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Tomorrow I’m leaving on a trip to Memphis, Tennessee, and the thought has just occurred to me that I’ve left no room in my itinerary to visit Graceland.
Seems like everybody’s been to Graceland but me.
On the official Elvis Presley website, there’s a whole gallery of pictures of celebrities who have made a point to visit Graceland. Tom Brokaw. Poison. Randy Quaid.
Of course, Cousin Eddie has visited Graceland.
Even the Scouts have an official day at Graceland.
Just a few weeks ago at Sunday dinner with some friends, one was telling about her brush with the King in an army base dining hall back in the late 1950s.
“He was just sitting there right in the middle of the army base dining hall, not a care in the world about security or anything, and everybody was coming up to him.”
“No kidding?!” and “Really? You got to talk to him? You were that close to him?” kept coming out of my mouth as she told about asking him for an autograph while he was eating lunch.
“Was he nice?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, he was very nice. Didn’t get in a hurry or seem put out with us at all,” my friend said. “And we were just little girls at the time, eating lunch in there since our school was on base.”
Her eyes twinkled and her face lit up with a smile, still, after all this time, just talking about meeting Elvis.
I was just as wide-eyed hearing the story.
Even though what I remember of Elvis most is a gawdy gold-studded, wide-collared double-knit white jump suit from one of his last concerts right before he died.
And he was always sweating.
It’s amazing to me that so many still want to visit his home after all these years.
That’s the power of music. And what happens, I guess, when you name your homestead Graceland.
I wonder what would happen if we all did that?
Since that’s really where we live. Or we should.