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 A Hunka Burnin' Love The skies were clear the next morning when I got up, and an hour later I pulled back onto the empty Natchez Trace Parkway and continued driving north. A few hours later, I drove into the bustling city of Tupelo, Mississippi, the hometown of Elvis Presley. Elvis was a bit before my time, so I'm not a huge fan of his. But I am interested in Americana (and had never been to Tupelo), so I wanted to see where he was born. Besides, Elvis had obviously downed a few Krispy Kreme donuts in his life, so I felt a kinship with him and wanted to pay my respects.
It takes a while to get to The House of Elvis, since it's on the outskirts of Tupelo and you have to keep your eyes peeled for the small directional signs, but I finally made it. The small, two-room house where he was born sits there next to a large, modern museum. No, it's not at all like Graceland, the glitzy mansion where Elvis lived and is buried, but since I wasn't planning to visit Memphis on this trip, it would have to suffice.
I walked into the museum, paid my $5 admission fee and began strolling around the glass-encased displays. That's when a 50-ish woman staff member walked up to me and, in a southern twang, asked if there was anything in particular that I wanted to see. By her eager smile, I could sense that she was a big Elvis fan and from her nicely-coiffed appearance, I could tell that she had probably been a Southern belle in her younger days. Not wanting to disappoint her, I didn't admit my indifference to Elvis' music (except for "Return to Sender") and feigned interest in the Elvis memorabilia.
Apparently taking her cue, she proudly pointed to something in the display which, to me, just looked like an old hammer. Silly me. As she proudly proclaimed, this was the actual hammer that Elvis' father, Vernon, had used to build the nearby house back in 1935, shortly before the King was born! Amazing! OK, I'm exaggerating my excitement. I was polite, however, and even asked her a few questions. And actually, the museum was kind of interesting. But after a half-hour, I'd seen enough sequined jumpsuits to last a lifetime, so I left through the gift shop. Before escaping, though, I plunked down $2 for a replica of Elvis' first driver's license. How could I not?
The women who worked here (they were all women) seemed to know every trivial detail of Elvis' life. Although I'm not that interested in Elvis, I always respect and admire people who are interested in things that I'm not especially interested in, whether it be a unique hobby, an obscure period of American history, or a rockabilly singer from Tupelo, Mississippi.
I left the museum and strolled over to the house where Elvis was born, which sits about 50 yards away. After I opened the screeching screen door and walked in, I was greeted by an elderly woman who was sitting in a wooden chair near the entrance. The woman then started giving me a well-rehearsed spiel about Elvis while staring blankly off into the distance. This poor woman was obviously very bored – maybe Elvis isn't as popular as he used to be – but nevertheless I found her story, which she was reciting for apparently the 985th time, kind of interesting.
But then I made a mistake: I asked her a question. It was a simple question, too. I merely wanted to know when Elvis moved to Memphis. However – and this was where I goofed – the women was still talking about Elvis' childhood, and this well-intentioned query threw off her entire monologue. After answering my question, she tried to regain her composure but I could tell that she was flustered. She was obviously shaken but nevertheless, and like a good trooper, she stammered through the rest of her well-rehearsed routine with grit and determination.
After I strolled through the two rooms (a living-room/bedroom and a kitchen), I politely bade her a good day and opened the creaking screen door to leave. "Have a nice day," she said to me as I left. As I walked out the door, I could tell by her smile that she enjoyed talking to someone who was actually interested in her story. Well, sort of interested.
Altogether, and despite the plethora of sequined jumpsuits (not to mention Vernon's old hammer), I was glad that I saw the Elvis house and museum. After fueling up in Tupelo and getting my oil changed at Jiffy Lube, I continued heading north and, in a tribute to the King, I downed another jelly-filled Krispy Kreme doughnut.
Above left: It takes a while to find, but the Elvis Presley Museum on the outskirts of Tupelo is worth seeing. Above right: The house where Elvis was born sits a few yards away.
Above left: After learning everything I ever wanted to know about Elvis (and then some), I got my oil changed in Tupelo. Above right: In the South, God is almost as popular as Elvis and football.
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