October 1990. I was in Nashville, and had joined the queue at the Greyhound bus terminal to book a one-way ticket to Memphis. A group of men with long beards, long black coats and wide-brimmed hats were standing talking over against the far wall. Perhaps I was staring at them, for the well-dressed copper-skinned youth behind me said, "They're Amish. They won't hurt you". I laughed.
We started chatting as the queue slowly wended its way towards its destination - the window of the ticket office. He was Apache, and was returning home to Texas from college up in the north-east for a short visit. Apparently, the tribe he belonged to was quite wealthy. He knew that I was English from the first words I spoke to him, and he was very interested to learn about my country because he asked several questions about it.
As we got close to the window the white assistant was serving a smartly dressed black woman, and it came as quite a surprise to me to hear the assistant address her as "ma'am". I suppose in Britain we tend to forget the great strides that had been made in the Deep South towards racial harmony, but I have always believed that music had helped the movement considerably, for that was one area where black and white tastes melded early on. I had also found that "southern hospitality", good manners and friendliness were real here, and not merely the inventions of fiction writers. There was plenty of this in New Orleans and again in Nashville, more so than I had found in Massachusetts and California, where I had previously been.
The next day I boarded the Greyhound bus for Memphis. I didn't think it would take that long because they were close to each other on the map. I just did not realise that 240 miles separated them, and that it would take four hours to complete the journey. Oh, well, I settled down in my seat next to the window, so that I could watch Tennessee go by.
A Mexican sat next to me, and his compadre sat in the seat on the opposite side of the aisle. They began to chat in Spanish. I knew quite a lot of that language, so was intent on attempting to catch parts of their conversation. However, within a few minutes they had changed gear, and for the next four hours all you could hear was the drone of constant rapid-fire Spanish back and forth across the aisle. That was it! Four hours of non-stop machine-gun-style Mexican-dialect Spanish! The only relief from this was when we stopped for ten minutes at Jackson. I was one of the first off that bus! In the meantime I had attempted to concentrate on the Tennessee landscape speeding past us. But that didn't help. The landscape was quite boring - just flat countryside most of the way, that is, viewed from the road. We did go over a river en route, and I remember those wooden shacks that you see on many films. One of them had an actual tree growing through the middle of it, with its branches sprouting out of the roof. Quite a few had black men either sitting on the step or lying in a hammock, playing a guitar and singing along, possibly to a blues song.
Eventually, we arrived at Memphis, and I was in a hurry to get out of the terminus, so that I could turn the corner into Beale Street, and then walk along to Graceland (that's what I thought at the time, anyway). Oh, dear! I could not find my suitcase when the luggage compartment was emptied. I was told that there was a huge amount of luggage on this bus, and that they had passed some on to the next bus, which was due in around a half-hour or so. I thought it was quite strange because I did not see any others waiting around for their luggage. My time at Memphis was limited, for I had to catch the plane to Minneapolis at six that evening, and having to wait for my luggage was something I could have done without. However, I used the waiting time efficiently. I discovered that Beale Street and Graceland were not "just around the corner". In fact, I discovered that I had to make a decision between the two (no contest really). Graceland was a long way away, and from the information that I received the only way to view it and get back to the airport in time was to go by taxi.
My suitcase arrived on the next bus, and I strolled out of the terminus to find two taxis waiting. My driver was a marvellous old (partially deaf) black man. He was great! Like probably 150% of inhabitants of Memphis he knew Elvis when he was a lad (when he used to visit the black clubs, so he said). He showed me the hospital where Elvis died, and where he was first buried, and then took me to the airport, so that I could offload my suitcase (and while he waited he stopped the meter!). I had to laugh when he said that he loved Maggie Thatcher (She was still our Prime Minister at that time - just about) because she "whupped those Argentinians".
When we came to a stop at lights at a crossroads my driver asked me the name of the road that crossed ours. Generally, the names of the streets were on a signpost on the corner, but there was no indication of the name of the road that he had queried. When I asked him where the name was he pointed upwards - and there, dangling from a wire high above the traffic was the legend "Elvis Presley Boulevard". He said that it used to cost Memphis Corporation thousands upon thousands of dollars each year replacing the road signs after fans continually stole them as souvenirs!
Eventually, we arrived at Graceland (well, we could only park on the opposite side of the road), and I thanked him and gave him a well-rewarded large tip (and he beamed, saying that he will pick me up when I've finished if I want). I said that I'll manage, and he went happily on his way. He was certainly a great amabassador for Memphis, but I wonder if he really knew Elvis. I expect most of the older members of the community will likely profess to know him when he was younger.
Graceland was certainly well worth the visit. I was amazed to find that the house was much smaller than I had imagined, but then had to remember that it was actually meant to be a family residence and not some symbol of the King's vast wealth. While in the Garden of Remembrance I quietly thanked him for the pleasure that his music had brought to millions. Yet, the trophies room, containing so many gold and platinum discs, is indeed one of the most amazing sights. I had already seen some of Elvis' gold record awards at Nashville (Country Music Hall of Fame and RCA Studio B). When I questioned a member of staff about the number of gold discs that had been awarded to him, the reply was that they lost count after 250! All too soon I had to leave to catch my flight.
If you want to know something about my area - Hampshire in England - why don't you visit my website at www.thechangingseasons.com
We started chatting as the queue slowly wended its way towards its destination - the window of the ticket office. He was Apache, and was returning home to Texas from college up in the north-east for a short visit. Apparently, the tribe he belonged to was quite wealthy. He knew that I was English from the first words I spoke to him, and he was very interested to learn about my country because he asked several questions about it.
As we got close to the window the white assistant was serving a smartly dressed black woman, and it came as quite a surprise to me to hear the assistant address her as "ma'am". I suppose in Britain we tend to forget the great strides that had been made in the Deep South towards racial harmony, but I have always believed that music had helped the movement considerably, for that was one area where black and white tastes melded early on. I had also found that "southern hospitality", good manners and friendliness were real here, and not merely the inventions of fiction writers. There was plenty of this in New Orleans and again in Nashville, more so than I had found in Massachusetts and California, where I had previously been.
The next day I boarded the Greyhound bus for Memphis. I didn't think it would take that long because they were close to each other on the map. I just did not realise that 240 miles separated them, and that it would take four hours to complete the journey. Oh, well, I settled down in my seat next to the window, so that I could watch Tennessee go by.
A Mexican sat next to me, and his compadre sat in the seat on the opposite side of the aisle. They began to chat in Spanish. I knew quite a lot of that language, so was intent on attempting to catch parts of their conversation. However, within a few minutes they had changed gear, and for the next four hours all you could hear was the drone of constant rapid-fire Spanish back and forth across the aisle. That was it! Four hours of non-stop machine-gun-style Mexican-dialect Spanish! The only relief from this was when we stopped for ten minutes at Jackson. I was one of the first off that bus! In the meantime I had attempted to concentrate on the Tennessee landscape speeding past us. But that didn't help. The landscape was quite boring - just flat countryside most of the way, that is, viewed from the road. We did go over a river en route, and I remember those wooden shacks that you see on many films. One of them had an actual tree growing through the middle of it, with its branches sprouting out of the roof. Quite a few had black men either sitting on the step or lying in a hammock, playing a guitar and singing along, possibly to a blues song.
Eventually, we arrived at Memphis, and I was in a hurry to get out of the terminus, so that I could turn the corner into Beale Street, and then walk along to Graceland (that's what I thought at the time, anyway). Oh, dear! I could not find my suitcase when the luggage compartment was emptied. I was told that there was a huge amount of luggage on this bus, and that they had passed some on to the next bus, which was due in around a half-hour or so. I thought it was quite strange because I did not see any others waiting around for their luggage. My time at Memphis was limited, for I had to catch the plane to Minneapolis at six that evening, and having to wait for my luggage was something I could have done without. However, I used the waiting time efficiently. I discovered that Beale Street and Graceland were not "just around the corner". In fact, I discovered that I had to make a decision between the two (no contest really). Graceland was a long way away, and from the information that I received the only way to view it and get back to the airport in time was to go by taxi.
My suitcase arrived on the next bus, and I strolled out of the terminus to find two taxis waiting. My driver was a marvellous old (partially deaf) black man. He was great! Like probably 150% of inhabitants of Memphis he knew Elvis when he was a lad (when he used to visit the black clubs, so he said). He showed me the hospital where Elvis died, and where he was first buried, and then took me to the airport, so that I could offload my suitcase (and while he waited he stopped the meter!). I had to laugh when he said that he loved Maggie Thatcher (She was still our Prime Minister at that time - just about) because she "whupped those Argentinians".
When we came to a stop at lights at a crossroads my driver asked me the name of the road that crossed ours. Generally, the names of the streets were on a signpost on the corner, but there was no indication of the name of the road that he had queried. When I asked him where the name was he pointed upwards - and there, dangling from a wire high above the traffic was the legend "Elvis Presley Boulevard". He said that it used to cost Memphis Corporation thousands upon thousands of dollars each year replacing the road signs after fans continually stole them as souvenirs!
Eventually, we arrived at Graceland (well, we could only park on the opposite side of the road), and I thanked him and gave him a well-rewarded large tip (and he beamed, saying that he will pick me up when I've finished if I want). I said that I'll manage, and he went happily on his way. He was certainly a great amabassador for Memphis, but I wonder if he really knew Elvis. I expect most of the older members of the community will likely profess to know him when he was younger.
Graceland was certainly well worth the visit. I was amazed to find that the house was much smaller than I had imagined, but then had to remember that it was actually meant to be a family residence and not some symbol of the King's vast wealth. While in the Garden of Remembrance I quietly thanked him for the pleasure that his music had brought to millions. Yet, the trophies room, containing so many gold and platinum discs, is indeed one of the most amazing sights. I had already seen some of Elvis' gold record awards at Nashville (Country Music Hall of Fame and RCA Studio B). When I questioned a member of staff about the number of gold discs that had been awarded to him, the reply was that they lost count after 250! All too soon I had to leave to catch my flight.
If you want to know something about my area - Hampshire in England - why don't you visit my website at www.thechangingseasons.com
posted by kensma | 10:17 AM
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