spinning gold out of nothing

On this day in 1977 we were on an outing that took us across the Connecticut River. I remember the sun on the water, the bridge, my blue sundress and white sandals—I remember it all distinctly, because, as a child, the grating resonated at a frequency that absolutely sent me. I also remember because the radio was on, and at the end of a tune, the announcer guy said in his somber, announcer-guy voice, “Elvis… is dead.”

My mother threw back her head and a sound emitted from her body that in a novel would be described as inhuman, a shattering wail. As soon as we were entirely off the bridge, she drove right off the road and slumped over the steering wheel, sobbing.

Now, my mother is musical. She can yodel, no kidding, and her singing is clear and lovely. Her speaking voice, too, is melodic and can change dramatically, quickly, unexpectedly—something I think may perhaps be linked to dissociative or borderline personality disorder. (I could be wrong here, because dammit, Jim, I’m a storyteller, not a psychiatrist. But the phenomenon, when you hear it, is startling.)

In retrospect, I realize that we children were at once inured to the histrionics and alert to these vocal changes. The wail, then, in this context, was both hilarious and terrifying. Was this more acting or genuine distress? I remember very little from my childhood, but darn straight I remember this.

Over the years my mother has sent random Elvis-related texts, like today, that he “was a good gospel singer.” Or, once, on her birthday, she left me a long phone message about a biography she was reading, and “oh, jeez, Coley, he died of constipation!”

(He totally didn’t.)

I have a grumpy musicologist pal who taught a course on Elvis, so I get it that he, Elvis, was important, culturally and musically. I get it on a more visceral level that something about him touched at least one woman, based on her roadside meltdown. But a generation and mental illness separates me from getting it. 

Once I laughingly mentioned to a therapist that, parenting-wise, I had no idea what I was doing, not having experienced supportive parenting myself. “But look at your boys,” he said. “You’ve been spinning gold out of nothing.”

I think about that every day.

When those boys were small, on an out-and-about sort of day, we were crossing the Hood Canal Bridge, which is also grated. And naturally I remembered and shared the Elvis story. Which meant that ever after, crossing a grated bridge, someone in the car would whisper or wail or moan ELVIS IS DEAD. And always, the moment the tires hit the grating, a delicious, palpable suspense, a delight, would well up as we all waited for the line. Or! There might be an intake of breath from one and then a pleading from the other, “Please. Don’t. Not this time.” And always, laughter.

Spun gold, baby. Actual Graceland.