My Marvelous Muse

I woke to the smell of burnt food at two o’clock in the morning. I ambled to the kitchen, and there she was. She smiled sheepishly, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sorry, I was playing Slotsomania on your I-Pad and forgot about the grilled cheese sandwich I was making.” I sighed and told her, “If you’re still hungry there’s some leftover pizza in the refrigerator.” “Um, not anymore,” she said, “I ate that yesterday.” “Well, there might be a ‘healthy, gluten-free’ oatmeal cookie or two left.” “Uh-uh,” she said as she thrust her bottom lip forward and gave the slightest shake of her head, then added indignantly, “I get hungry too, you know!” As I walked back to the bedroom she called out, “By the way, you’re nearly out of milk,” a pause then, “I needed something to wash down those dried-up cookies of yours.”

We have such a funny relationship.  No, not funny as in ha-ha, funny as in odd or strange. I’ve always tried to be the director in our partnership, but it’s pretty evident that she’s got the upper hand. Thus, she lives this incredible carefree life, eating and drinking as she pleases. She stays up until all hours of the night and completely eschews any form of exercise. All of  which I wouldn’t mind, except that when I need her she’s nowhere to be found.

One morning last autumn, I was sitting in front of my laptop checking out the news, sipping at my too-hot coffee, when I read that NPR was having one of their short story contests. And I’m all raring to write, my fingers itching but, I can’t come up with a good start. So, I search the house and finally find her dozing in a lounge chair on the deck. It appeared she’d fallen asleep while giving herself a manicure. When I wake her and ask for help, she stretches out lazily, yawns and looks up at me, all smiley. She taps at the face of her wristwatch and says, “Sorry, Sweetie, I’m on break now,” then picks up her emery and resumes working on her nails.

On the other hand, it seems whenever I’m busy... like last week when I was driving through an late-spring ice storm, on ever-so-slick roads, where every bit of my concentration was needed just to keep me from sending the car into a road-side ditch, there she is, sitting in the back seat, all too eager to share her thoughts. As you might guess, there wasn’t much I could do with her ideas right then, what with my knuckles practically turning white from my grip on the steering wheel.  And when I’ve finally safely reached home and meanwhile forgotten most of whatever it was she was talking about, she’s angry with me.

Here’s a sample of a recent conversation between us:

Me: “Wow, isn’t that something that the new Pope is a Jesuit.”

Her: “You never listen, do you? Oh when, oh when? Oh when will you ever learn?”

Me: “Huh?”

Her: “You know I have an intuition about these things. Did I, or did I not tell you back in January of this year to work on a series of sketches on some of those Jesuit characters you’ve known? But, no! You had to go snowshoeing with "Whats-his-face.”

Me: “You mean my husband?”

Her: ‘Yeah, whatever. But, what I'm saying is, how au courant could your blog have been if you popped those sketches out right about the time that Pope Francis, clad in his snow-white robes, emerged onto the balcony as the first Jesuit pope in the history of the world. Well, buona sera to you, my friend, ‘cuz you blew it. I mean, could you come up with a better start for a posting of your thoughts, as a fallen Catholic, on the papal election; to say nothing of your experience working with the Jesuits for x-many years? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: timing is everything.” 

I stand there quietly absorbing her words when she starts in again, excitedly.

Her: “Come on, how hysterical is that story of yours of the walk you took through the cemetery up at Colombiere with Father M? Now that’s some funny stuff.”

No response from me.

Her: “Okay, okay. I get it. You like this new pope. You're pinning your hopes on him. You want something more inspirational? So, how about that Brother Bluto?”

Me: “You mean, Brother Brutus?”

Her: “Bluto, Brutus, you know what I mean. Or how about that priest who’s the “Colbert Report chaplain.” Didn’t you say you once had lunch with him?”

Me: “Yeah, but that was over 20 years ago. I’m not sure he’d even remember me.”

She puts her hands out in front of her, palms up, as if in surrender and slowly shakes her head as she looks at me and heaves a deep sigh.  But she never utters the words I most fear: “I give up.” or “It’s no use. You’re hopeless.” No, she’s remains faithful to me alright, but I’ll never figure out why.

Maybe it’s because every now and then, like maybe once a year or so, we have this synergy. And when we do, why it’s as though we are one.

That’s my muse! And just as I prepare to post this, she of course appears, and takes a quick look at the title of this blog. She rolls her eyes, and as she quickly disappears I can hear a faint: “Oohhh, brother!!” 

part two: the disappearing act

I've finished "Part Two" but have decided not to post it. I've fallen in love with my young disappearing friend and my young disappearing friend's story and have selfishly decided to keep them for myself for the time being. (It's going to a very, very, very short pile of work that I deem, with some elbow grease, can be possibly polished up someday.)

My muse is the actual author of this story. She inhabits my body from time to time, and in doing so,  words, ideas and thoughts effortlessly flow from my fingers. She so inhabits my body and soul that she's able to reach portions of my mind that have been dormant for years and years.

And on occasion when I finish a story such as "Disappearing Act," I find that tears are rolling down my cheeks. And they are not sad tears nor are they joyful tears, but tears of relief that these words have been set free.

So, as long as my muse is around, as she is at the given moment, I'm going to let her have free reign on my short stories.

I, meanwhile, will continue to share updates on the mundane events of my life in the country.

"the disappearing act": a story in 2 or maybe 3 parts

January 30, 19__

My therapist, Miss D, has asked me to keep a journal of any memories I have of how I came to possess my preternatural power. And well, besides school classes, there isn’t much else to do here right now. I can’t lay around in my room, because I must both “socialize” and “be productive.” I know that Miss D will pass through the room sometime soon to check up observe how I’m doing. Mom says that I’ll be released sooner if I do what is expected of me. “And isn’t that what you want?” My mom never seems to notice that I never answer her when she asks that question. She presumes that’s what I want.

So, here I am writing in my journal in the “dayroom,” which has floor to ceiling windows that overlook a garden that the staff here call the “meditation garden.” And it’s probably a pretty garden in the spring, summer and fall, but right now it’s a gray winter day. There are no colors outside, that I can see, except for the birds that come to the feeders. My English teacher would probably prefer it if I used a word like “monochromatic” to describe what I see. But, I thought of that word too late. Plus my pencil has no eraser. This is because Miss D and my English teacher want to see everything I write, even the mistakes I make. I’m only allowed to draw one single line through any words or sentences that I change.

I just looked out again. I was right, except for the tiny bit of red on the back of the Downy Woodpecker’s head, everything outside is a shade of gray. Everything inside, where I am, is filled with bright, cheery colors. It reminds me of the Wizard of Oz, where Dorothy’s dream was in brilliant “living color,” but her real life was monochromatic.

The special boarding school that I’m in has two bird feeders that hang outside in the meditation garden and they both are designed to make it difficult for “nuisance” birds to feed. Once I asked the custodian who fills the feeders, “What is a nuisance bird?” He looked at me like I was crazy and then shook his head as he remembered that that is exactly what I am. He barked at me, “They’re the birds that people don’t want around.” In case my English teacher reads this, I chose the word "barked," because that’s what his voice reminded me of, a dog barking. And also, his face has too much skin and it hangs down around either side of his muzzle mouth area, just like a dog’s jowls.

I feel sorry for the birds I see, because even though they can fly anywhere they want, these birds are stuck in a rut routine that keeps them here in the gray cold. It’s because they are non-migratory birds. So, even though it’s bone-chilling frigid outside and the wind is gusting 20+ mph, so that they are forced to struggle just to hang on, hang onto the feeder that is, they don’t leave and fly south. And here I am inside, warm, and surrounded by people who prepare food for me, people who look after me, people whose jobs are to “provide a positive atmosphere in which to build the competence necessary to thrive socially and academically.”

I look at the birds again and I recall my father saying to me, “Must you be such a nuisance?”

Miss D just left my side. She came because one of the staff told her I had zoned out. And while she was “observing” me she, of course, read what I’d written so far. She furrows her brow and says, “That’s not what your supposed to be writing about.” (My English teacher says one should never end a sentence with a preposition,” but that’s the way people talk in real life (even smart well-educated people like Miss D.) I am, trying hard to be “honest” about my feelings, as Miss D tells me I ought. “Fine,” I say, “I’ll try to do better but, I don’t know how or where to begin.” “Start with your earliest memories. It’s good to include memories of your childhood, not so much about the birds and the weather.”

Okay Miss D, my earliest memory is of me waking up in my crib when I was about eight months old and hearing and seeing thunder and lightning crashing and flashing all around me in a little one-room shack. Why do I think I was eight months old, Miss D? (I know she’d ask me that if we were talking.) I think I was eight months old, because, I was able to sit up, but I couldn’t stand up yet. My mom says that I learned to pull myself up to stand when I was around nine months old. Why do I think it's a shack? Well, Miss D, because I can easily see that it's just a big box of a room and I can see where the lightning is flashing through every crack and crevice on all four sides of me.

Anyway that is my very first ever memory. What a portent that my very first ever memory is of  being afraid and wishing I could disappear.

In fact, I’ve spent so much of my life either not being noticed, being afraid or trying to hide, that it’s really not such a surprise that I finally perfected the ability to actually disappear. And this, for my English teacher, who disapproves of the current overuse of the word “literally”: I don’t mean figuratively, I mean I can really physically disappear, in the sense that although some part of me is still around, people lose sight of me. I’m there, but not visible to the world. I guess it’s like being the Invisible Man, except that my clothing disappears with me.

My second memory is hearing my parents arguing. We lived in what, now that I think about it, must have been a studio apartment and not really “a shack.” There was a bigger fold-out bed in the middle of the room, that was where my folks slept. I had a little cot off in the corner. I remember Dad lying in bed and my mom standing next to the bed pleading with him to get up soon or he’d be late for work again. He yelled at her, “I said my back hurts. Now leave me alone.” If I had to guess, I’d say I was about 2 or 2 1/2 years old.

In my third memory we are in a different apartment and it has a separate kitchen with an old-fashioned stove that stands on four legs. It’s just the right size for me to fit under. I remember clutching my little blanket and running and hiding under the stove. Dad was tending me because mom was in the hospital having my baby brother, so I must be 3 1/2 years old. I remember that just before I ran to hide, I was standing next to Dad while he read the newspaper and even though I was there for a long time and even though I was so close that I was practically touching him, he didn’t notice me. Hmm, I wonder, now, if this is one of the first times I actually disappeared. When I finally touched his arm, he looked up and said, “Must you be such a nuisance?”

Miss D just came to read what I’d written so far, so I’m guessing the staff must have noticed me starting to zone out again. If you haven’t guessed it yet, they’re told to report whenever I “zone out.” “You’re doing fine with your journal,” says Miss D after carefully reading every word, “but why don’t you take a break now? Take a rest. Maybe read or do some art therapy? That’s enough writing for today, don’t you think?” Miss D is like my mom in that she doesn’t wait for my reply, she just presumes that’s what I would want.

... check in a day or two for "part two."

PART TWO: He Lives: A Six-Foot Tall Tale

...Man, oh man, you are not going to believe what happened next....

So, where was I? Oh, yeah, she, the security person, takes us in this little room cleverly hidden on the ground floor. She tells us that we, well actually my husband, has been chosen, as the 12,500,000 person to visit Graceland receive a “special” private tour. But, since I’m with him, I’m allowed to share in the experience. However, since this is a private “behind the scenes” tour, we will have to turn off our I-Phones, which they have noticed we were using to snap photos. I mean not only completely turn them off, but we must put them in a locked pouch, which we can carry, but will not be able to open until the tour is complete. “Will that be something you’re comfortable with?” she asks. We look at each other and my husband says, “I’m okay with that, if you are.” “Fine with me,” I say.

“Okay, then next we have a document we’ll need you to sign indicating that you will keep anything you see this day private. By private, I mean anything you see or hear is not to be shared with media, friends, family, no one. Is that something your feel you can honor?” “May I read it?” asks my husband. “Certainly.” She hands us the two page document and says, “And we’ll also need to see your driver’s license or state I.D. and make copies of them. In addition we well take photographs of both of you and take your fingerprints.” “No, DNA swab?” asks my husband, smiling. She doesn’t find his joke funny.

After reading the first page of the document, my husband hands it to me to read, as he reads the second page. I was hoping he was making sense of this. Me? My heart was pounding and I couldn’t read a word, but I pretended to be concentrating on the print. He finishes, looks up at the woman and says, “Yes. We’ll sign this and we have no objections to the photos, I.D.s and fingerprints.” But, I’m thinking that he forgot to ask me if I agreed. She took away our audio headsets. “Y’all won’t need these,” she said with a big smile.

The whole process took about a half hour, it seemed. I couldn’t see a clock anywhere in the room and my phone was now locked up in what looked like a small bank pouch, so I wasn’t sure of the time. She took us back toward the kitchen, all the while she spoke quietly into one of those CIA-type microphones near her collar. Then she looked up at us and said, “You’re tour guide will be downstairs in one minute.” I’m thinking “downstairs?” I thought the audio tour said that the upstairs was sealed off.

But, maybe that was just the main staircase because behind us, just off the kitchen is another staircase and it was here that I heard the footsteps of someone coming slowly down the stairs. I saw his feet and lower legs first. I say “his” because it just looked like a man’s feet. I realized she never told us if it was a man or woman giving us the private tour.

Just now, I need to tell you something about me. I have this incredible ear for the human voice. It’s a gift or an aptitude, nothing I’ve ever worked at, but if I hear a person speak a few times, I can usually identify the person, just from hearing their voice. My husband marvels at it. I can be in the next room, totally out of sight of the television that he’s watching and I’ll call out the voice of the person talking. “John Travolta,” I’ll call out. “Correct,” he’ll reply. Or, “Helen Hunt.” “Yup, you got it” “Dale Earnhart, Jr.” “How do you do that?” 

The person coming down the stairs had those shoe slippers that my husband wears around the house, I think they’re called “Sanuk.” And he was wearing maroon velour sweat pants. As he came into view, I saw that it was a man, an older man, and by older, I mean older than my husband and me. He was tall-ish, with a mostly-full head of white hair. And he was wearing a white t-shirt under the matching zip-up maroon top to his sweatsuit. It was dark on the staircase, so we couldn’t see him well until he stepped closer, with his hand extended to shake.

My heart began to pound again as I heard his voice and knew for certain, it was 78 year old Elvis standing right in front of us saying, “Welcome to Graceland.”

He looked his age, but physically was in better shape than most people I know in their late 70s. He moved about easily with a natural grace. I was just as certain from his face as I was from his voice that it was really him.

After my husband and I recovered from our shock and after brief introductions, he directed his attention to my husband. “You know that was nonsense about you being the 12 and a half millionth visitor. You see I have a bank of viewing stations for the many security cameras here at Graceland. They’re pretty sophisticated and I can zero in on a shirt button, if I like. Every now and then I take a look at some of the visitors. And let me tell you, brother, you could be a double for an old buddy of mine, named Johnny.” He laughs out loud and says, “Well, actually a double for Johnny’s old man. But, they always said Johnny looked just like his daddy. Anyway, I saw you looking at the light switch. That’s what caught my eye initially. And man, when I saw your face it was like a step back in time for me.” He laughs again, “I said to myself, Johnny’s daddy’s here.”

A sad, faraway look comes across his face and he says, “I lost Johnny to drugs, prescription drugs, but drugs just the same. But, let’s not dwell on that now. I’ve got a tour to direct,” and the smile and accompanying wrinkles that abound his eyes and mouth return. He drapes an arm around my husband’s shoulder and looks back at me and says, “Shall we?”

 We set off on a tour that, well, really what can I say? But, that we saw Graceland through Elvis’s eyes. Eyes that shone with joy and laughter at times and eyes that once or twice fought hard to hold back tears. I have to give my husband credit here. He’s just one of those guys that people immediately open up to, a sweet, non-judgmental soul.

I won’t bore you with too much of the house detail. You can visit yourself or see the rooms and descriptions online. But, let me tell you some of what Elvis told us about how all this came to be.

First he told us that he actually lives upstairs in Graceland. “I didn’t want to go anywhere else at the time. This was where my heart was, where my mama was buried.”

“There came a point in my life where I, like my buddy Johnny, was taking too many prescriptions. It started out innocent enough, taking a little amphetamine to help keep the weight off and keep me alert and focussed for my performances and tours. But, I wasn’t sleeping well, so the doctor prescribed something to help me sleep. I had an injury with my karate and the doctor prescribed something for the pain. I always told myself, the doctor wouldn’t give me something if wasn’t good for me.”

“You know I had a lot of people depending on me back then, family, friends, fellow band members, charities, you name it. If fact when I first had some closed circuit cameras put upstairs for me, I used to check to make sure everyone at Graceland was happy. It was important to me that what I  was doing was making a difference in their lives. To do that I had to keep working and reworking myself, you know? I worked hard and harder to keep the money coming in.”

 “But, I came close to dying. Man, I mean this close,” he holds his index finger and thumb barely apart. “I knew I had to do something. It wasn’t an easy decision. But, I knew there was no other way. It was do or die. I chose ‘do.’ “

He closed his eyes for a bit and sighed, “Even now, I know there was no other way. I had some bad days getting myself straight, and some even worse nights. But, every day I would think back to my days as a boy, with my parents in Tupelo, and how I didn’t need nothing but their love, my mama’s good cooking and the clothes on my back to make me happy. We didn’t have much, but we had enough. I didn’t need the caffeine from a cup of coffee to wake up full of energy. I was energy back then, man. When I was tired I slept. I didn’t need a doctor’s prescription to enjoy life. I knew then that I had to get that back.”

He told us about how he’d read a lot about meditation and eastern philosophy and decided to give yoga a try. “You know I think it really helped me early on, so I kept at it. I was getting older and eventually I had to switch from karate to tai chi, from touch football to yoga. And then someone got the fool idea to turn my racquetball court into a shrine for my awards and such.” Elvis has an infectious laugh and my husband and I joined in.

We talked about how quickly life passes by, how we were all getting older. Then we were quiet, each of us kind of reflecting, when Elvis suddenly laughed and said, “Hey, did you guys ever hear stories after my ‘death’ that people had spotted me? Back then, I used to go out at on occasion, mostly at night.” He puts his arm on my husband’s shoulder, “Buddy, you are going to love this...” Elvis tells us that Graceland was once part of the underground railroad and so somewhere on the estate there is an underground tunnel that will take him to an area off the property with a garage where he keeps a car and a couple of motorcycles. “Buddy, I wish you could hang around tonight. We could take a ride on the ‘cycles. You know, raise a little hell.” He said he could no longer hold up the big motorcycle and had recently switched to a three-wheeler. “But, really I don’t go out anymore. My vision’s no good at night. But, I feel good just knowing if I wanted to, I could.”

We were there long enough that he had the staff serve us lunch. Can you believe Elvis is on a macrobiotic diet? Not only that, but he is “gluten-free.” The food was delicious, but definitely healthy, brown rice, squash, black beans, chopped avocado and tomato, and some kind of pickled seaweed salad. At lunch he talked about the “Colonel” Tom Parker. “You know some people said he was a crook. But he wasn’t. He was a genius at marketing, merchandising, and licensing.” He laughs aloud again, “Hey, have you ever bought your kid a ninja turtle? You can thank the Colonel for that!”

As we finished lunch, he asked how long we could stay. “Well, we really need to get going,” my husband said apologetically. Elvis said, “I know I can trust you guys to not say anything about this to anyone.” We both assured him he could count on us. Then he laughed out loud again, “Who would believe you anyway? Elvis is alive and meditates, practices yoga and eats a strict macrobiotic , gluten-free diet!”

It took at least another two hours before Elvis and my husband stopped talking and we finally said our goodbyes. “Man, I hope I didn’t bore you guys today,” he said with a weak laugh. As he turned to walk up the staircase, just off the kitchen, he had such a heartbreaking look of loneliness.

We passed through a final briefing with security and were on our way. The gift shop was open as we walked to our car. My husband requested that we walk through it. We didn’t buy anything, but my husband had a somber look on his face as he viewed the merchandise.

In the car my husband immediately searched for and found the “Elvis” channel on the XM/Sirius radio, it was channel 19. I think I’d mentioned that my husband had never been an Elvis fan before. But, it’s all he’d listen to on our trip back home.

We were driving home the next day and I said, “Hon, that was an experience of a lifetime, huh?” “What was an experience of a lifetime?” he asked.

“You know meeting Elvis.” 

“Elvis? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I look over at him as he drives. He looks completely serious and has his eyes on the road. “Oh, I get it,” I say. “The whole promise thing we made, that we won’t talk about it to anyone.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Now I’m getting kind of angry. “I know we swore we wouldn’t tell anyone, but I’m sure it’s okay if we talk about it. Don’t you think?”

“We took a tour of Graceland. We saw his gravesite there. Elvis is dead.”

And that’s the thing about my husband. When he makes a promise to someone he keeps it. And no amount of alcohol or truth serum or any kind of haggling from me can make him void his promise. The only proof I have is that I am now married to a dedicated fan of Elvis. Did it really happen? I think of a line from an Elvis song:

“But, I know what I know, and I’m here to lick the guy what says ‘taint sol”

HE LIVES: A Six Foot Tall Tale

There was a winter storm threatening the northern part of Illinois. Forecasters warned it could dump up to 12 inches of snow state-wide, all the way from the Mississippi River to Lake Michigan, and from the Wisconsin border down through Springfield.

We were headed home from a long stopover in Biloxi, Mississippi. Our original plan was to drive to Springfield, Illinois, stay overnight and make a stop at the Lincoln Museum before heading home. The museum was my history-buff husband’s idea. But, since reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s book “Team of Rivals” I was just as eager to make the visit.

“I don’t know. I’m worried about the weather. What do you think?” I couldn’t blame my husband for his concern. We’d left home two and a half weeks earlier in an ice storm that turned the country byways, where we live, into an automobile skating rink that left many a truck and SUV littering the ditches on the side of the road.

Being a solutions person I offered, “Let’s skip Springfield for now. We can drive to Memphis and stay a couple of nights. By then the roads should be clear enough to make it home safely.” Besides, I reasoned to myself, this way we’ll have time to visit Graceland, something I’d wanted to do for over 30 years.

After we booked a hotel I suggested some of the things we could do with our spare day in Memphis. I mentioned Graceland and although he didn’t actually roll his eyes, I could tell he wasn’t really keen on it. “I should have seen this coming. Okay, how much does it cost?” He knew well the entrance fee, because a friend had suggested a visit to Graceland not one week before and given us all the details.

“I think the basic tour would run about 30 bucks a piece. Oh, and um, another ten dollars for parking.” Did I detect a sigh in his voice? “Well, sure if you want, we can do it.”

Mind you, my husband’s never been much of an Elvis fan. I mean I like Elvis okay but, I’ve never been a hard-core fan, like my husband’s kooky Aunt Elsie, who bought every record album and even “wall-papered” her bedroom with photos of Elvis she’d cut out of fan magazines. Still, I’d always wanted to tour his Graceland home, if only to see just what kind of rabid Elvis fans like Aunt Elsie still flock to his place.

So, I launched into planning a whole day, starting at Graceland early in the morning and ending with a late lunch at a popular barbecue joint, knowing that the better I planned things the less likely my husband would be able to wheedle his way out of it. I was now determined to get to Graceland, even if it meant I had to drag him “kicking and screaming.”

We’d been on a road trip that, so far, had taken us through 11 states. We’d listened to XM/Sirius radio most of the time in the car and I don’t recall having heard a single Elvis Presley tune, so it was just plain strange that as we set off to our Graceland tour “Suspicious Minds” was playing as we started the car. I looked at the radio and saw that it was set to the ‘60s station. After the song finished I tuned in the ‘50s channel and they were playing, “Always on My Mind” by Elvis. Weird, huh? Little did I know then just how weird things were about to get.

It was a cool morning, actually cold I guess by Memphis standards. We parked our car in the official lot across the street. It wasn’t crowded, perhaps due to a combination of the cold and early hour. The tour bus lot was empty. We passed about 20 or so cars as we walked to the ticket counter building. Amongst a few rental car license plates, I saw license plates from Alaska, California, Washington, Florida, Texas, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, New York, and ours from Illinois. Later we’d find out that at least a few visitors that day were from overseas, like the young 30-ish year-old Australian man wearing an orange baseball cap who sat next to me on the mini-bus that carries visitors from the ticket/gift shop area across a busy street to the actual house. Or the young couple and their 4 year-old son visiting from Germany, who sat in front of us on the bus. 

Upon boarding the minibus for the two-minute bus trip across the street, we were given a headset containing an audio description of the home. (Note: the two minute bus trip includes the distribution of the headsets and sufficient time for everyone to test the headsets and give a “thumbs up” as to whether they are in working order.) In that short drive banners lining the street that proclaimed, “Elvis Lives” caught my eye.

They dropped off our minibus of about 20 visitors at the entrance, where we were cautioned “Take all the non-flash photos you wish. There is absolutely no flash photography or videos of any kind allowed inside the home.” 

We donned our headsets and stepped inside and thus our experience began. A visitor can opt to listen to the basic tour or at any point punch in codes posted throughout the home that give a more detailed version of Elvis’s career and life at Graceland. Directly in front of us was a white-carpeted staircase with a velvet rope barring anyone from walking upstairs. The audio says that the upstairs is "sealed off' and no one is allowed upstairs out of respect for Elvis. "It was “Elvis’s private domain.”

I look to the right and there is his living room and just beyond it a small music room with a grand piano. The living room also has a velvet rope keeping visitors from actually entering the room. There are signs instructing visitors not to reach or touch anything beyond the ropes. I take a couple of snapshots and move to the left. My husband taps on my shoulder and points to a wall switch just outside the living room. It’s one of those push button switches as opposed to a toggle switch. Out of the corner of my eye I see him take a snapshot of it.

I notice a security guard lower his head as if in concentration. He appears to be listening to  into his headset. He then speaks into a tiny microphone near his neck. The same security person asks everyone to move to the next area, apologizing and explaining that there has been a problem.

The security guard now approaches my husband and begins talking to him. I see my husband nod, say something to the guard and then point to me. The guard directs a different security person towards me. The female security guard says “S‘cuse me, Ma’am, would you please be so kind as to come with me?” and begins to direct me toward my husband. It all happened so quickly. My husband and I and an additional three security persons are the only people remaining in the foyer. The security people don’t seem angry, but they do look serious.

A couple of other security personnel were quickly directing the remaining few visitors through and past the area of the kitchen and Elvis’s parents bedroom. I saw the young 4 year-old boy from Germany turn around and look back at me as his parents and he were ushered out with the rest of the group.

I look desperately at my husband with arched eyebrows, which is my “What in the world have you done now?” look. He gives a subtle shrug of his shoulders. A fifth security person stepped into the room. It was another female guard. She took a deep breath and said, “If I could have a few minutes of your time, please?” “Yes,” we said in unison. “Great,” she replied. “Please follow me.” As we walked single file behind her, she turned, smiled and said, “I think y’all are going to like this.”

And man, you are not going to believe what happened next....