But growing up wasn’t all bad. When Mama was not on a tirade, she was quite kindhearted. She taught me many valuable lessons, the most important being about a parent’s unconditional love for their child. My parents gave me that glorious gift, devoting their hearts, souls, and lives to my brother, Sam, and me. I believe they did the best they could under the circumstances.
Along with all of her shortcomings, my mother was beautiful, bright, talented, and had a wonderful sense of humor, but she seldom got to let any of those attributes fully flower. With a rich, alto voice that could sing any harmony, she seemed at her best and happiest when she was singing or playing piano. She was also incredibly kind toward animals, instructing me early on that animals were “at the mercy of the world.” I’m sure my animal advocacy began early and that I was influenced by her tender teachings. Of course, even my mama thought I sometimes went too far. I rescued every creature I could, from a cat I named Tabby, who was eventually hit by a car, necessitating a proper funeral, to a broken-winged bird I nursed with a Popsicle stick splint.
“What are you dragging into this house now, for God’s sake?” she used to say.
Her speech was peppered with colloquialisms like “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” but she was never hesitant to throw in a fairly generous dose of expletives as well. She was all Southern lady, with every contradiction, complexity, and fascination that term embodies.
Beyond my parents, my family was large and Southern in many senses of the word. I called my mother’s mother Ninny, and her father, Pappaw, and together with them, Mama and Daddy, aunts, uncles, and cousins … thirteen of us grandchildren, we all got together at Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and other holidays. It was usually a potluck affair with everyone bringing a covered dish. There was always singing. We gathered in a circle and sang hymns mostly. My aunts would blend together in perfect harmonies, and we would earnestly emote until we all collapsed in laughter over some silly moment. There was great kinship, closeness, kindness, music, laughter, and deep love shared by my family in those formative years of mine.
In many ways, mine was a fairly typical childhood in the South. As a little girl growing up in Memphis, I loved it when my daddy took me on Saturdays to the Strand theater, where they showed Elvis movies. I grew up on those movies, and they colored my notions of romance, music, and cinema. My best friend as a little girl was a pretty blond girl named Teresa, who lived across the street from me on Queensbury Circle. Sometimes she and I rode the bus downtown to go see a movie and have our photos taken at Blue Light Studios.
Though I was young, I was aware from an early age of the problems facing the South. There was, and still is today to a degree, a pathos indigenous to “Dixie,” and the poverty and the prejudice that were woven into its history. I remember as a very young child going to a park with Mama and Daddy and wanting a drink of water. I headed toward a water fountain but Mama stopped me.
“Not that one, honey …” she said. “You have to drink from this one that says ‘Whites Only.’ ”
“Why?!” I asked. “Why can’t I just drink water from this one, Mama?”
I wanted to know. Mama was at a real loss for an explanation because the very heart of the concept was so ridiculous.
“I don’t know why, to tell you the truth, hon,” she stammered. “That’s just the way it is, and I don’t want anybody giving us any trouble over a drink of water today.”
I often heard my mother speak of the plight of blacks striving for equality, and she and my father both were sympathetic to the struggle. I remember that occasion vividly because I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. People are just people and water is just water, I thought. It didn’t make sense to me then, and makes even less today.
When I was nine, I was baptized at Graham Heights Baptist Church. I always felt that God’s gift to me when I was baptized was to anoint me with the ability to write poetry. I started writing poetry when I was nine years old, and wrote fairly prolifically for birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, special occasions, and just to express myself and my feelings. It never occurred to me that I would one day make a good living at writing lyrics for songs. I would then, and will still now, write purely for my own self-expression without any commercial consideration (though those royalty checks are nice).
We grew up believing that cleanliness is next to godliness, and that our bodies are our temples and we have a responsibility to take care of our health and well-being. My mama also always made a point to instill in me the belief that being poor is nothing to be ashamed of, that you should always carry yourself with dignity and pride no matter your circumstance in life. There are certain things that one can help and things that one cannot help. Regarding those things of which we have no control, we should never have to apologize or be embarrassed.
More than anything, these early years shaped me into the woman with whom Elvis Presley would fall in love. To Elvis, all of these aspects of my Southern upbringing—from my family to my church to the aphorisms I heard—were familiar. Growing up in the South with poor but protective parents, experiencing Southern culture, the religious fervor, the familial ties, and hearing and dancing to the music that emanated from that region, those are all ingredients that my life shared with Elvis’s. Elvis and I would often discuss how similarly our parents were raised, and how they raised us. Even our deeply idiosyncratic mothers seemed to share the same temperament. Elvis’s mother was very much like mine, according to him: fiercely protective, undisciplined in her temper, inordinately affectionate, and loyal.
Elvis told me stories of when he was a little boy in Tupelo, Mississippi. Elvis’s mother, Gladys Love Presley, doted on her only child. Elvis absolutely adored her. When speaking about her even years after her own untimely death at forty-six years of age, he grew teary-eyed and wistful. He was the ultimate mama’s boy, in the very best sense of the term. He slept in the same bed as his mama and daddy until he was nine years old, he said. He grew up in the Pentacostal Church, where he said he’d run down the aisles singing “Adawoochie” because he was too little to pronounce “Hallelujah.” He “got saved” while he and his family were living in a predominantly black neighborhood, according to him. Elvis said he was suddenly “filled with the Holy Spirit,” inspiring him to gather his most treasured possessions, his comic book collection, run out into the streets, and give away these cherished comics to the neighborhood kids. In that moment of religious-fervor-fueled giving, Elvis’s legendary spirit of generosity was born.
I believe it was there and then in the heart of the Delta, in the loving arms of his mother, with an acute sense of God, humanity, and humility, electrified with black gospel choirs singing traditional hymns in an untraditional way, that Elvis Presley developed such a huge capacity to feel for others, and to channel his God-given gift of song for the world to enjoy.
Elvis’s father, Vernon Presley, told me that when Elvis was born on January 8, 1935, in a little “shotgun” house in Tupelo, he had an identical twin, Jessie Garon, who was stillborn. Mr. Presley said he always felt that Jessie Garon’s soul became a part of Elvis’s being, doubling his capability, charisma, and talents. He felt that perhaps Jessie’s influence was even the reason for Elvis’s paradoxical, dichotomous nature.
Mr. Presley went on to say that in that little nondescript house where legend was born, there were two identical glass bottles sitting decoratively, side by side, on a shelf. When the twins were born, as Elvis cried, and Jessie Garon lay still, one of those bottles inexplicably, spontaneously burst. Mr. Presley told me that he always perceived that as a sign from the heavens that one baby was destined to live for two, to survive to do great things. He felt there was a mystical quality to Elvis’s very birth. In both mine and Elvis’s families, there were convictions held that not everything in life has or needs an explanation. I believe that’s called faith. Faith would always play a big part in my life and in Elvis’s life.
In the end, all these similarities
spoke to things Elvis loved in a woman and helped to make us feel as if we knew each other before we met. We were kindred spirits, sharing very much the same backstory and understanding each other’s deepest thoughts.
It wasn’t until junior high that I realized boys were paying more attention to me than they used to. I’d really never worn much makeup and had dressed fairly simply since we had no extra money for exceptional clothing. I always did take pride, however, in good grooming habits—my mother and I would sit at the kitchen table some evenings and do our nails together. But still, I was surprised when some of the boys in junior high nicknamed me “Hot Body.” I must not have been very self-aware, because I had no idea that my body was changing shape into something that might be appealing to the opposite sex. I was embarrassed by the nickname, and yet strangely pleased.
I carved out a happy and memorable junior high and high school experience for myself. I made decent grades, had a lot of friends, and always seemed to have a boyfriend. I was one of those Goody Two-shoes who never smoked or drank, never did drugs, or had sex. Interestingly enough, even with all those self-imposed prohibitions, I still managed to accumulate a lot of friends, and be accepted into the “popular crowd.” I was voted by my classmates Most Hilarious, Campus Leader, and even Homecoming Queen. I was also lucky enough to find a teacher, Nancy Crick, who continued to inspire my writing and develop my deep love of the English language and literature, and a fascination for words in general.
My senior year, I decided to crank it up a bit and made straight As, bringing up my grade point average enough for college. Even though I honestly felt I would be married with children before I ever finished a degree, my daddy made me promise I would go to college, convincing me to hold off on marriage until I gave college a try. At the time, I had been dating a high school football star who was going on to Arkansas State College in Jonesboro, and I planned to marry him and traipse along with him. We had an engagement ring on layaway—yes, layaway—but I called it off to follow my father’s wishes.
I lived at home with my parents and commuted to Memphis State University, where I studied for four years, majoring in English and theater. I loved learning, growing, meeting new people, and feeling a sense of accomplishment, but, of course, I had to work to pay my own tuition and to have spending money. In fact, from the time I was fourteen, I worked various jobs ranging from hair styling for neighbors, to babysitting, to handling claims at the Tennessee Department of Employment Security Claims Division.
Around the time that I began at Memphis State, when I was eighteen, I was recruited by the organizers of a pageant that was a precursor to the Miss Tennessee America pageant. I was asked to enter the Miss Shelby County pageant. I guess many of the pageant organizers at that time would peruse high school beauty queens and solicit their entry into pageants. Preliminary pageants leading up to Miss America involved a swimsuit competition, evening gown competition, and talent competition. I remember wondering what I would wear for the evening gown competition in the Shelby County pageant that year. My mother and I went out shopping and found a lovely white lace evening gown for less than thirty dollars. I went on to win the evening gown competition as well as Miss Congeniality and the title of Miss Shelby County. I felt I was onto something.
Around that same time I also won the title of Miss MidSouth. That was a particularly fun pageant to have won because it meant I was queen of the MidSouth Fair. As such, I got to go to the fairgrounds every day while the fair was going on, ride all the rides I wanted, and make appearances, but I also won a thousand-dollar wardrobe, luggage, and a small scholarship for school. I then won another scholarship by winning the pageant for the West Tennessee Okra Festival, a preliminary pageant that qualified me for Miss Tennessee America. Yes, I was onto something. This “pageant thing” could be a pretty good deal for a young girl looking to get ahead in life, as well as a ticket out of Memphis.
In the late 1960s and into the early ’70s, there wasn’t the stigma attached to the world of beauty pageants that we have now—if there was, I wasn’t aware of it in my sheltered world. I did, however, find myself somewhat apologetic for being so successful in that arena. I continued my “career” of beauty pageant wins throughout my college years. One year, in fact, I held seven concurrent titles. I never thought I was the prettiest, smartest, or most outstanding contestant at any of the pageants I was in, but pageants represented opportunities on many levels, so I made the most out of them. I was personally awarded thousands of dollars in scholarship money, which I used to put myself through college. I won the use of a Pontiac Grand Prix for a year, and drove it to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with five friends for spring break that year. I wore new clothes on the trip I had also won. I packed those new clothes in my new luggage, also bounty from the win. As Miss Liberty Bowl, I won a brand-new Chevrolet Vega that I eventually drove up to my new life at Graceland, where a bemused and smitten Elvis Presley goaded me about driving a Vega, handing me the keys to a new Continental Mark IV. I got to meet famous people like Bob Hope, Danny Thomas, and others. Yes, those pageants paid off handsomely.
I also met some lovely women in the various pageants in which I competed; some were incredibly talented, and some phenomenally gorgeous. Some were career pageant girls—one girl had entered more than ninety beauty contests and never won. Finally, one year, she was crowned Miss Fire Prevention, and it happened to be the same year she set a fireman’s shirt ablaze while gesticulating and smoking a cigarette. Thankfully no firemen or beauty queens were actually harmed in the process. You can’t make that up.
I didn’t just win Miss Tennessee Universe. I also made a lifelong friend in the form of Tennessee pageant director Pat Kerr, a former Miss Tennessee Universe, who helped me with my wardrobe and confidence. I then went on to San Juan, Puerto Rico, to compete in the Miss USA pageant as Miss Tennessee Universe 1972. Each girl was assigned a roommate and mine was a busty, bawdy girl named Jeanne LeMay, representing Rhode Island. Jeanne liked to declare that she was from the smallest state but had the biggest boobs of any girl that year. And she did. She also had a darling, chatty, funny, profane personality and we became fast friends. We had so much fun together, and bonded so well, we couldn’t care less about winning the pageant.
In the end, Miss Hawaii won the title of Miss USA that year. Jeanne and I booked a hotel room for the next two weeks, and we stayed on in Puerto Rico to extend our time together and vacation on that balmy island.
By the time I finished my pageant career I had accumulated about a dozen crowns and titles and participated in close to twenty contests. I had memorized more show tunes than I care to recall. I felt I was walking away a winner as I got closer to a hot summer July night that would change my life forever.
“God Bless the Heartaches”
Many times in a lifetime
A heart knows despair
And you wonder why some souls must bleed
And sometimes I question just who would be there
In my last hour of need
Life can be so uncertain
With pain all around
And heartache is so hard to face
For everything lost there’s another found
And love seeks its own sacred space
God bless the heartaches
That reshape the soul in return
God keep our memories
God bless the lessons we learn
It is out of the shadows
We find warm sunlight
And we wouldn’t know joy without sorrow
And there’d be no morning without the darkest night
That’s just how life seems to go
So God bless the heartaches
That reshape the soul in return
God keep our memories
God bless the lessons we learn
So God bless the heartaches
That reshape the soul in return
God keep our memories
God bless the heartaches
God bless the
tough breaks
God bless the lessons we learn
LYRIC: LINDA THOMPSON
Chapter Three
Love at First Sight
I’ve had more than a few days that changed my life forever, but none more than July 6, 1972. Not that I knew it at the time, of course. That’s the thing about life-changing events—they have a way of appearing out of nowhere to alter your destiny.
On this sweltering summer day, I was walking down Madison Avenue in midtown Memphis with Miss Rhode Island, Jeanne LeMay, who, following our time in Puerto Rico, had moved to Memphis a few weeks earlier and started living with me at my aunt Betty Sue’s house. I was a twenty-two-year-old theater and English major at Memphis State. I’d acted in some plays at school, and my dream was to move to Los Angeles and have a variety show like The Carol Burnett Show, with sketches, music, and musical comedy. Jeanne and I had talked about moving to New York so we could model and earn money being stewardesses for Eastern Airlines, which was based there. I guess you could say that was our Plan B, until we were able to facilitate our move to L.A. Regardless of L.A. or New York, I knew it would be up to me to make my way in the world, but I felt like I was on the right path. And having Jeanne, an upbeat friend who brought out the best in me, at my side was definitely one of the reasons.
“I’m hungry,” Jeanne said. “There’s a T.G.I. Friday’s. Let’s go eat.”
“Oh, we can’t go in there,” I said.
“Why not?” she said.
“We can’t go in there as unescorted ladies, because they serve alcohol in that establishment, and we’ll look like pickups,” I said, in full-on Southern Baptist mode.
“Put down your Bible and come on,” she said, pushing through the door.
“What are you doing?” I asked, nervously, but just a step behind her.
A Little Thing Called Life Page 3