When I was 9, my parents went to Graceland.
They left a brochure from the mansion on the table one day.
I read it, and I was an Elvis fan.
I learned all I could about the man on the front of the brochure, and the rags-to-riches story which chronicled his rise to music royalty.
I bought tapes. I learned lyrics. I watched movies and old concerts.
I was taken to Tupelo, Graceland and Sun Studio.
Mama dyed my hair black, painted some big sideburns on my cheeks and I put on a jumpsuit for Halloween.
During my Elvis education, I picked up all of the moves.
I tried the shaky-hipped, loose-legged dance which helped Elvis win a permanent place in the hearts of women and the eyes of network censors 30 years before I was born.
I got a tiny guitar I knew good and well I’d never play, and I used it as a prop in my lone lip-synced gig at the nursing home in town.
I pretty much retired Elvis’ moves after the performance, and since they were the only moves I had my dancing days were pretty much done.
There were occasions — like Homecoming Girls Club, prom and a final attempt to cut a rug at a graduation party — when more conventional steps were used.
My desire to dance is just about gone now, as much a memory as all of those dances.
I’m still an Elvis fan, but the music stuck with me more than the moves.
This post is a response to Sue’s prompt, which is “dance.”