The shaky-hipped, loose-legged dance

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.”