Yeah, I know, most of you weren't born yet.
I, however, was alive and kicking, living and working at the pub in the Ashley Park Hotel in Walton-on-Thames, England. I'd just finished my stint at Exeter College, Oxford, and wasn't ready to return to everyday life in Atlanta, Georgia, and my work at a little television station called WTCG-TV.
As I came downstairs the morning of August 16, the hotel manager and his wife, plus a couple of others, were standing solemnly at the bottom. Even after 30 years I can see the group looking up at me as I walked down the stairs. The memory is still so clear in my mind:
Dougie turned to June and said, "Do you think we should tell her now?"
"Tell me what?"
A little hesitation as they looked at each other. "Well, you should know that Elvis Presley is dead."
"Really? Hm." And I continued on to the kitchen to get my breakfast.
The group followed behind me. "We thought you'd be upset about this news!" said one.
"Um. No, I mean it's sad and I like his music, but I'm not a big rock-and-roll star fan of anybody's so, no. I'm not torn up about it."
And that was the end of it, really (certainly the end of it for The King). Sure, the pub was full of talk about how it happened and wasn't he young and so forth. So, though I never shed a tear over Elvis, I do remember where I was when I heard about his death, and how disappointed the folks were that I didn't fling myself down the stairs, weeping madly. I've always found it interesting that they thought I'd be upset about it. Was it because I was American? Not sure.
Now, I can conjure up a few tears when I hear "Can't Help Falling In Love," or when I hear his songs that bring back memories of those early "Hound Dog," "Teddy Bear," Don't Be Cruel" childhood years. But his death just didn't impact my life - certainly not the way Doug and June thought it would on that August day in 1977. (Elvis sure was purdy when he was young, though. I'll give 'im that.)
I, however, was alive and kicking, living and working at the pub in the Ashley Park Hotel in Walton-on-Thames, England. I'd just finished my stint at Exeter College, Oxford, and wasn't ready to return to everyday life in Atlanta, Georgia, and my work at a little television station called WTCG-TV.
As I came downstairs the morning of August 16, the hotel manager and his wife, plus a couple of others, were standing solemnly at the bottom. Even after 30 years I can see the group looking up at me as I walked down the stairs. The memory is still so clear in my mind:
Dougie turned to June and said, "Do you think we should tell her now?"
"Tell me what?"
A little hesitation as they looked at each other. "Well, you should know that Elvis Presley is dead."
"Really? Hm." And I continued on to the kitchen to get my breakfast.
The group followed behind me. "We thought you'd be upset about this news!" said one.
"Um. No, I mean it's sad and I like his music, but I'm not a big rock-and-roll star fan of anybody's so, no. I'm not torn up about it."
And that was the end of it, really (certainly the end of it for The King). Sure, the pub was full of talk about how it happened and wasn't he young and so forth. So, though I never shed a tear over Elvis, I do remember where I was when I heard about his death, and how disappointed the folks were that I didn't fling myself down the stairs, weeping madly. I've always found it interesting that they thought I'd be upset about it. Was it because I was American? Not sure.
Now, I can conjure up a few tears when I hear "Can't Help Falling In Love," or when I hear his songs that bring back memories of those early "Hound Dog," "Teddy Bear," Don't Be Cruel" childhood years. But his death just didn't impact my life - certainly not the way Doug and June thought it would on that August day in 1977. (Elvis sure was purdy when he was young, though. I'll give 'im that.)
.jpg)
0 Yorumlar