I’ve always enjoyed listening to tales of the “good old days,” and no one could tell them better than my wife’s grandmothers. Their childhoods were spent during times when people struggled to survive, but their families managed to get by. In fact, both ladies attended college, which was a huge accomplishment in those times.

They were fortunate to have lived good and long lives.

The eldest of the two grandmothers passed away just short of her 105th birthday. It was a real treat hearing of her travels to foreign lands—an African Safari, to name one excursion—and about the days when she used to tag along on a horse-drawn wagon with a traveling doctor as he made house calls throughout the community. The story about the time when she was in a high-speed buggy crash was one of my favorites.

Denene’s paternal grandmother, Mary, left this earth at the age of 94. She wasn’t one for chit-chat, so when she spoke it was to deliver a statement of importance. However, when she told of the time she dated country music legend, Ernest Tubb, there was a playful twinkle in her eyes. I believe her times with Tubb were a highlight of her life, especially the night of “the” party.

As a young woman, Mary lived in the mountains of western Virginia, and it was there where she and Tubb attended a party. Mary told me that she and Tubb were socializing with the others at the gathering when Tubb told her there was someone he wanted her to meet. So she followed her date to a corner of the room where a small crowd had gathered around a young, good-looking man who seemed to be at no loss for words. Mary said the man was arrogant, cocky, and far too sure of himself. She didn’t like him. Not at all.

Tubb told Mary the young man was sort of new to the music business and was looking for a break. She wasn’t at all surprised when he accepted the crowd’s invitation to perform. At the conclusion of the song Mary told her date that she didn’t believe the man had any real talent and that he would never make it in the music business. Tubb, on the other hand, said he thought the youngster had a big career ahead of him.

The young man was…

My mother was a huge Elvis fan her entire life. She had a large collection of Elvis memorabilia that I somehow inherited when she passed away. To this day, I can’t help but smile and think of my mom when I hear an Elvis song, or when I see Lisa Marie perform, especially at Sun Studio.

Denene and I found ourselves just a few blocks from Graceland this week and, well, there was no way we could pass up the opportunity. We were, however, a little apprehensive about dragging a UHaul trailer through the mansion gates, but our fears quickly dissipated when we saw car carriers, tow trucks, and motor homes parked at various angles in the paved parking lot. My mother would’ve crawled up the hill on her hands and knees over a bed of broken platinum records, if that’s what it took to get a peek inside of heaven on earth, that most holy place known as Graceland.

So, this one was for you, Mom. Here’s your peek inside the home of The King. And, Mary, I believe Ernest Tubb called this one right.

Lisa Marie’s swingset

Out of everything to see at Graceland, I think what will stick with me most is Elvis’ obvious love for his daughter, his generosity to people who needed a hand, and the fact that you can absolutely feel Elvis’ presence in the home.

I do not believe The King has left that building.

*     *     *

“Hound Dog”

Elvis Presley

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog

cryin’ all the time.

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog

cryin’ all the time.

Well, you ain’t never caught a rabbit

and you ain’t no friend of mine.

*By the way, we’re slowly making our way across the country, taking in a few of the hot spots as we go. We did, however, resist visiting Toad Suck, Arkansas.

It’s fun to step back in time and read some of the tales we so proudly wrote “back in the day.” You know, to see how we’ve progressed (or regressed). Here’s one of my early attempts at writing. The exercise was to tell a story, complete with a twisted ending, in 300 words or less.

Dog Days of Summer

The beach had always been much-needed mental therapy for Clara Ruth. Medicine for the soul she called it. Brilliant sunshine to warm her face and bare shoulders. Foamy seawater sizzling around her ankles. And that delightful salty air was nothing short of heaven on earth.

She cherished the screeching and shrieking seagulls. She adored the feel of the wet sand oozing between her toes. Not to mention the ocean breezes that brought the scents of coconut tanning oils, warm popcorn, and greasy French fries wafting down from the crowded creosote-soaked boardwalk.

As a child she’d liked nothing more than visiting the seaside arcades to play Skeeball, winning long ribbons of blue tickets that she’d exchange for cheap novelties, like a bamboo back-scratcher or a squirt gun. If she was lucky, and, if her parents had brought enough quarters, a plastic pail and shovel for making sandcastles. Secretly, though, she’d kept her eye on the big, white stuffed unicorn. But no one, not even the grownups, ever won enough blue tickets to take home the top prize.

But things had changed over the years. Those days were gone forever.

Wonderful memories, all of them. She’d have given anything to have those days back again.

The sun was bright and hot and nearly directly overhead. Not a single cloud to block the heat. But, for all she knew, it could have been midnight beyond the dark glasses she wore.

A lone tear, caught in the lower lashes of her right eye, finally spilled down onto her cheek. She mopped it away with the back of a hand. Using the other, she extended her red and white cane and urged the dog to guide her home.

She’d had enough therapy for one day.

Once there was a lonely stretch of beach, where not a creature stirred, not even a crab. Not a flopping fish or screeching gull. No swooping pelicans, laughing boys, or squealing girls. No sandcastles, no taffy. Or flying discs or balls bouncing.

But all was not lost, for a single word was heard. Yes, it was that word. From where it came was not known. Perhaps from the lips of the Christmas tree, or those of the cat beneath the hat. But it matters not from where it came, because they answered the call.

And then it happened. There was no place to stand on the wet sand or the dry. They came from high and low. From beneath the rocks and from towns far and near. The cheese and the gator. The young and the old. The hot and those very cold. They each heard the word, and all answered the call.

You, too, have heard the word—that single word—the single syllable that stirs the blood and moves the feet. The five letters that… Okay, enough with the corn. Let’s PARTY!

And then there were these two hardcore party animals…

So how’s your weekend? Doing anything fun?