Graceland
In Memphis Tennessee
I'm going to Graceland
For the past two years we've taken airplanes, but our family used to drive to Ohio each summer. On those trips it became tradition to crank up Paul Simon's "Graceland" on tape or Cd as we crossed over the yawning Mississippi river from Arkansas into Memphis, Tennessee. We never actually went to Graceland. In fact, on several occasions we bypassed the more traveled interstate and the bulk of Memphis entirely by heading straight for Kentucky via State Highway 7. Highway 7 initially takes you through West Memphis, the ugly side of town. There are unheeded housing projects along with the blight of neglected and neglectful people. The deprived and the depraved sandwiched amid tattered billboards, empty storefronts, and businesses brazenly hawking the escape of liquor and the dreams of lotto from behind garish burglar bars.
Poorboys and Pilgrims with families
And we are going to Graceland
Once you leave West Memphis the burglar bars disappear. The towns you'll come to are little more than sparse specks as Highway 7 becomes a haven for roadside antique stores (I really liked an old radio I saw in Troy once), run down gas stations, and churches. There are dozens upon dozens of churches pockmarking the roadside and an equal number of signs staked by congregations making claims to the future. I'm sure there are churches in the inner city of West Memphis too. I guess they don't stand out as much...or more likely I was too fixated on the burglar bars, which seem to advertise fear, to notice the sanctuaries serving up salvation.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
This is one of my favorite spots at our annual summer destination of Lakeside, Ohio. It's not easy to see from this photo, but behind the bell there is a bench where I enjoy sitting...and staring. The bench is a little off the main pathway, so not many people use it, and there's an unimpeded view of the Lake Erie expanse. It's the bench that attracts me, not the bell. I don't know the bell's history. Maybe it was used to ring in revivals in days gone by, or to greet passing boats. Maybe it's been damaged, or perhaps children wantonly rang it so often it became too annoying. In any case, now it sits, an idle curiosity, secured behind spiked ironed fencing and a locked gate. I've never heard it ring.
It reminds me how easily I put up barriers thinking they will protect me not realizing they silence my potential.
I'm going to Graceland
For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
The entire community of Lakeside is gated. Make no mistake, that's part of the attraction of the place. Your kids can't wander too far away and people can't simply stroll in without at least paying a gate fee. For many years, one person who came in and out of the gates with impunity was the Bulletin Man. He has a home right outside the gates and I always assumed he had special dispensation to come and go as he pleased.
The Bulletin Man suffered a head injury some 40 years ago. Depending on your perspective, he either hasn't been quite the same or he's never changed at all since that tragic event. He rides an ancient bicycle and has some grooming and fashion challenges, but he goes out of his way to be pleasant. He will engage you in conversation if at all possible and the dialogue will eventually reach its crux; he will ask if you happen to have brought along a "church bulletin." If you don't miraculously have one handy, he'll request you mail him one...every week...presumably forever.
Two summers ago, I ran into the Bulletin Man at the "little store with giant prices" immediately outside the gates of Lakeside where summer travelers make daily pilgrimages for must have items like ice and tomato paste. He told me he was no longer allowed on the grounds of Lakeside "unless he had a purpose." He showed me a letter from the Lakeside Association saying that some people had "complained" about him. They were "uncomfortable" when he approached them.
The normally welcoming gates of Lakeside, my vacation sanctuary, took on new meaning that day.
Last summer, I didn't see the Bulletin Man at all during our Lakeside hiatus. I feared he had been unable to cope with the disruption of his cherished routine. I had no idea where someone like that would go, or if he had anyone to counsel and comfort him.
Then last week, I was playing shuffleboard when Amy shouted from across the court and hurriedly pointed toward the street behind me. I turned just in time to see the Bulletin Man smiling broadly as he pedaled past aboard his rickety old Schwinn.
Maybe that day he was only given passage because he had a "purpose", but I hope not. I'd like to believe that the folks in charge of Lakeside changed their policy. I hope they realized the error of their ways.
They had barred the way.
There are no gates to grace.
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland
