Elvis and Mommie Dearest

The King of Rock and Roll died 30 years ago. Elvis Presley. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was almost two years of age.

My mom was devastated and incapacitated at the news that 42 year old Presley died on the shitter of heart disease worsened by drug use.

She was unable to function as a mother, let alone a human being. She pawned us off on our unsuspecting dad, who was unprepared for the epic scope of grief blackness that descended upon the Dale household. He fled faster than one could sing “In The Ghetto.” He was the lucky one.

It was August 16, 1977 when mom became Mommie Dearest.

“Love Me Tender” and “(Marie's the Name) His Latest Flame” and “Crawfish” spun on the record player, the turntable aching from the constant playing of Elvis tunes as “Suspicious Minds” and “Do You Know Who I Am” seared from the vinyl discs into the orange walls of Tartan Lane in Pueblo, Colorado.

We found ourselves in a closet, (was it by choice?) hiding in fear. “Mom?! You love Elvis more than you love us!”

She fed us only when the music briefly stopped, the closet door ripped open to let in blessed sunlight. The food showers so wonderful to us kids, the salty tomato goulash covering us dirtily, the meatloaf chunks hurtful projectiles, pancakes and pork chops with Soppy flying every which way. I remember green beans. Those tasty green beans cooked in bacon grease... and Eric and I fighting over the last scraps of macaroni and cheese. He beat me; he was 7… and Jen hoarding tiny morsels of chicken. Dark hazes.

The phone would ring off the hook and Mommie Dearest wouldn’t answer it. Her friends and family were trying to make contact, teachers wondered where we were, lawyers and bosses flooded the house with calls. Grandpa Bailey attempted to ram the Service Master van through the reinforced walls of our white house. And the authorities, oh those poor men in blue, refused to come on the property due “Devil In Disguise” playing so loud and the shotgun cocks echoing on the other side of the door.

“Elvis! Elvis!!!” Mommie Dearest screamed and sobbed during the funeral events, her boss giving her special bereavement leave from work. The King was dead.

When the reality of the event had finally set in, life returned to normal. We heralded dad’s bearded return from the mountains; clothes tattered, his fishing poles broken out of fear, grief or worse. “The owls are not what they seem.” He was a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons man. I am sure he shed a tear for Elvis.

Mom made popcorn, pork roast and cherry cobbler. She shared with us her Pepsi. We never spoke of the horrors again. From then on the kids always let mom have her ETT: Elvis Tunes Time.

Posted by RAD at August 15, 2007 9:38 PM