his home here was. Here, at Graceland, one could find all the magnificence, irony and enigma of Elvis, in all its glory and simplicity. Here was an unfathomable combination and contradiction of the humble and the grand. The down-to-earth and the over-the-top. This was a welcoming southern mansion standing alone on the hill among beautiful trees on an ordinary street in a southern American city and it was the castle whose upstairs inner sanctum where he dropped and died remains mysterious and unseen by the millions of visitors who have walked between these walls over the years. This was a place of all-American success and excess. This was Home and Shrine. This was Graceland.

How quiet we all were as we walked from room to room, envisioning whatever it was in our minds that he was when he was here away from the lights and glory. This was one man's home that had become open house to the world. Did we know that we were merely temporary guests of a host unseen? We stepped outside and strolled through the loveliness of the grounds, winding our way to the final resting place. There are the horses quietly grazing in the yard. They’ve grown accustomed to us who visit and don’t pay us no mind. He is buried there, in the Meditation Garden, on the grounds of his beloved home; along with his mother, father and grandmother, the family he had loved and who had known him before any of us had ever heard his name. We are quiet as we walk past the graves and quiet again as we leave.

That lovely, warm, clear night, people seem to gather from out of nowhere. Thousands of them begin filling the street. As the crowd grew and the sun fell, the candles were handed out and people made ready to walk up the drive, one by one. The magnificent, yet soothing voice began flowing out of the speakers along the stone wall. The songs were gospel hymns and ballads. No rockers tonight. A voice and mood perfect for the night. So many people, yet such a composed and reverential crowd. I had never seen anything quite like it. They played "Until It's Time For You To Go", and a woman's voice addressed us all as young and old alike lifted their lit candles toward the house on the hill. It looked like all the stars in the sky had gathered here by those legendary gates of Graceland.

There were no fanatics here, no troublemakers. Just us, from all walks of life, all ages, all from different places. All with one common bond. What struck me most were the young people. The pretty 15 year-old girl from Spokane, Washington who'd made the trip by herself and lit her candle and cried. The mother and father with their four small kids, who were lighting their candles and were keenly understanding and reverential in their youth. There were the teenagers and young adults who had been born after he died but who were as much a part of keeping him alive as those who had been teenagers themselves when the phenomenon first began almost half a century ago. 22 years after he was gone it was all still there. That’s the way, I believe, it will always remain, with each new generation paying the visit that has become almost mandatory. I left as the people continued their walk up the drive and the gorgeous voice emanated into the summer night air. I left with a good feeling, not a sad one, and I was so glad I had come.

Not long ago, I concluded that maybe it wasn't just the pure charisma of the man that had mesmerized me all those years ago when I was just a kid of 15. Maybe it was my first real confrontation with mortality. That's one of those things that the lives of others teach us. But then again, who knows what it might have been and if the king himself could have explained it.

The question of what evoked this kind of reaction in so many people was raised again the next morning as I was getting ready to leave Memphis to go back home.

It was as unforeseen and unplanned an event as profound things usually are. I went outside and downstairs at my hotel to get a coke from the soda machine. There was a man there, in his late 30's like me, getting some ice. I asked him if he was there to go to Graceland. He smiled and said, "Yeah, of course. Drove 800 miles." Then, with a bemused smile, he said, "Well, we came because of our son who wanted to come." By stroke of inspiration, I asked him how old his son was. "He's six." “Six years old?” I asked. "Yeah, me and my wife don't know where the heck it came from, but the kid is like the biggest Elvis fan in the world. He wouldn't let us rest until we came." He shook his head good-naturedly and we exchanged the knowing look that is part of the common language in the Elvis world. As I was going back to my room his wife was coming down the walkway and following her was a cute little kid. Without paying any attention to me, he held up a tiny tooth to her and said, all excited, beside himself, "Look, Mommy, look!" Then, suddenly, in a quiet awed tone I'll never forget, he said, "Mommy, I lost my tooth the day Elvis lost his life." It was Monday, August 16th, 1999, just another day in August. Another Elvis story, this time being told by a child of six. A child born long after the king was gone.

As the century ended and everybody was determining their choice for man or woman of the 20th century, I knew who my choice was. There were many reasons to choose this man, for he was a man of many gifts, but where they can be found is no longer in the physical presence of the man himself. For as physical a man as Elvis Presley was, "who he was" and "what he did" and the impact he made both personally and professionally transcends the physical and defies mortality. The reasons are to be found in the hearts of the millions of his fans for whom he remains a mirror. Elvis was, and remains, whatever you choose to see in him. That was his magic.

This story inspired me to get in touch with my old friend, Linda, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in over ten years. Somehow, I found her, and in a phone call we rekindled a warm and well-remembered young friendship. She too, she said, remembered that day in 1977 when she, too, was 15, right down to what she was wearing 22 years before.

I've gone back many times since and will continue to go back again and again. Back to Graceland. As time goes on and things change, and we reflect with affection on the past as we move into the unknown, I know one thing for sure: There will never be another like him. It inspires awe in me that for a short time I was alive on this earth while he was. Elvis continues to inspire and generate that good feeling that few have the gift of evoking. He moved and touched people, and it continues. No, not ever another. And that is the magic that sustains.

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through
Now security they did not see him
They just hovered `round his tomb
But there`s a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

Then I`m walking in Memphis
Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel

Walking In Memphis - Marc Cohn

wow- how could I have not known that?

Elvis was only 42 when he died?

I am almost 10 years older than that now and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

I thought he was like 60 or something they way he looked (maybe I am thinking of the impersonators now)

Hi Weegee,

Thanks for pinging this!

And I agree, “Never trust a skinny chef”.

Although, I do know some cooks who are really skinny but who are excellent at cooking and baking.

Me, I’m just good at eating.

Hi Mr. K,

I’m now also older than Elvis was when he passed away. I still can’t believe it, and it’s been 31 years.

He aged far beyond his years at the end, but now he remains young forever.

As the century ended and everybody was determining their choice for man or woman of the 20th century, I knew who my choice was.

Pretty low standards...I don't think I'd choose a fat drug addict that fell off of his toilet and died in his own puke as my hero.

Several years ago I enjoyed a tour through Graceland. Elvis was not like the entertainers of today in that he remained a genuine and nice person to all people. He gave gifts spontaneously to many people unlike some of the celebs today who give gifts in order to craft their image—see Doprah Winfrey for a shining example of the later. Elvis did serve in the military—how many today serve in the military?? Shortly after Elvis served, I remember Mohammo Ali refusing to serve in the military—Mohammad was awarded a brief, but luxuriant stay behind bars for his cowardice. I miss Elvis’s music, his good nature, and his decency toward all people. He died early because his promoter, his doctor, and other money grubers kept him hyped on drugs to keep him going.

I also remember exactly where I was when I heard the news that he died. It was a very hot afternoon (high 90s) in Columbia, Maryland, where I was working my summer job as a laborer on a house framing crew. I was carrying 4’x8’ sheets of plywood up to the roof, sweating my a** off and cursing my existence, when the owner of the building company, who was, it turns out, a huge Elvis fan, drove up in his red convertible Mercedes and announced that Elvis had died and all work would immediately stop for the rest of the day in remembrance of him. I had not been an Elvis fan before that afternoon and have not been since, but I must say that I was very much a fan that afternoon. :-)

Actually, I was not a huge fan but liked several of his songs and a few of his movies. I don’t have a clue where I was when he died. I know sweating though, because I spent a 1/2 dozen summers hauling hay in the midwest. My brother and I used to put up about 15,000 bales annually on our ranch with my dad running the baler and filling the wagon with a bale-thrower.

I know sweating though, because I spent a 1/2 dozen summers hauling hay in the midwest.

Yes, you do know sweating. Coincidentally, my twin brother was working a summer job hauling hay at a farm the same time I was doing framing. We used to get into arguments about whose job was worse. I finally conceded years later that his was. At least I could wear shorts. He needed to wear long sleeve shirts and long pants even on the hottest days to keep the hay from scratching him up.

I was glad about the framing job when going back to college at the end of the summer, however. The girls would look at me for about a month into the semester until the suntan wore off and the flab wore on. LOL.

Yep, if it weren’t for the dust and chaff that stuck to your sweaty body, itched and often penetrated your upper respiratory tract, hauling hay would not be so bad. We sometimes recorded temperatures of 120 degrees in the barn once the stack got near the tin roof. I rarely lacked for girlfriends and savored every minute of the attention—I think they also liked the fact we had a large cattle ranch.

I think they also liked the fact we had a large cattle ranch.

Could be. That might have even helped me overcome my pale skin and flabby belly. :-)

Nice article....I was 12 when Big E died...sitting on my bicycle in a friend’s driveway just a block from Mobile Bay...his brother drove up in an old Ford galaxy 500 and told us...i listened to the radio for a bit...when i got home that evening, my mother had tears in her eyes....TCB

I was at work at the Memphis & Shelby County Tax Assessor’s Office the day he died. When news of it got out, every phone in the place lit up. Newsies from all over the planet was calling for any information they could get concerning Elvis & Graceland. That was SOME day! After I got off work, I drove past Graceland. It was wall to wall humainity out there. It must have taken a half an hour to drive a half mile. I’ve never seen anything like that crowd other than a crowd at a sporting event. I’ve never been an Elvis “fan” per se, but I’ve grown to appreciate his music and singing. He did that VERY well. His Hawaii show was great. That was less than four years before he dide. That was probably the best he ever looked.

As an aside, he had a horseshoe ring on in that Hawaii show. It was huge. I have been wondering whatever became of it.

I was 10 and I remember this little hole in the wall record store in town closed for the remaininder of that day and the next. The owner taped a hand printed sign to the window which read:

"The King Is Dead
Long Live the King"

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