I was 5 when Elvis died. I was in bed, and I could hear Walter Cronkite on the television down the hall in our green and white doublewide out on the farm (which wasn't actually a farm, but my dad always called it that because it was in BFE and we had a horse).
I was too little to understand that celebrities were these unreachable superstars that fans rarely, if ever, get to meet, and because I heard my dad talk about Elvis all the time, and because his music was in our house all the time, I thought Elvis Presley and my dad were friends. I thought the same thing about my Aunt Jeanne and Karen Carpenter. When I overheard my 2nd grade teacher talking to another teacher in the hall about how sad it was to hear about "that poor Karen Carpenter", I butted in and said, "Isn't it, though? So tragic. She was a friend of my Auntie's, you know." I was 8.
Those ladies probably knew before I did what a drama queen I would turn out to be.
Today marks the 35th anniversary of the day Elvis Presley died. My friend Eric posted this on Facebook, and although it might be a bitter pill to swallow, it’s the best summarization I’ve read about the unfortunate demise of such an incredible icon.
Whether you agree with him or not, I thought I would share it.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
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