How I Accidentally Saw Elvis Dead

by Lisa Creech Bledsoe · 9 comments

in Faves, Kitchen Sink, Time Capsule

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It was hot as hell on August 17th, 1977, the day I accidentally saw Elvis dead.

It was the year that Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind hit movie theaters like a neutron bomb, the year that Rocky won an Academy Award for best picture.  I had my first kiss that year — at Skateland, under the disco lights — an abysmal experience. It was a year for events of cosmic proportion.

I had grown up in Memphis, steeped in the tradition of Beale Street, the Memphis Queen, and rhythm and blues. I knew who Al Green was, and I’d wired up my own little crystal radio set so that I could lie in bed at night and listen to ELO, The Bar-Kays (a Memphis group), and Boz Skaggs on WHBQ.

I’d heard Elvis before, of course, and knew dozens of people who’d seen him tooling around the city in one of his Stutz-Bearcats, but I wasn’t a particular fan; Elvis and Graceland were just a part of the place I grew up, same as W.C. Handy, the Orpheum ghost, and the muddy Mississip.

I was in no way aware of Elvis’s slow, drug-hazed decline nor his ignominious death. I was eleven, going on 12, and had already been (badly) kissed. I had no idea that 300 National Guardsmen had been called in to deal with the 75,000 fans who had converged on Graceland and were camped outside the distinctive ugly wrought-iron gates, hoping to be allowed in to see Elvis laying in state.

I was, however, forced to tag along with my mother, who (also unaware of the Elvis insanity) went to visit her friend Martha, who lived not far off Danny Thomas Boulevard. Martha had a teenage son about my age, and after the adults had settled in the kitchen with iced tea, we decided to do some urban hiking.

We headed out through the back yard and into the light woods that fringed their neighborhood; it was about 3 in the afternoon, and as humid as a steambath. I was wearing my favorite pair of bell-bottoms and a tee-shirt with a groovy iron-on (all my tee-shirts had groovy iron-ons). The bell-bottoms I remember especially because as we hiked out, we shoved our way through some deadfall and came upon a chest-high rock wall topped with jagged rocks or barbed wire.

To an eleven year old, a rock wall says Climb up! rather than Stay out!, so we clambered over, and naturally, the seat of my jeans caught and I tore a two-inch L-shaped hole in them. I was wearing white underwear (all my underwear were white) that managed to escape the talons of the fence, but still I was deeply mortified to be in the company of a boy I barely knew with my jeans ripped and my underwear showing. In later years I would cultivate this fashion, but at the time I was far too eleven. In even later years, my own children would cultivate this fashion even earlier than age eleven.

But I was talking about dead Elvis, sorry.

I was still flushed with embarassment when I began to notice the change in our surroundings. Urban wooded trash had given way to smooth expanses of groomed pasture. I could see what looked like a tidy barn just ahead, and some smaller outbuildings. We hiked amiably in silence, making our way toward the barn, then on past, toward nothing in particular. Everything was strangely, persistently quiet. I guess I was aware of the two-story Colonial house rising up in front of us, but I was eleven, and my underwear was showing, and it didn’t seem important.

So it was a considerable surprise to me when some security guards materialized and came striding quickly over. “You’re not allowed to be back here,” one of them said, taking hold of my elbow and directing me firmly toward what appeared to be a back entrance to the house in front of us.

I found myself with absolutely nothing to say, but I had the sense of being caught up in something far bigger than myself (that was how I always felt). My recollection is that we were taken through a kitchen into a foyer-like area and inserted into a shuffling line of people. I didn’t realize what was happening until I saw the open casket, sitting there like a giant, buffed-up asteroid, and Elvis Aaron Presley, bloated and pale in his white suit, blue shirt, and white tie, incontrovertibly dead.

I stopped, stunned, in front of the casket. A woman moaned behind me, and a guard pushed us all along. Horrified, I averted my gaze from the dead man, who only barely resembled the rock star I knew. I stared at the floor in front of me as we were hurried out past tremendous heaps of flower arrangements (later I read that it took 100 vans to cart them all away), past the stone lions, and down toward the front gates.

“Why wasn’t there shag carpet?” I wondered inexplicably. Even my family had lovely burnt orange shag carpet, and we weren’t fashionable or rock stars.

And turning to the boy I’d arrived with, I asked, with more than a little sense of displacement and worry, “Do you have any idea how to get back to your house from here?”

Image in the public domain

{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }

Dave July 7, 2009 at 11:46 am

Oooooooo, this is one of my favorite Glowing Edge posts ever. I have this weird fascination with Elvis even though I was about 18 months old when he died. I’ve been to Graceland several times, and I’ve tried to imagine what the place would have been like in the 60s and 70s and what would have gone on there. The thought of him not being alive – not to mention very recently deceased and still inhabiting the mansion – never entered into my imagination.

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Sonja Foust July 7, 2009 at 12:12 pm

Great post, and timely. Thanks for sharing!

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Sine Botchen July 7, 2009 at 1:56 pm

Wow! What a great adventure! Ah.. being young in the 70’s. I had my share of groovy iron-on t-shirts, (star wars, et. al.) K-Tel records and mood rings. The local discount store sold “irregulars” really cheap and only some time later did I realize that was why one sleeve always seemed to be shorter than the other on my “Disco Duck” t-shirts.

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Shane July 7, 2009 at 3:17 pm

Fabulous writing. I’m in awe.

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Lisa Creech Bledsoe July 7, 2009 at 3:18 pm

Thanks for the comments, friends.

Dave, you can get your on any time you need a fix, y’know. I’m here to help. http://www.elvis.com/graceland/vtour/

Sonja, since you are a (famous! beautiful! geographically nearby!) published author, I’m always appreciative that you take the time to read and comment. Thank you! Someday I just know we’re going to meet at a tweetup.

Sine, I can’t believe you mentioned Disco Duck. That was our infamous and beloved Memphis deejay Rick Dees who came up with that ridiculous idea. Wow, that really takes me back. Now I have to go find it on iTunes. I predict it will not leave my head for days now. Not sure if I should thank you for that, lol!

Shane, ditto the published author thing above, dude. You guys inspire me!

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Mary Nations September 9, 2009 at 10:17 am

Great story and much better adventure than mine that week – marching in a field in southwest Virginia for high school band camp. I think Elvis had a concert in Johnson City earlier that year – shoulda coulda woulda gone if I’d known I wouldn’t get another chance!

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Lisa Creech Bledsoe September 9, 2009 at 10:32 am

Just think how all those Michael Jackson fans felt, too. And they already had their tickets!

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Biff Spiffy November 11, 2009 at 10:57 am

Hi there! Here via Steelwater’s facebook…

Great story, could relate to lots of it. I’ve been far too eleven a few times… and got hung up on an elementary school fence once after recess, where the playground was surrounded by classroom windows. The principal got me unstuck by pulling me out of my stuck jeans, then handing them to me. I’m sure 200 of my peers saw my tighty-whiteys before I could get redressed.

Always got that creeped-out keep-moving feeling seeing dead people. Jibblies.

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Lisa Creech Bledsoe November 11, 2009 at 11:38 am

That’s the stuff of nightmares, aaagggh! May that principal have heartburn and flat feet for punishment. Arm flaps, too.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

I’m GONNA get out to see Steelwater, SOON!

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