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Elvis Has Left the Building
I wonder if Elvis ever wished he could have been a regular guy in our neighborhood, without the small packs of children running and screaming in his wake.

Elvis Has Left the Building

Thirty-eight years ago today, I opened lemonade stand for the week. I wasn’t alone in the venture, being among a team of neighborhood kids who loaded up a red wagon and dragged it around the corner to the front of the big house on Highway 51. We served two sizes, small and large, with our two prices of 5 and 10 cents each, respectively. We borrowed pitchers from our mothers’ kitchens and bought disposable cups along with bags of ice at the local market. We made numerous trips to that market in those days, learning early the truths of inventory control and bulk purchasing. The hot August sun in Memphis meant business was good. The gathering crowds ensured we would be busy for a while.

Our lemonade stand was not the reason for the gathering crowd, though around us they did gather. The crowds assembled outside the gates surrounding the home of a king, and we were the mere servants to the people there that week who, with near immediacy, heard the news and appeared outside his home. Elvis was dead.

On August 16, 1977, the world around our quiet Memphis neighborhood changed, and in some ways, changed forever. Our most famous neighbor, Elvis Presley, had always been a quiet one, never causing a commotion or generating problems on our few streets while he was alive. That day, though, after the announcement of his death at the age of 42, our quiet neighborhood was anything but.

The house in which I was raised was seven walking minutes from Graceland, the estate where Elvis made his home for 20 years. In less than 10 minutes (0.30 miles), I could walk from my front yard and be in the front yard of the King of Rock-n-Roll. I never counted the steps, and I dare say, Elvis never did either. Yet, we lived comfortably near each other with only the occasional comment to visiting relatives about our famous acquaintance. His presence, or rather the presence of his house, was hardly noticed in our day-to-day lives, save the few times his peacocks would escape and roost on nearby roofs while making that unmistakable screech. Or when his horses escaped the stable and ran down the street, always followed by a small pack of kids yelling, “Elvis’ horses are out!” Or, in the early days, when he and Priscilla would ride their three-wheeled motorcycle around the neighborhood, followed (again) by a small pack of screaming kids, shouting, “Elvis and Priscilla are on the three-wheeler!” We were nothing if not predictable.

That hot day in August 1977, our neighborhood became the focus for all the world. Hundreds of people seemed to appear within a few hours of the announcement, and by the end of the next day, it was thousands. When the Presley family announced that Elvis would lie in repose on the steps of the mansion to allow the public to view the body and pay their respects, people seemed to appear out of thin air. This public viewing was met with throngs of people descending on our small streets, parking in every available square inch of space and creating a meandering queue of wilted people that snaked around several blocks under the hot Memphis sun.

My mother and our next-door neighbor set lawn chairs in the front yard to watch the spectacle. With cars parked on both sides of our street, we wondered how emergency crews would get through, if needed, with the equivalent of one lane open right down the middle. I think my mother called my father at work and told him to find an alternate route home because of the crazy traffic. When word traveled down the line of waiting fans that authorities would not allow anyone with a camera through the gates and up to the steps where the body lay, some man gave my mother his camera and asked her to watch it until he got back (yes, he came back). The number of head-shaking moments during this historic week not only proved immeasurable, but also proved the questionable acts of people amid their grief.

We met people from all over the country, who had driven all night to come to Graceland. We met people from Japan and England, who flew around the world when they heard the news. We swore that people showed up at Graceland that week to attend the funeral of a man they never met, when they likely would not drive across town to have coffee with their mother. But they came. In droves.

The youngest residents saw a need and an opportunity, hitching up the red wagon and forming a plan. We purchased the pre-sweetened lemonade mix so we didn’t have to measure sugar, and each of us was assigned a task. A couple kids would run back and forth to the store as needed for supplies. Some would provide a delivery service by loading cups into their bike baskets before driving beside the long line of fans. A few others manned the wagon, our headquarters and flagship store. No one flopped in the grass that week, proclaiming their boredom, as was often seen on any other week during a Southern summer.

For several days, the tides of people never seemed to subside. After the funeral, though, at least the long lines of people trailing down our streets had dissipated, leaving only a congregation of devotees hovering around the front gates of Graceland. I think it was less than a month later that a shop opened across the highway, selling Elvis memorabilia. That’s when the vultures arrived.

In short order, the small shopping center across the highway from Graceland became a hotbed of Elvis-centric stores, tour companies, and tourist traps. Eventually, the Presley family purchased the property and incorporated it into the Graceland tour experience. Before long, Elvis’ airplane, the Lisa Marie, was parked across from the mansion, giving fans an opportunity to visit the former member of the Delta Airlines fleet, a Convair 880 Jet, purchased by the singer for his personal transportation.

Today, that section of the highway is besotted with the celebrity of Elvis Presley, but that is not how I wish to remember our neighborhood. I want to remember how we knew he was home because the front gates were closed. If the gates were open, indicating his absence, his uncle Verlin, the long-time gatekeeper, would let you walk about half-way up the driveway to get a good look at the house. That driveway walk was even better in the springtime  when the dogwood trees were in bloom and dotted the drive alternately in pink and white varieties. Halloween was never complete unless you visited the gatehouse of Graceland, where you received the full-sized candy bars, not those fun-sized mini-candies offered by every other house in the neighborhood. One Halloween, we visited Vernon Presley’s home (Elvis’ father) next door to Graceland, catching the housekeeper unprepared for visitors, so she gave us each a Popsicle, pulled from the back of the freezer, and had us sit on the front porch to eat it before it melted. It was the only time I ate candy on Halloween before allowing my parents to inspect it for safety first. Since it was from Vernon Presley’s freezer and eaten on his porch, we figured it would be alright with our parents.

I wonder if Elvis ever wished he could have been a regular guy in our neighborhood, without the small packs of children running and screaming in his wake. I wonder if he ever wished he could stand at the gate and hand out the Halloween candy himself, just to see the funny costumes the kids dreamed up. Perhaps he would have joined in our games of kickball, held in the middle of our street, only interrupted when someone yelled, “Car!” as an indication to move out of the way. Would he have walked along the quiet streets in the early evening, and heard Mr. Cherry singing while mowing his lawn? Perhaps he would have enjoyed a Saturday afternoon chat with the neighbors while tending their yards. I wonder what he would think of the changes in his quiet neighborhood since he left.

My family moved from the neighborhood four years after the events described here, but the stories of my life lived a block-and-a-half away from the King have been fodder for many conversations. I still cannot drink lemonade without even a split-second remembrance of the red wagon enterprise. It was my first job (and third most entertaining one). Maybe we could get the old crew back together and make pitcher for old time’s sake.

Rita Herrmann lives in the Ozark Mountains with her two dogs and Netflix subscription. A lifelong writer, she's learned to draw deep thoughts from the simplest of observations. Through her work on She Wears Red Shoes, she inspires others to be the best version of themselves, even though she often eats too much chocolate. A good road trip with a great playlist is how she rolls. Her core beliefs include dancing spontaneously, singing randomly, laughing often, living simply, and learning to forgive.

10 thoughts on “Elvis Has Left the Building

  1. What a beautiful and unique memory of childhood. Not many can say they trick-or-treated at Elvis’ house or sat and ate a Popsicle on the front porch of his father’s house.

    But, aside from the famous-neighbor factor, it sounds like you and the neighborhood kids were typical youngsters looking for adventure! I love reading stories of childhood adventures, no matter what the source. Thanks for a bit of nostalgia. (I was 14 when Elvis died and remember the day clearly.)

    1. I never realized how unique it was until I moved away. Growing up in Memphis, it was common for people to have an Elvis story. Looking back now, I cherish these little bits of nostalgia and realize how great it was.

  2. Oh, Reeetah! I love all of your stories, but THIS one?? Wow! I was having my own trip down memory lane with my cousin yesterday (via Facebook) about growing up in the late 70s, early 80s…our sweet southern summers. This Elvis story brings it back again. Ryan & I toured Graceland several years ago because I’d always wanted to go. I’m soooo glad I went, but I wasn’t expecting it to be…well, I wouldn’t call it a “religious experience” (because that might make sound cray-cray), but it WAS very solemn and bittersweet. Such talent and spirit lost way too soon.
    So, I just wanted to thank YOU for sharing your own talent and spirit, my friend! You hooked me again with another great one! Keep writing!!!

  3. I have pictures of our street and all the people outside if the gates. It was unbelievable. I wish I had taken more pictures. Hard to believe we were part of history. I still have the commemorative newspaper the two newspaper published.

    1. I wondered if we got pictures of all that. After carrying my newspapers in a plastic sack for 30 years, I gave them to my friend Yvonne, who is a huge Elvis fan. She has gotten much more enjoyment out of them than I ever did. (They never were worth much).

  4. As a kid who grew up across the river from you and Elvis, I LOVE this story and can so relate to it. I remember exactly where I was when I heard of Elvis’ death and even wrote a story about it that appeared in Arkansas Review:) For my entire childhood, I grappled with my bad fortune—why had I been born to my boring parents instead of Elvis and Priscilla? And a trip to Goldsmith was incomplete without a drive by Graceland.

    1. It was a unique experience, growing up in Memphis where Elvis was part of the world there. I never realized how cool it was living one street over from him, until I moved away. As I kid, I thought every celebrity lived in a neighborhood like that. I will have to check out Arkansas Review — Would love to read your story!

  5. That is the most wonderful story!!! I wonder about those same things with someone so famous… as much as I’m sure he loved performing and his musical life, I bet there was a small part of him that wondered about that too – maybe just for brief moments here and there but then they’d probably vanish like a distant fantasy since the thought of a regular life would be too foreign for him to really grasp.
    I want to know what your 1st and 2nd most entertaining jobs have been 🙂 xo

    1. Ha! I like how you picked up on the “third most entertaining” job comment. First, would be my current job of 18 years (working in a bank), and second would be when I worked in a motel years ago — you meet so many interesting people!

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"Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in our own sunshine. "
Ralph Waldo Emerson