We gave the gas station attendant our quarter for the gas he just put in her “hoopie.” By “we,” I mean Wilma and Betty. And, yes, there really was a Wilma and Betty long before the “The Flintstones” came on the scene.
Wilma was my best friend. She graduated from high school in 1953 — two years ahead of me — and worked for one of the banks in town, and I worked for the local school district. The year was 1958. We had our future ahead of us; we drank our Cokes with cherries or peanuts in them, gas was cheap, Elvis was the King, and life was good. A couple of Italians had recently opened a new “juke joint” in our town called a pizza parlor.
Every Sunday night we would meet our friends there after church and pool our monies together hoping to have enough between us to order a couple of large pizzas for $1.99 each.
On this particular day Wilma and I had other plans. After buying the gas we headed for the outskirts of town, specifically to Fort Chaffee. The local newspapers ran stories of Elvis being there for boot camp and we had heard of Elvis sightings in the area, so we went to check it out.
We had devised a plan. My dad worked for the S&S News Agency and frequently serviced the commissary on the base. Our plan was to gain access to the base on the pretext of needing to find him at the commissary. We made it past the guards at the entrance, but as we drove up to the commissary two M.P.’s were waiting to escort us off the base.
Although we didn’t see him that day, we would often fill the car and drive by on Highway 22 just to see if we could catch a glimpse of him going through the daily drills.
After endless trips we heard he had been sent to Fort Bliss, Texas, and that ended our quest. The only time I ever saw Elvis was in concert at the Astrodome when I lived in Houston. It is an understatement to say he was an awesome entertainer.
A few years ago The Mr. and I were surprised with a trip to Memphis where we enjoyed the many sights and sounds of the famous town. One of the sights we were treated to was Graceland. I really expected it to be equal to if not larger than Tara of “Gone With The Wind.”
Elvis was larger than life. Graceland is not. It is non-impressively set back from Elvis Presley Boulevard with trees surrounding it. Across the boulevard sat his two airplanes encompassed by chain link fencing. Also across the street was Lonely Street and at the end of Lonely Street was Heartbreak Hotel. Together these frame a picture of an entertainer who by society standards had it all including the title of the King.
To me the picture is of a man who was insecure, afraid the glory would fade and he would be left all alone. And, if he had his way, would have chosen not to be the King. Regardless, the masses that continue to tour Graceland do so with wonderment.
Today gas is at least 15 times higher and pizza about seven times higher than in 1958. Wilma still lives in our hometown, we still enjoy our Cokes with cherries and peanuts, and we dislike Elvis impersonators because we know in our hearts that when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll Elvis is still the King.
Email Betty Heath at begeheath690@aol.com.
