Saving Elvis - Cindy Miller 2/19/19
August 16, 1977. That was the day I was finally going to climb my Everest! So what, I was only 10 years old and the baby of the family, but I was smart and I had a plan!
Few things brought me greater joy than the attention of my father. In my eyes, he was a giant of a man and I watched him doing so many things with my older sister and brother - from building go-carts, fishing, stock car racing, to tobogganing down the biggest hill in the county. Although I was only a year and nine days younger than my sister, I always felt so much younger. I was treated younger. If all three of us kids had a cold in the winter, I was the only one made to stay in and watch all their fun from inside the house. Running from room to room, looking out all the windows so I could track their movements, I felt sad and almost "fragile". Was I a sick child? Did I have a disease I hadn't been told about? I really didn't think so, although there was a clear possibility I was adopted according to my older brother.
But today was the day! I had created a foolproof plan to get my way. I didn't think it would be too much to ask, but I had to set it up perfectly. My mother owned her own beauty shop which was in our home. The smells of shampoo and permanent wave solution were a staple in our home. I would spend time with my mom's "ladies" as she called them, because they thought I was cute and precocious. And I didn't have all my big teeth yet.
Everything was falling into place as I implemented my covert operation, spying on my brother and sister, gathering intelligence to report to my mother as she worked tirelessly rolling perm rods and backcombing shampoo sets.
You see, it was my job as the baby to make sure my mother and father knew about all the naughty things my brother, 4 years my senior, and my sister, just a year and 9 days older, were up to. Today they were making it so easy for me, so I just knew the answer to my question would be yes by the end of the afternoon.
I sat quietly coloring, one eye on the page and the other on my siblings. Suddenly, I had my first round of ammunition. Shelly, my sister, had taken her knuckle and pounded it into my brother, Scott's shoulder repeatedly. I didn't realize they were playing, "How much can you take", so I quietly slunk into the beauty shop and announced as though a royal baby had just been born, "Mom! Shelly won't stop hitting Scott!!!"
Mom scowled without looking up from her "Lady's" hair and retorted, "Tell Shelly to come in here."
I proudly walked back into the living room and tapped Shelly on the shoulder and said, "Mom wants you."
"For what?" she asked, obviously annoyed by my very presence.
Fibbing slightly, I replied, "How should I know?"
Without a clear reason, Shelly walked into the living room and returned, staring angrily at me and shouted, "TATTLE TALE!" My brother and sister often compared me to Cindy Brady, with my adorable blond pigtails, lisp and an affinity for tattletaling. I never knew if it was an insult or not, so I smiled and said, "Mom says you're not supposed to hit."!
Twenty minutes later, by luck, I saw my brother eat two ice cream bars and drink an entire glass bottle of RC Cola. In our house, we were never allowed to do that. One ice cream bar, after receiving permission, and HALF a bottle of soda were the rules. We always shared a bottle of RC - one would have half poured into a cup and the lucky one (never me), got to drink the rest straight from the bottle, just like in the commercials! Ah-Ha! I had him dead to rights!
Marching in to the beauty shop for at least a second time that day, I was ready to drop my last bit of information before asking my question. "Mom," I began.
"What Cindy? What now? You have been in and out of the beauty shop all day, tattling on your brother and sister. So what have they done now?"
She was titillated and on the edge of her seat, ready for my new report. "Scott ate two ice cream bars and drank a whole bottle of soda!!!" I proclaimed it quickly before she interrupted me again.
This time she rolled her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. She was mad as heck at my siblings, I just knew it! But instead she retorted, "Why don't you go outside and play?"
Now was my chance... the moment I'd been waiting for. Surely all this build up of reporting the wrongdoings of my sister and brother would be rewarded with what I wanted most... and I was ready to ask. With confidence, I pushed out my chest, stood as tall as I could and asked in the deepest voice I could, "Mom, can I walk uptown to Dad's barbershop and ride home with him on his motorcycle?" There. It was out there. I waited with baited breath, pleading with the gods above to give me this opportunity; the same opportunity and privilege Scott and Shelly had been rewarded with more times than I could count.
One second went by, and another and another and another until finally, my mom looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, sighed deeply again and said those THREE MAGIC WORDS - "I. Don't. Care."
That was the big one! I had done it! I had carefully carved out my own independence. Proud of my work, and wanting to rub it in just a little, I returned to the living room where my brother and sister were playing knee football and announced, "I will be leaving now. I am walking UPTOWN to Dad's Barbershop!"
I just knew how jealous they would be. Of course they would downplay it so as to make me believe they didn't care, oh but I knew they did. Scott spoke first, "Big deal." followed by Shelly, "Ya, big deal ya tattle tale."
"Hmmph!" I snorted as I put on my sneakers. No one rode on dad's motorcycle without sneakers so as soon as they were on, I was out the door! Throwing caution to the wind, I skipped freely and happily down our block, waving at neighbors as they mowed their lawns. I hadn't a care in the world. That is until I was across the street from my own block. Suddenly, the world seemed much bigger, scarier and unfamiliar. I had seen these houses and streets from the safety of our station wagon, but never with my own feet on the sidewalk.
Instinctively and as we were taught at school, I looked for the houses with the blue stars in the window. Our house had a blue star and I knew it meant it was a safe place for a scared child. Every block had one and I meticulously found each one as I made my way to my dad's barbershop on the outskirts of the town square. Surely this meant I was grown up now. Maybe now I'd be included in all of those fun activities since Dad would see I was a full fledged adult at the age of 10.
As I walked, I thought about all the magical things that would happen once I reached the barber shop. I would go in through my Grandpa's Insurance agency and he would give me a pink pencil and a tootsie roll. There was also a pretty good chance he'd let me play on the typewriter! Then I'd dance into the barber shop where dad would have a man in his chair and three or four waiting for haircuts. He'd be so excited to see me - surely I would be a great distraction for his busy day. Then he'd get some change out of his cash register for me to walk over to the car dealership/garage to buy my very own bottle of soda from the coca cola machine. But the piece de resistance was that glorious ride home on the back of my dad's motorcycle! I could already feel the wind in my hair and my arms around his waist. I'd ask him to take the long way and I knew he would because he loved riding that motorcycle as often as possible.
Like clockwork, my grandpa retrieved a tootsie roll and pink pencil from his drawer and happily extended them to me. He then saw me eyeing that electric typewriter, he so coveted. "Wanna give it a try?" he smiled.
"Oh boy, do I!" I excitedly replied. "But first I'm going to tell Dad I'm here. I passed through Grandpa's office through the door with the homemade label on the window that read, "Ron's Barbershop". The Promised Land. I had spent little time there, but I always learned way more from the "guy-talk" than I ever heard in my mom's beauty shop.
I popped open the door and saw his bubble gum jar on the ledge. I bent down behind it and jumped up shouting, "Peek-a-boo!!!"
"Tookie!", my dad happily sang. "Mom said you were coming. You walked all by yourself? Good job! Now call mom and let her know you made it." I used my dad's rotary dial phone and dialed the number to the beauty shop. My mom cheerfully answered, "Belaire Beauty Salon."
"Mom!!!! I made it to the barber shop!" I announced.
Mom spoke tenderly to me, probably glad I was still alive and said, "Okay. See you at supper."
I turned to my dad to ask for change to get a soda across the street and the funniest thing happened. Every man in the barber shop had suddenly turned to stone. My dad's head was in his hands and I heard him let out a whimper as the rest had their eyes fixed on the small TV in the corner. Scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen were words. It must have been in the middle of the statement as it made no sense. And then it started over, "Elvis Presley, dead at the age of 42...."
Inside my head I was screaming, "Son of a bitch!!!" Those were words my dad used when he was really upset. All I knew for sure about my dad was that he was Elvis Presley's number one, biggest fan! He often told the story of how he had met him at a diner in Sioux City while he was in Barber School. I always thought that made him famous too. But right now, even at the age of 10, I knew it was not the time to ask for favors. And when I saw the tear slowly slide down his rugged cheek and disappear into his beard, I had to leave. My dad didn't cry. This was bad.
"Dad?" I uttered quietly. "I'm going to walk home now." I don't think he heard me, but I was going to slip out before he looked at me with his crying eyes. I just couldn't handle that. Instead of leaving through my Grandpa's office, I quietly walked out the front door of the barber shop and began my trek home. I would just reverse my steps from the way I had come and not mention a word to anyone. Longingly and quickly, I glanced into the garage across the street to see the bright red soda machine that I would not be operating today and then continued with my head down, thinking about what had just occurred.
I must have been deep in thought, as before I knew it, I was just three blocks from home when in the distance, I heard a muffled cry.... or was it a yelp? Searching for whatever was making that disturbing noise, I peeked into the back yard of a small yellow house on 8th street. What I saw next was horrifying! A large, black dog, with a collar around his neck, must have been standing on top of his doghouse and either slipped or jumped. I'd never heard of dog suicide, but I didn't know. Without regard to my own safety, I sprinted to the animal, gasping for his last few breaths. I must have found the strength of a giant that day, for I was able to lift the dog from his perilous hanging and free him to the safety of solid ground. Jumping up on me and licking me with gratitude, I put my arms around his neck and hugged him.
I knew I had to tell the owners what had happened. Surely they'd want to know I had boldly and with super human strength saved their beloved canine, so I walked to the back door of the little yellow house and knocked three times. I heard footsteps inside, getting louder with each step. A woman, younger than my mother, but still old to me, looked at me and said, "Yes? Can I help you?"
"Well... you see... um, " I stammered.
"Yes dear, spit it out, " she patiently replied.
"Your dog was hanging from his doghouse and was almost dead. I got him loose and put him on the ground."
The nice lady ran towards the pretty black dog, throwing her arms around him, almost crying and saying to him, "Are you okay?"
"Ma'am? I think he will be just fine." I reassured her.
She returned to me, held my hand and said, "Thank you! Oh Thank you! You saved Elvis!!!"
My head was spinning. I hadn't saved Elvis. He died, I saw it on my dad's TV at the barbershop. I turned to look at the dog and in white paint, I saw the name "ELVIS" written on his doghouse.
I had saved Elvis on the day Elvis died.
August 16, 1977. That was the day I was finally going to climb my Everest! So what, I was only 10 years old and the baby of the family, but I was smart and I had a plan!
Few things brought me greater joy than the attention of my father. In my eyes, he was a giant of a man and I watched him doing so many things with my older sister and brother - from building go-carts, fishing, stock car racing, to tobogganing down the biggest hill in the county. Although I was only a year and nine days younger than my sister, I always felt so much younger. I was treated younger. If all three of us kids had a cold in the winter, I was the only one made to stay in and watch all their fun from inside the house. Running from room to room, looking out all the windows so I could track their movements, I felt sad and almost "fragile". Was I a sick child? Did I have a disease I hadn't been told about? I really didn't think so, although there was a clear possibility I was adopted according to my older brother.
But today was the day! I had created a foolproof plan to get my way. I didn't think it would be too much to ask, but I had to set it up perfectly. My mother owned her own beauty shop which was in our home. The smells of shampoo and permanent wave solution were a staple in our home. I would spend time with my mom's "ladies" as she called them, because they thought I was cute and precocious. And I didn't have all my big teeth yet.
Everything was falling into place as I implemented my covert operation, spying on my brother and sister, gathering intelligence to report to my mother as she worked tirelessly rolling perm rods and backcombing shampoo sets.
You see, it was my job as the baby to make sure my mother and father knew about all the naughty things my brother, 4 years my senior, and my sister, just a year and 9 days older, were up to. Today they were making it so easy for me, so I just knew the answer to my question would be yes by the end of the afternoon.
I sat quietly coloring, one eye on the page and the other on my siblings. Suddenly, I had my first round of ammunition. Shelly, my sister, had taken her knuckle and pounded it into my brother, Scott's shoulder repeatedly. I didn't realize they were playing, "How much can you take", so I quietly slunk into the beauty shop and announced as though a royal baby had just been born, "Mom! Shelly won't stop hitting Scott!!!"
Mom scowled without looking up from her "Lady's" hair and retorted, "Tell Shelly to come in here."
I proudly walked back into the living room and tapped Shelly on the shoulder and said, "Mom wants you."
"For what?" she asked, obviously annoyed by my very presence.
Fibbing slightly, I replied, "How should I know?"
Without a clear reason, Shelly walked into the living room and returned, staring angrily at me and shouted, "TATTLE TALE!" My brother and sister often compared me to Cindy Brady, with my adorable blond pigtails, lisp and an affinity for tattletaling. I never knew if it was an insult or not, so I smiled and said, "Mom says you're not supposed to hit."!
Twenty minutes later, by luck, I saw my brother eat two ice cream bars and drink an entire glass bottle of RC Cola. In our house, we were never allowed to do that. One ice cream bar, after receiving permission, and HALF a bottle of soda were the rules. We always shared a bottle of RC - one would have half poured into a cup and the lucky one (never me), got to drink the rest straight from the bottle, just like in the commercials! Ah-Ha! I had him dead to rights!
Marching in to the beauty shop for at least a second time that day, I was ready to drop my last bit of information before asking my question. "Mom," I began.
"What Cindy? What now? You have been in and out of the beauty shop all day, tattling on your brother and sister. So what have they done now?"
She was titillated and on the edge of her seat, ready for my new report. "Scott ate two ice cream bars and drank a whole bottle of soda!!!" I proclaimed it quickly before she interrupted me again.
This time she rolled her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. She was mad as heck at my siblings, I just knew it! But instead she retorted, "Why don't you go outside and play?"
Now was my chance... the moment I'd been waiting for. Surely all this build up of reporting the wrongdoings of my sister and brother would be rewarded with what I wanted most... and I was ready to ask. With confidence, I pushed out my chest, stood as tall as I could and asked in the deepest voice I could, "Mom, can I walk uptown to Dad's barbershop and ride home with him on his motorcycle?" There. It was out there. I waited with baited breath, pleading with the gods above to give me this opportunity; the same opportunity and privilege Scott and Shelly had been rewarded with more times than I could count.
One second went by, and another and another and another until finally, my mom looked up at me with her beautiful eyes, sighed deeply again and said those THREE MAGIC WORDS - "I. Don't. Care."
That was the big one! I had done it! I had carefully carved out my own independence. Proud of my work, and wanting to rub it in just a little, I returned to the living room where my brother and sister were playing knee football and announced, "I will be leaving now. I am walking UPTOWN to Dad's Barbershop!"
I just knew how jealous they would be. Of course they would downplay it so as to make me believe they didn't care, oh but I knew they did. Scott spoke first, "Big deal." followed by Shelly, "Ya, big deal ya tattle tale."
"Hmmph!" I snorted as I put on my sneakers. No one rode on dad's motorcycle without sneakers so as soon as they were on, I was out the door! Throwing caution to the wind, I skipped freely and happily down our block, waving at neighbors as they mowed their lawns. I hadn't a care in the world. That is until I was across the street from my own block. Suddenly, the world seemed much bigger, scarier and unfamiliar. I had seen these houses and streets from the safety of our station wagon, but never with my own feet on the sidewalk.
Instinctively and as we were taught at school, I looked for the houses with the blue stars in the window. Our house had a blue star and I knew it meant it was a safe place for a scared child. Every block had one and I meticulously found each one as I made my way to my dad's barbershop on the outskirts of the town square. Surely this meant I was grown up now. Maybe now I'd be included in all of those fun activities since Dad would see I was a full fledged adult at the age of 10.
As I walked, I thought about all the magical things that would happen once I reached the barber shop. I would go in through my Grandpa's Insurance agency and he would give me a pink pencil and a tootsie roll. There was also a pretty good chance he'd let me play on the typewriter! Then I'd dance into the barber shop where dad would have a man in his chair and three or four waiting for haircuts. He'd be so excited to see me - surely I would be a great distraction for his busy day. Then he'd get some change out of his cash register for me to walk over to the car dealership/garage to buy my very own bottle of soda from the coca cola machine. But the piece de resistance was that glorious ride home on the back of my dad's motorcycle! I could already feel the wind in my hair and my arms around his waist. I'd ask him to take the long way and I knew he would because he loved riding that motorcycle as often as possible.
Like clockwork, my grandpa retrieved a tootsie roll and pink pencil from his drawer and happily extended them to me. He then saw me eyeing that electric typewriter, he so coveted. "Wanna give it a try?" he smiled.
"Oh boy, do I!" I excitedly replied. "But first I'm going to tell Dad I'm here. I passed through Grandpa's office through the door with the homemade label on the window that read, "Ron's Barbershop". The Promised Land. I had spent little time there, but I always learned way more from the "guy-talk" than I ever heard in my mom's beauty shop.
I popped open the door and saw his bubble gum jar on the ledge. I bent down behind it and jumped up shouting, "Peek-a-boo!!!"
"Tookie!", my dad happily sang. "Mom said you were coming. You walked all by yourself? Good job! Now call mom and let her know you made it." I used my dad's rotary dial phone and dialed the number to the beauty shop. My mom cheerfully answered, "Belaire Beauty Salon."
"Mom!!!! I made it to the barber shop!" I announced.
Mom spoke tenderly to me, probably glad I was still alive and said, "Okay. See you at supper."
I turned to my dad to ask for change to get a soda across the street and the funniest thing happened. Every man in the barber shop had suddenly turned to stone. My dad's head was in his hands and I heard him let out a whimper as the rest had their eyes fixed on the small TV in the corner. Scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen were words. It must have been in the middle of the statement as it made no sense. And then it started over, "Elvis Presley, dead at the age of 42...."
Inside my head I was screaming, "Son of a bitch!!!" Those were words my dad used when he was really upset. All I knew for sure about my dad was that he was Elvis Presley's number one, biggest fan! He often told the story of how he had met him at a diner in Sioux City while he was in Barber School. I always thought that made him famous too. But right now, even at the age of 10, I knew it was not the time to ask for favors. And when I saw the tear slowly slide down his rugged cheek and disappear into his beard, I had to leave. My dad didn't cry. This was bad.
"Dad?" I uttered quietly. "I'm going to walk home now." I don't think he heard me, but I was going to slip out before he looked at me with his crying eyes. I just couldn't handle that. Instead of leaving through my Grandpa's office, I quietly walked out the front door of the barber shop and began my trek home. I would just reverse my steps from the way I had come and not mention a word to anyone. Longingly and quickly, I glanced into the garage across the street to see the bright red soda machine that I would not be operating today and then continued with my head down, thinking about what had just occurred.
I must have been deep in thought, as before I knew it, I was just three blocks from home when in the distance, I heard a muffled cry.... or was it a yelp? Searching for whatever was making that disturbing noise, I peeked into the back yard of a small yellow house on 8th street. What I saw next was horrifying! A large, black dog, with a collar around his neck, must have been standing on top of his doghouse and either slipped or jumped. I'd never heard of dog suicide, but I didn't know. Without regard to my own safety, I sprinted to the animal, gasping for his last few breaths. I must have found the strength of a giant that day, for I was able to lift the dog from his perilous hanging and free him to the safety of solid ground. Jumping up on me and licking me with gratitude, I put my arms around his neck and hugged him.
I knew I had to tell the owners what had happened. Surely they'd want to know I had boldly and with super human strength saved their beloved canine, so I walked to the back door of the little yellow house and knocked three times. I heard footsteps inside, getting louder with each step. A woman, younger than my mother, but still old to me, looked at me and said, "Yes? Can I help you?"
"Well... you see... um, " I stammered.
"Yes dear, spit it out, " she patiently replied.
"Your dog was hanging from his doghouse and was almost dead. I got him loose and put him on the ground."
The nice lady ran towards the pretty black dog, throwing her arms around him, almost crying and saying to him, "Are you okay?"
"Ma'am? I think he will be just fine." I reassured her.
She returned to me, held my hand and said, "Thank you! Oh Thank you! You saved Elvis!!!"
My head was spinning. I hadn't saved Elvis. He died, I saw it on my dad's TV at the barbershop. I turned to look at the dog and in white paint, I saw the name "ELVIS" written on his doghouse.
I had saved Elvis on the day Elvis died.
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