“The Mississippi Delta was shining like a national guitar.” So begins Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” and my trip of a lifetime. Deb and I were following the river, just like Paul, through the cradle of the Civil War, on our way to Graceland too.
When we got there, I looked for the Paul Simon T-shirt, but everything was about Elvis. Go figure. Elvis is cool, but I love Paul’s song of redemption and hope about a spiritual journey to a metaphorical Graceland along the Mississippi River, my childhood playground. As I drove, I sang along. “We’re going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee.”
Our trip started in Florida, where we vacationed with Deb’s family, and ended in St. Louis, where we vacationed with mine. In between, we drove along Florida’s panhandle to New Orleans and stayed awhile, then on to Memphis. In Memphis, we stopped at Graceland.
At Graceland, I was bemused to see the price to tour this house-turned-into-museum. You’d think the ticket to Graceland is free. By grace, they say, you get in. But it wasn’t so. To make matters worse, it was terribly hot and humid. Deb and I were sweating profusely (well, Deb was perspiring). We ended up taking a picture of Graceland from behind a gate, over a wall, and left.
That’s the closest we got to Graceland: Hot, bothered, from a distance, but that was good enough for me. Besides, listening to the blues on Beale Street sounded better anyhow, so raw, so full of soul, so alive, not like touring some gated mansion for a dead person. So we visited BB King’s on Beale St. instead, listened to the blues performed live, had barbecue, beverages, then hit the road, as we had to hurry to St. Louis for my Sicilian mother’s 90th birthday. If, when I get to those pearly gates, as Paul Simon sings, “I may be obliged to defend” why I chose Beale St. over Graceland, it won’t be hard to answer and it wasn’t the ticket cost: I prefer the honesty and soul of Beale St. anytime, compared to the exclusivity of a gated Graceland.
Onward to Saint Louis, we crossed the Mississippi River yet again out of Memphis, one of many times we crossed that mystical river. The river, it meanders and bends to and from Graceland. The tugboats, the paddlewheels, the history, flows past. My heroes had been nearby: Lincoln, Grant, Twain, Huck, Jim, Pop. One day, I just want to take my place beside them, on that raft, floating to Graceland.
Some believe the spiritual Graceland is for a select few, but I wonder. We all are swept downstream, some float effortlessly, it seems, some are pulled under. Grace comes easy to some. For others, the journey is torture. Oh, that all would just learn to flow with that current, accept that grace, but alas, it’s not so! Our own revered texts recognize this and encourage those who struggle: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
Paul Simon puts it this way: “There’s a girl in New York City, who calls herself the human trampoline, and somehow, when I’m falling, flying, or tumbling in turmoil, I say, ‘Whoa, so this is what she means.’ She means we’re bouncing into Graceland.”
“My traveling companion,” Deb, read this draft, looked at me somewhat incredulously and said, “Wow, you got all this from our trip to Graceland?” and she gave me that look like maybe I went too far. Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I did go on a little, but, as Paul sings, “maybe I’ve a reason to believe we all will be received in Graceland.” I hope so but don’t know so. Still, it seems those who need assurances of salvation during this life are missing the fundamental assurances our revered texts provide, not judgmental but comforting. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.” That’s good enough assurance for me, to know that those who’ve suffered here, those “falling, flying and tumbling in turmoil” here, those in pain, those we love but can’t seem to help, that they too can find that so blessed peace one day, in Graceland.
Sal Moretti is a former U.S. Air Force captain and retired city superintendent. Reach him at morettis3313@gmail.com.
