The Day Elvis Died

There are many things that happened nationally that I remember because I remember where I was and what I was doing.

I know exactly where I was when the second plane hit the Twin Towers on 9/11/2001. I know where I was when Challenger exploded. I know where I was when I heard President Reagan had been shot. I know where I was when I learned John Lennon had been shot. I know where I was on November 9, 2016, when I learned that Hillary Clinton lost the election even though she won the popular vote.

And I know where I was when the radio announcer said, in solemn tones, "The King is dead."

We were driving through some flat area of Kansas or someplace like that, my parents, my brother, my grandmother, my two young uncles, and me, all piled into a bus-van type contraption that my father had found for a trip across the country.

My father had been flipping radio stations to find something to listen to, and that was what we heard, "The King is dead." We were all hushed while my father tried to find a station to figure out what was going on. At first, we were confused - what king? King of a country? Not the king of rock and roll, surely. He was only 42 years old.

After much fiddling with the radio dials - we were, after all, in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest - my father found another station.

"Elvis Presley is dead," the announcer said.

My father gasped, my mother shrugged, my grandmother said something to the effect of that being too bad.

My brother and two uncles went back to playing cards in the back of the bus-van, my grandmother returned to her nap, and my father drove, his hands tight on the steering wheel, not yelling at the boys for making noises they made as they messed around in the back.

I sat behind my father, and I watched him. I was only 13, but I knew this was important.

I have never asked Dad what that meant to him, to have someone he had idolized die and have no one to share it with when it happened. He didn't talk about it, didn't make much of it. He just kept driving.

My father was a big Elvis fan. My father had a band of his own and he sang many Elvis songs. He idealized himself as a "B" version of Elvis, or so I thought. My mother, who was riding shotgun in the bus-van, didn't seem to care one way or another, but I remember feeling the change in my father's mood even though he didn't say a word.

I remember his sadness, though he made sure no one saw him sad.

He wasn't alone, of course, we were all there in the bus-van. I knew he was feeling something, but we have never been a very lovey-dovey touchy-feely kind of family. I don't know if I was the only one who knew that this was a blow to my father. I've never talked about it with anyone, though my father asked me some time ago if I remembered where we were when we heard about Elvis's death. He was pleased that I remembered, right down to the cornfields along the side of the long stretch of highway.

Wise men say many things; others say very little. I always equate Elvis Presley with my father, and I always have that memory following me around, the memory of me, the young girl-woman in the seat behind her father, watching without comment while the man she once thought hung the moon absorbed devastating news.