From Elvis and Gladys by Elaine Dundy
On the chill afternoon of Tuesday, January 8, 1935, Catherine Hall was walking briskly home. At the end of Lake Street she slowed down looking right and left before crossing Highway 78 like her mama was always cautioning her to, but resumed her stride past Kelly Street and up to the corner of Berry when she brought herself to an abrupt halt. There on the Old Saltillo Road where she lived, right across from the Methodist church, she saw a crowd of neighbors collected around both Presley houses. Something interesting must be going on. Mama would know. She hurried past the people to her own front porch. But Mama was already waiting for her, and even before the thirteen-year-old girl could get out her question she was told to quickly change into her clean dress and tidy herself up because one of the twins young Mrs. Vernon Presley next door had given birth to that morning had passed away and they were going to pay their respects.
When her mother told her she was actually going to see a little baby who had died, Catherine prepared herself to see it looking all funny and twisted and deformed like that little calf that had come out all wrong. Once in the small front room, Catherine took no notice of the people or the food, or of Gladys Presley and the little live baby in bed with her, but slipped away from her mother and went straight to the small, open casket standing by the window. Fearfully she peered into it. Then her fear changed to puzzled astonishment. The tiny baby lying there was perfectly formed. It didn’t even look dead; it just looked asleep. She glanced around at the grownups. Perhaps they’d made a mistake.
Later on Catherine just couldn’t help telling her best friend that in her opinion they could’ve made a mistake putting that little infant in the casket. That baby didn’t look to he like he had anything wrong with him. Couldn’t he be alive and just real quiet, resting or something?
But Catherine’s best friend was one of Vernon Presley’s younger sisters and therefore, being infinitely better informed about the whole matter, was in a position to put Catherine right. She told her not to be so simple; of course the baby was dead. Wouldn’t Mrs. Edna Robinson, who’d midwifed most of the babies in East Tupelo, and Dr. Hunt, whom Vernon had fetched because of the emergency – wouldn’t they be expected to know everything there was to know about these things? She went on to tell more: that the second twin – the one who was all right – hadn’t come out till a whole half-hour after the first and that he hadn’t arrived till 4:30 in the morning. They’d already named him Elvis Aron.
“But what about the other?” Catherine timidly queried. “Do they name babies who are … like that, or what?”
She received an impatient look. Of course they did; they already had. How would he get into heaven without a name? He was named Jesse Garon and he was go ing to be buried near all the Presleys in the cemetery at Priceville so that he wouldn’t be lonely.
Elvis had a lot of guilt about being “the twin who lived”. He wondered if he had somehow, by osmosis in the womb, stolen the strength of his twin. Had he lived only because Jessie had died? This was part of the Presley mythology. Jessie was not swept under the carpet and never mentioned again. He was a living part of the family. Elvis would pray to Jessie, and talk to Jessie – not just as an impressionable child, but throughout his life. What would it have been like if Elvis had had a sibling? What would have changed? And Elvis was, as I keep saying, “sui generis”, an original, filled with the influences and associations of his time and place, poured into a mold that became fully Itself. But he had had a twin. Were they identical? These are questions that are obviously interesting to contemplate, although some folks clearly go a bit far with it. You know, Jessie is alive and well and running a service station in Tallahassee, or whatever. The beginnings of any life that ends up being important or relevant takes on all kinds of significance, retrospectively, but the fact of the matter is: Vernon and Gladys were a young couple, hot for each other (you can see it in the photo at the top of this post), with almost no prospects, outside of Gladys’ ferocious get-up-and-go nature. They were one step away from poverty. They were sharecroppers, Vernon got odd jobs, Gladys got odd jobs, she picked crops with Elvis strapped to her back. Like Harry Potter, Elvis was “the boy who lived”. It gave him great importance, understandably, to his parents, especially when it was found out that after the horrific experience of giving birth to the twins on January 8, 1935, Gladys couldn’t have any more children. It is not at all surprising or unusual that Gladys would hover over her son, as long as he lived, even long past the time when it was necessary.
When he became famous, she was worried. But she was not surprised. She always knew he was marked for something special. Because he was the boy who lived.
I woke up with the sun, scraped my car of frost, and drove to Tupelo, Mississippi. It’s about 100 miles from Memphis. The highway goes through farmlands, which glittered with frost, steam rising off of the creeks and ponds. The road was nearly empty. I listened to church services on the radio, and raucous black choirs going to town for Jesus. I hit Tupelo before 9 a.m. It was quiet. I stopped off at the Veterans Park on the outskirts of town, a beautiful area with a pond and a fountain, and some pushy ducks who basically ran me off the lawn. The Elvis Presley Birthplace museum was closed, but that was fine because everything I wanted to see was out in plain view. It’s beautifully done. There is the two-room shack, built by Vernon himself, that was such a step-up to the hardscrabble Presley family, and so important to their independence. It’s longer than I realized, although I’ve seen pictures. It has a little front porch with a battered swing, there are windows along the side. It’s placed in the center of a circle of stones, marking events in the Presley life during their time in Tupelo. The devastating tornado that destroyed most of Tupelo when Elvis was a year old. Elvis winning the prize singing “Old Shep” at the Mississippi-Alabama Fair when he was 10 years old. Elvis going to school. They moved to Memphis in 1948. Vernon packed up the family in “an old ’39 Plymouth” (according to Elvis many years later) and they were off to seek a better life.
I was the only person at the Presley Birthplace. The frost still glittered on the grass. There was a church across the street, but it was still too early for services. I walked around. The sun was just coming up, and everything was cold and still and quiet.
Along with the little shack, there is also the old Assembly of God church that Elvis used to attend with his parents (it had been moved from its original location). It was just what I had pictured: homely, plain, a white-painted building, nothing special. But one of the most important places in Elvis’ childhood. It was great to see it. It was great to see it, too, all by myself.
Solitude promotes reflection. I grew up in a town with deep colonial roots: homes along the Main Street are dated 1730s, 1740s. Nothing has changed. Well, there are streetlamps and sidewalks. But if you catch it at a certain time, dawn or sunset, when the street has emptied out, the area unfolds its history to you, in images, sensations. You can almost, almost, imagine yourself “back then”. I grew up feeling that history around me. We were taught about it in school, yes, but it feels different when you actually grow up in a town that still has a little wishing well from the 1800s, and a library that used to be the spot for local Revolutionary patriots to meet up and make plans. Of course, it’s just the town I grew up in, too. It’s not quaint or kitsch, just preserved. People live in those homes marked 1744, 1761. It’s a regular place. But potent with another time, hovering beneath the surface. We see life in 3-D. But sometimes when you go to these historically potent places, you can believe in other dimensions, running alongside our own. Time not being linear, but stacked, or clear, like water: you can look down through it.
That’s what I felt, wandering around the little Presley shack and the Assembly of God church, on a frosty Sunday morning before anyone else was up. Time and history felt clear. I was looking down through it.
A 39 Plymouth sits near the parking lot, out in the elements. You can walk right up to it and touch it if you want to. I sat right near it and had some coffee. It was cold. The details of the car were fascinating to me: the windshield wipers, the interior, the gas cap. There is so much space inside. It may have been a clunker, but you could certainly load up that damn car with your belongings, no problem.
After that, I headed into town. Tupelo is plain, flat, and quaint. There’s not much to it. The main street area is surrounded by fields and giant turbines and silos. You can feel the space stretching out around the town, something I just can’t get used to yet, coming as I do from the congested East Coast.
Tupelo has an interesting history, Elvis notwithstanding. It was poverty-struck, but also bustling. It was filled with ambition and industry, as well as being a dead end. Tupelo is clearly proud of their native son. He went far, he went farther than anyone in Tupelo, and although his emotional ties were clearly in Memphis, he did return on occasion, most famously in 1956 to perform at the Mississippi-Alabama Fair, the very same fair where he won 5th place in the talent show when he was 10 years old, singing the weepy drip-fest “Old Shep”.
Elvis had been on the rise for a year or so, but with the advent of Colonel Parker’s management and EP’s television appearances, 1956 was the year when it broke. Elvis’ return to Tupelo was right before the opening of his first film, Love Me Tender, and the mania was out in the open. He wasn’t a regional phenom anymore. He belonged to everyone. He stood on a platform in the middle of the fairgrounds, wearing a blue velvet shirt, black pants, and white bucks, and he’s so close to the crowd that it looks almost dangerous. It’s overwhelming. There is footage of him performing at this fair in 1956.
He gets close to those reaching hands, sometimes brushing against them, but he senses the distance he needs. They want to touch him, he allows them to, briefly, but then he is off, to another part of the stage. He gives them what they want, and leaves them wanting more. The pictures of that day are world-famous by now. Gladys and Vernon traveled to Tupelo to watch their son perform, and according to many people who knew Gladys, she experienced much anxiety returning to the town where she had known such hardship. It was very difficult for her. But in the interviews done with Gladys that day, she is bubbly, proud, and happy. She was a survivor, a gritty woman who didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve (not in public anyway, that would have seemed very bad form to Gladys). You would never know that that proud Mama in the interviews almost hadn’t accompanied Elvis to the show, because it was in Tupelo, and because her memories of that town were so painful.
The fairgrounds are no longer (well, not really), but where those fairgrounds once were is now the main square in Tupelo, in front of City Hall: a vast lawn, with circular steps, benches, a big Christmas tree, and a beautiful statue of Elvis, onstage in that very spot in 1956. The statue was erected in 2012. It is isolated in the middle of this large lawn. Nothing is around it. He is highlighted against the low buildings of Main Street, but nothing huddles up alongside of him. There is no other context for the statue. It hovers in thin air.
When I arrived in the main square in Tupelo, it was empty. Emptier than anything ever is in New York City. The town hadn’t quite woken up yet, although I imagine people were getting ready to head out to church around that time. There wasn’t much traffic. The shadows were still long. The fields around the town came right up behind the buildings encircling the Square. I walked around. The frost gleamed white. I almost wiped out right in front of City Hall on a patch of ice. The space is impressive. My perspective is skewed because I have NO space around me, where I live and maneuver. I am very sensitive to space. It is why I need to go to the beach, on average, once a week, just to maintain some emotional equilibrium.
The Tupelo Hardware Store, which is still open, is where Gladys (famously) bought Elvis a guitar for his birthday. He wanted a rifle. She got him a guitar. I knew it would be closed, and I was sitting on a bench in the park, looking around me, and saw, further up the main drag, a sign on the top of a building.
I love continuity, and I love places that remember. It’s a regular hardware store. But an important moment in 20th century culture went down there.
Elvis looks lonely in the middle of that big field.
Elvis was always alone. This wasn’t just fame. He was born into a world of death and tragedy, a family that missed someone. He felt that lack: Somebody else should be with me right now. He had spent 9 months curled up next to this someone in the womb. Elvis, of course, would not remember that time, but it cannot be said that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t experience it in some way that became incredibly meaningful to him. This mythology intensified with his fame. I’ve said before that I think, if you boiled him down to his essence and what he provided to his own culture, it wasn’t blatant sexuality, although that got him the most attention (and still does). What he was really about … was loneliness. He wasn’t a member of a group (not formally). He didn’t “make it” surrounded by others. He made it on his own. He had help acquiring his position. Sam Phillips helped. His supportive girlfriends helped by believing in him (he always needed a girl on his arm). Colonel Parker helped. But without Elvis putting forth his own essence, so fearlessly, none of them would be remembered today, or at least not in the same way. Elvis “brought it”, and everything followed, as the night follows day. He was a singular figure. Kurt Russell said that he loves Elvis Presley movies “because Elvis is in them”. You can count on one hand the artists who generate such a response. It has to do with the projection of Self, in the way that John Wayne did, and very few others. And such figures, who become inevitable (“how on earth did we manage before they came around?”), who become engrained in the culture, imprinting themselves on every aspect of the landscape, will always stand alone.
Crowds will clamor up against such figures at all times. We are drawn to those who project Self in a fearless way. It opens up space for us to do the same. These singular figures will often respond by “entouraging up”, surrounding themselves with a Praetorian Guard of trusted friends and associates. The crowds will continue to push and jostle and grab and riot. These sui generis figures have the love of millions.
But the overriding image behind the Mayhem of that crowd will be a person surrounded by a vast and endless space.
They cannot be touched.