We all will be received in Graceland

I found myself on a backroad headed toward Memphis when the Paul Simon song “Graceland” popped into my head. If you’re not familiar, it’s an infinitely catchy song with a chorus that echos through your mind hours after it ends. I was on a road trip from Texas to New York, but I’d taken a wrong turn in Shreveport and was headed north toward Interstate 40.

I was lost. But it was beautiful country.

Why not go to Graceland?

At a gas station in nowhere Arkansas I pulled up a map and set a route to the giant Bass Pro Shop pyramid in Memphis. I decided to find the dirtiest barbecue joint in town and spend the night. I’m not an Elvis fan, but I felt compelled to see the king’s final resting place. The spirit had entered me.

Everybody sees you’re blown apart….

It was supposed to be a liberating road trip. A celebration. I’d just published a book I’d been working on for nearly 20 years.

The first readers were starting to reach out with feedback. It was humbling, terrifying, and gratifying.

This trip was supposed to clear my mind. Reset the creative engine. Wash away the years of grief I’d been carrying in the pages of that book.

“Why do you want to drive up here? Just take a flight.” My partner, Tom, was trying to be helpful. He tried to talk me out of this trip before I left.

“It’s going to clear my head! I love a road trip,” I laughed from my safe little space in Texas.

He was unconvinced. “Just book a flight. The drive is too long.”

“I’ve done it before!” I sounded like a child, and I knew it. When I get an idea in my head I’m convinced I know best. Convinced I’ll make a go of anything.

After 15 years, he knows me well enough to say, “Okay. Suit yourself.”

We both knew I’d call him crying at some point. But I was undeterred.

I made my way to Memphis and ordered a bag full of barbecue from a sketchy storefront in an industrial area. I drove along the Trail of Tears, which felt appropriate, and found a place to stay down the street from Graceland. Everyone at the hotel front desk had the flu.

“You want to book a ride to Graceland for the morning?” The lady coughed, “It’s free.”

“No, I’ll drive.”

She handed me a keycard. “Enjoy your stay, honey. Breakfast starts at 6.”

The next morning I was up before dawn, checked email, and packed my gear back into the car. Graceland opened at 9 and I’d bought a ticket online for the first tour. I wanted to be back on the road by noon.

Pulling into the front gate, there were only a few cars in the massive parking lot. It reminded me of visiting Disneyland as a child. Endless rows of parking spaces. I wondered how full this place would be by lunch. RVs were parked in the distance, probably filled with sleeping visitors. I snapped a photo of the entrance and sent it to Tom.

He replied: I can’t believe you went to Graceland without me.

Unlike me, he is a huge Elvis fan.

I’m prescreening it for you.

I boarded the Graceland shuttle to the mansion with butterflies in my stomach. In front of me, a couple was dressed in gold lame with big gold Elvis sunglasses. They were giddy and snapping selfies together. The rest of the shuttle was filled with old timers and middle aged couples flipping through guidebooks. I got excited. A refrain played in my mind: Poor boys and pilgrims with families and we are going to Graceland.

I laughed. There was no reason for me to be at Graceland. I put on the headphones for the audio guided tour. The voice of John Stamos welcomed me aboard. I had that nervous energy feeling of strapping into a roller coaster.

Entering the house was like walking downhill into darkness. If you’ve never toured it, there’s almost no way to describe the energy of that space. You start in the pure white living room and climb down to the dark caverns of the basement. Maybe the energy comes from the thousands of people who have walked those halls. The hundreds and hundreds of hands that touched those walls.

Whatever the reason, the house had an energy you could feel.

I was in a line of people, all of us whispering to each other as we wove our way through the dark green and brown kitchen and down the mirrored stairs to the basement. Through the bright yellow lounge and the upholstered pool table room. The whole tour, the late Lisa Marie Presley’s voice played on the tour headphones. She told stories of growing up in that house.

All I could think about is the fact she’s dead and buried in the backyard now. Her voice was giving us a tour that ended at her grave. That seemed weird, but maybe I was reading too much into it.

As we made our way through the house and the outbuildings, I started to feel the sadness of this broken family. It was like the family’s pain was seeping into me from the walls. There was a room dedicated to Elvis’s twin brother who died at birth. His parents. They had so much tragedy. I felt more and more sad for him the more I learned about his life.

Well, this was unexpected. This was supposed to be a lark.

Before I got to the garden where Elvis and his parents are buried next to Lisa Marie and her son, I stood by the horse pen and called Tom.

“This place feels weird,” I said.

“That’s what happens when you go without me.”

“Ha ha, I’m serious. The energy is heavy. I feel terrible.”

“He was the greatest entertainer for a reason. Millions of people have gone there. Think how many people have stood where you are right now—it leaves an imprint.”

“It’s weird. People are crying,” I whispered. There was a woman crying near me.

“That’s what you get for going without me,” he laughed. “You’re overthinking it; lighten up. I’m jealous you’re at the king’s house.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I looked over to the memorial garden. “I’m going to see the graves. Bye.”

Poor Elvis. Poor Lisa Marie.

I stood in a line that snaked around the family plot. We all moved slowly around the water feature at the center of the garden. I didn’t expect to feel such sadness for people I’d never met.

I share a birthday with Lisa Marie. Somehow I’d always known that. From childhood I felt a kinship to her despite not being a Presley fan.

I am also the only child of a tragic man who died too young. It had never occurred to me until I stood at her grave that we had that in common, too. Maybe what I felt was my own sadness, my sadness for a father who was lost to me, too.

I’ve reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland.