Published by the Times-Georgian–July 13, 2019
by Joe Garrett
It was too hot for blue suede shoes.
I left my Elvis jumpsuit at home and wore a pair of shorts instead. It’s important to never upstage The King.
“Do we really have to go here?” my son Turner asked. “I don’t really like Elvis.”
He’s loves the music of John Mayer and the Foo Fighters. Unfortunately, most teenagers of his generation have an image of Elvis overdosing and dying on the toilet rather than the music he sang to electrify audiences around the globe.
“It would be a sin to pass through Memphis and not stop at Graceland,” I countered. “That would be like going to Athens, Greece and not seeing the Parthenon or traveling to Rome, Italy and failing to tour the Colosseum. Let’s go.”
We decided to take advantage of the 4th of July long holiday weekend by making a stop in Memphis before driving to Cape Girardeau, Missouri to visit my brother and his family.
This was my third trip to Graceland. After spending the night at The Peabody Hotel downtown where we watched ducks walk onto an elevator (the ducks crossing South Street in front of the Stewart House in Carrollton are more impressive) and devoured a rack of undercooked ribs at the nearby world-famous Rendezvous (Billy Bob’s Barbecue is better), we awoke to hearing someone singing out-of-key through the wall of our adjacent hotel room.
“Wise men say only fools rush in…
“For I can’t help fallin’ in love with you.”
Well, at least he was singing an Elvis song.
It’s hard to decide which I liked better—Graceland or the people who actually stood in line with us for the tour.
“Dad, how long is this going to take?” Turner asked. “Elvis was a druggie who became obese from eating too many fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
“It won’t last long,” I answered. “Yes. He was a drug addict, but let’s overlook his flaws and focus on his good years as an entertainer. And please—please don’t make fun of anyone who eats fried peanut butter sandwiches. Gran (my mother) used to make them for me when I was little.”
“So, that’s why you’re overweight as an adult,” he exclaimed with a smile on his face.
I gave him the silent treatment. It’s important to pick the right battles with a teenager.
For the next 45 minutes, we walked room by room throughout the Graceland mansion before eventually stopping in the Jungle Room. Elvis never called it the Jungle Room. According to Rolling Stone Magazine, “For him, his breathtakingly garish tiki-tinged lair—sui generis in the realm of ostentatious kitsch—was merely ‘the den.’”
It was here in this room I learned Elvis recorded his 23rd album “From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee.” That album is significant to me. It was released on my seventh birthday in 1976, and it was the first Elvis album my mother bought for me.
We eventually ended the tour at Elvis’ grave before leaving Graceland to honor two other Kings—B.B. and Martin. Our short drive to Mulberry Street included stopping for photos at the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot and killed on the infamous balcony in front of room 306. In 
times of enormous racial tensions in our country, I thought of King’s words that so desperately need to be heeded today as we drove away from the motel towards Beale Street—
“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction.”
As we entered Beale Street, the sound of a blues harmonica drew us into B.B. King’s Club for lunch. I knew when my son ordered fried catfish and watched the band entertain us, he would be a little happier than his time at Graceland.
“Blues is a tonic for what ails you,” once said the late B.B. King. “I could play the blues and then not be blue anymore.”
After lunch, we made a quick stop at the historic Sun Studio to see the birthplace of rock ‘n roll before finally crossing the Hernando de Soto Bridge into Arkansas.
I drove away from Memphis failing to convert my oldest son to an Elvis fan and that’s OK. We were together. And for a short trip where we crossed six states in four days, I realized all we really have in this world is time.
In two years, he will be graduating from high school. And hopefully somewhere along the way, I’ll make up his misery of Graceland by taking him to a John Mayer or Foo Fighters concert. I only hope he won’t mind if I wear my Elvis jumpsuit and strap on a pair of blue suede shoes.
You’re never too old to stop embarrassing your children.
In the words of Elvis—“Thank you. Thankyouverymuch!”
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