Elvis, Earnings, Economy and Exhaustion

(photo courtesy and used with permission of: emersonmade.com)

Sometime, a few weeks ago, I asked my son a critical question: "Do you know who Elvis Presley is?"

"Yeh, the guy in the picture hanging on the bathroom wall." he answered, in part, correctly.



(This picture has hung in the basement bathroom for as long as I can remember and was what started me collecting black and white Elvis Calendars and the white stack of Charmin is part of Padre's TP collection)

"But did you know that he was the King of Rock?" I pressed harder.

"No, why and how?" he asked perplexed that the suave, black haired, full lipped man in a red cardigan, could have anything to do with what he perceives as RoCK!

Being the excellent mother educator that I am, I gave a tutorial starting with a brief history in rock. As most of he and I's educational journeys; we were led to Google; the Maharishi of all answer's to wee one's questions. On behalf of all stymied mothers, Thank You, Google. Truly, thanks. Truly, your site has led my son and I from in front of the computer with him on my lap to places we never dreams and as a result interrupted his nightly dreams with an occasional nightmare or two. But we will take our lumps and bring up your address, daily, just so we can see the cute way you write your name.

I typed: 'Nothing but a Hound Dog'. A black and white Milton Berle episode circa 1965 caught my eye and I dangerously clicked on it. (Padre thinks that with each frivolous click, viruses attack computers. He is so smart. And so old-school)

"Nice guitar and dance moves." he mumbled boredly. Finally, flatly replied:

"Mom, this isn't rock." as if to assume that I, his mom, don't know what I am talking about and to suggest I am also old-school.

"yes, but up to this point NO ONE had gone for this quick,racy beat; he introduced a style that hadn't been done before."

To bring my point full circle, Presley's hips got to swayin' in a circle and he's "cuh-rying"; to the point that I am almost in tears,too.


"See that move?" sniff. "That was really suggestive back in 1956." I wiped my nose with the nearest crumpled napkin.

He looked at me bewildered: "Suggesting what?"

(maybe my ca-rying was perplexing. can't a mom have sinus surgery or heck, get allergies? or oh, yeh, son, I FORGOT that YOUR day is passed this point of moral controversy!)


"That we listen to his CD today as we do our work." I quipped impatiently and hiding my tears lady-like. Or cow-girl like or whatever we women do when you CAN'T show your innate nature to burst into tears over a celebrity or something very minor.


J half hearted watched the comedy between Elvis and Uncle Berlie after the performance, Elvis running his hand through his jet black hair and acting shy and embarrassed about all the women crying and screaming next to their surprised and dejected dates.

Elvis, confessed that, and I'm paraphrasing: " it isn't 'all that' to have women clamoring for you, and that he'd "rather have a quiet, calm gal." I let out a long deep sigh. That would have stricken me from the running right there.

Elvis gave and example of who that lady like demeanor would look like: "Someone like Debra Paget; she's real 'goin'" At that point I'm gone. And, thankfully, so is J who had beat it into the back yard to play. Thank you, Summer.

I kept watching and wouldn't you know, the sophisticated, calm Ms. Paget, shows up on the stage; Berle introduces her to Elvis Presley. And Ms. P loses it, she screams, wraps her arms around Elvis and starts kissing him in this pageant dress, messing up her perfectly placed hair.

Thanks, Debbie! (sniff) that was a true depiction of what we calm women can be capable of, if pushed.

I knocked down You Tube, gathered my self and headed out to start watering my flowers.

As I sat standing with the sun beating down on the back of my calves, I reminded J about his goal: to earn money. And that meant getting to work.

Amazingly, any time J gets a hankering to buy something, he is re-committed to earning his money. Starts at such a young age.

But first, he has to check all the locations and price the item so as to have a good idea how many dollars he needs.

This particular day, it was roller blades: Waaayyy out of his wallet's league. And mine, too, come to think of it, but I don't let him in on my money. I always tell him that I didn't put it into the "budget" and won't budge on buyin' till I do.



"Ya gotta work, son. Not just drool over what you want." I said at the second place we stopped on 17th- yeah, I drove across town for my errands and pretended it was all for him.

I continued my motherly sermon: " You may find that you don't want it that bad after you have worked for that amount of money." (value of a dollar must be taught here! Economists think inflation is caused by all these other factors, c'mon geniuses, it happens with parents given in to kids! tongue in cheek, tongue in cheek, brillaint math/statistic/ brains out there that know how to count.)

Dejected, we walked back into the car and I priced a couple items I wanted and will never buy, and went to my errand runnin'

Windows down in the Suburban, and 2/3 of the way through the Elvis track, J said he wanted to pick up some cans from my sister's horse hotel:A quaint little number in the country that makes J extremely jealous of his cousin's good fortune of living in such a divine location. It prob cost me the price of the cans he smashed to drive there, but hey, I am teaching him to WORK!

By the time we finally were beating it back from Iona to our house because we had a late afternoon bb game, J and I were fighting over listening to 'See See Rider' or 'A Little Less Conversation A little more Action.' We flew passed the outlying HIGH SCHOOL when he said: "Now, this is better." referring to the up tempo in Elvis' repertoire.

Time was tight to pick up our gear, fill the orange cooler in lightning time, and grab the back pack of mitts and stray baseballs. Throwing them all in the car, child included: (think of Calvin and Hobbes when the bathrobe, slippered wearing mom tosses Cal out the front door to catch the bus to school. Now that brings tears to my eyes too, sniff. Those comics could be J's biography.

In the late afternoon heat we drove back across town to the City Park where the games are played. Whether the heat or what Elvis was bringing over the stereo, we MOZIED to la musica with a 'devil may care if we are late' attitude. The deep strains of background Cello and the mellow croon of Presley running through our heads like kids through sprinklers.

Crossing over the train tracks, onto the back road to the ball diamonds, J threw his request out once again. Go to 30, mom. Not car speed but the number on the CD where more 'Action' lay. (his fav Elvis song, now)

I eyed him with the look of you have had your way all day and of course consent when he said:

"I gotta get ready for the game, mom!"

So we stepped it up with King's help.

We won, he earned some more money mowin' the neighbor's lawn that evening and I realized that when J has to work to earn moneyI am right there beside him; workin' hard, too, teacihing the correct way and re-directing him.

Afterward, in an effort to keep inflation under control I was bartering over what percentage of money the child actually earned, considering I did a HUGE portion of the pulling, prodding, and pushing: All in an effort to help him reach a goal.

He fought back like a politician. Wow. What exactly am I teaching him? We hit the hay, exhausted.

He was sinking into sleep and I quietly sat up from cuddling that cute boy and singing the songs we've sung since day 1; tucked the covers tightly around him so he'd still feel my embrace when he deliriously murmured to me:

"We gotta not work so hard, momma."

Oh! That melted me empathetic heart and highlighted the aching muscles through out my body.

I kissed his cheek real soft and whispered: "I'll say. this is summer, Son!"

Leaving a crack of light from the hallway, so he can find his way to me if he needs to, I looked one last time in on my growin' little man of la mancha, (long time Spanglish nickname--) knowing that with kids out there like him and my little baseball team, the economy is gonna be in good hands.