Why I love Elvis

I love Elvis Presley, the white jumpsuit one. The Vegas 70’s guy. For my mother’s 40th birthday we bought her a K-tel compilation album of Elvis’ greatest hits. There he stood. Mid-pose, sparkles galore, on a royal blue background. I always believed he was singing “Big Hunk O’Love” in that picture.

Why do I love Elvis? Because my mother loved Elvis. He made her happy. She loved his soft voice, she said. The “Love Me Tender” voice. {Side bar: my father disliked Elvis. Turns out that before Elvis became the king he was “just” a truck driver. My father took issue with the “just” portion of this sentence as he spent most of his life around trucks and mechanics and to him it was more than “just” truck driving} Together my mother and I watched Elvis movies, read his biographies, played his music. Elvis solidified a relationship that was already rock solid.

I love Elvis because he was everything comfortable and handsome, a Southern gentleman with huge triangular side burns (Dad you replicated those side burns, don’t deny it). Who wouldn’t want to hear you’re fantastic, be called a lady, and be thanked profusely (“thank you very much ladies and gentlemen, you’re a fantastic audience”) over and over again? Me please! If you listen to his live performances repeatedly, as I do, you begin to believe you are fantastic and a lady, someone to be respected. And there’s nothing wrong with that. No sir, ma’am!

Elvis is a sweetheart of a memory, a beautiful smile with amazing cheekbones. His presence in my life is still one of comfort. Recently my daughter and I suffered a great loss. One of my earliest coping mechanisms was to dig out some Elvis tunes. That smooth, consoling voice of a man, who brought nothing but goodness to my life, has helped me through some pretty dark times these past months.