Elvis Presley and my mother

Why is Angela so attuned to music? Well...

by Angela K. Durden

Talk about a titillating headline.

I only hope the MSM is having a slow news day. Maybe they will pick up the headline and think, "Ah, hah! We have yet another person claiming Elvis is their daddy", and will retweet, link to, post, and otherwise share it with their fifty sane readers and their hundreds of thousands of P-HWPCDLRSFC readers without reading the rest of the article.

Because the only thing titillating about this article is the headline. Let me tell you what happened and how it involved my mother.

It happened in the mid-1950s when my mother was fifteen and Elvis came through her town on a train. Seems all the teenage girls in the area had gotten the message they should be at the train station to see the great man himself as he stepped off the train for a photo op.

My mother, who at the time was a fun-loving gal, went. Why not? She didn't have anything better to do — and it was Elvis. When would she ever get to see him that close again? Never, that's when.

So, to the train station she went at the appointed time whereupon she and the other girls were met by some people with cameras and others with clipboards who proceeded to tell them how the photo op would go. They were instructed on how to scream and reach for Elvis. Their practice session was successful.

And here came the train just in time. 

And off fell Elvis down the steps and off the train.

Yes, I said, he fell. He was either drunk or high and couldn't hold himself up. So, his handlers tried to prop him up and get him to walk down again several times.

The movie cameras were rolling, the still cameras' bulbs were popping, the girls were screaming, and Elvis still couldn't stand.

My mother, along with these other girls, were not actresses. They were realists and after a little bit even the screaming seemed faked.

So Elvis was packed back up onto the train. Other packing went on as well. The publicity agents packed up their schedules, newshounds their gear, and the girls their hopes and dreams.

I was reminded of the story this afternoon because, in the background, I heard Ed Sullivan introduce Elvis to his audience. The King began singing and just as he sang the song's hook, like a fire hose, the female screaming was turned on. They had to have been watching an applause prompter because it turned off to a dead silence in just the right place when harmonies kicked in.

This routine went on three times during the song. Dead silence. SCREAMING. Three times.

I know you, Dear Reader, are disappointed that I, your Poet-In-Residence and Goddess by the Microphone, did not get her talents from Presley.

In fact, I didn't even know who he was until he died. 

I told you I lived a sheltered life. I was nineteen when Elvis died and only remember because some friends had talked me into buying a ticket to see him in concert somewhere in North Carolina. I heard on the radio the concert was cancelled and I drove straight to the radio station to get my money back for the ticket.

My friends were livid I had gotten my money back. "That ticket will be worth something one day!" they cried. I said I could use the money now.

About thirty years after that I came to realize what a damn big deal he was. I told you I am often slow on the uptake when it comes to men.

Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Business writer.  Songwriter.  Protecting creator's copyrights.