So. Been working on a memoir for over 3 years now. This summer was originally dedicated to editing the damn thing so I could finally shop an agent. But I’ve been blind-sided a little bit. So now I’m trying to get back down to brass tacks slowly. No rush, really. Everything in it’s time.
A couple weeks back was my 49th birthday and I meant to post a preview clip from my memoir here on the BLOG thing, but my days got away from me.
But I got a little work done tonite. And so here it is.
And I guess that’s all I gotta say for now.
And the beat goes on.
* * * * * *
“Elvis Presley, the first and greatest American rock-and-roll star, died today at the age of 42. Mr. Presley, whose throaty baritone and blatant sexuality redefined popular music, was found unconscious in his home, called Graceland, in Memphis today at 2:30 P.M.” ~ *
August 16, 1977 * ~ New York Times ~*
It is my 15th birthday. I’m very excited because my parents are catering me a swell shindig up at Forest Park. It’s a very hip and cool thing to do, admittedly, but this is as much an act of self-preservation for my folks as anything else. I only say this because initially they said I could throw the party in our modest Queens backyard. But that was until they got a gander of my guest list of 40 + people, at least a dozen of whom would be hauling guitars and various instruments of percussion and otherwise. Okay! The park it shall be!
So the arrangements are made: Two six-foot-long hero’s, a few tubs of macaroni and potato salad and six cases of Budweiser on ice are to be delivered up to the Forest Park picnic area at 6:00 p.m. on a swampy-hot summer’s eve: Tuesday, August 16, 1977.
I was at the beach earlier that day, but now I’m home - freshly tanned and showered. The master plan is for me, Janet and a few of my other best home-girls to get up to the park extra early. We need to make sure everything is perfect, not the least of which entails securing a bunch of choice picnic tables and pushing them together. Settin’ up camp. Oh, and the 'piece de resistance' - we simply MUST score some good half-moon acid at The Dome, the park’s infamous drug-dealing emporium/flea market. I mean – what are birthdays FOR, anyhow?
I bound down the staircase in my parent’s house, taking 3 steps at a time. Practically floating with anticipatory joy, I am stopped dead in my tracks as I approach the kitchen doorway.
My mom is standing at the kitchen counter by the little red transistor radio we keep there for when we do the dishes. Mom’s back is to me and so I cannot see her face. Her shoulders are shuddering slightly and it takes me a moment or two before I comprehend with a shock that she is mutely sobbing. Head hung low, her very aura so uncharacteristically disconsolate that all I can feel is a frightened panic.
“Ma?”
She flinches at the sound of my voice. Refuses to turn around.
Cold dread now: “MA.”
Stoic beyond reason and never one to show vulnerability – especially to her children - in retrospect I realize that this was a truly difficult moment for my mother. She would have preferred to be alone in her grief.
But she also senses that I’m terrified, and finally turns around to face me - sniffling - her face flushed and hectic with tears. She does not make eye contact.
“He died.” Her voice is frayed with pain.
“Who, Ma?”
Sniff: “…I liked him so much…”
“Ma - WHO DIED???””
She won’t say any more. Can’t. Instead turns the radio up so I can hear the tragic news about The King for myself. All I can recall is feeling a surge of profound relief.
Me: “Jeez, I was so scared, Ma! GOD! I thought it was someone we KNEW!”
No answer. She looks utterly miserable, child-like with loss.
My mother is a small woman - barely 5’ 2” - as opposed to my own robust, 5’ 8” frame. Awkwardly, I pat her on the shoulder and rub her arm. She’s not comfortable and neither am I, so I quickly stop.
Me: “I gotta go, Ma. The food and everything is gonna be delivered so I need to get up there.”
Mom: “So go.”
Me: “Don’t be sad, Ma." Pause. "I’m sorry he died.”
Mom: “Go… GO. Have fun.” She sniffs again, glances at me briefly: “Be careful.”
Then she turns away from me, turns the radio volume up.
I look at her trembling back one last time and think about giving her a hug, but I don’t.
Instead, I leave.
* * * * * *
Three years later when the horrific news breaks about John Lennon, I can’t help but recall my mom standing at that counter by the radio, and I also cannot help but identify with her need to suffer thru it alone.
* * * * * * *
