ping and the ghost of elvis

I saw the ghost of Elvis
Down on Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
And I watched him walk right through
Now Security did not see him
They just hovered around his tomb
But a pretty little thing
Waits for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

Ping would not look at the grave.
    "Don't you know?" she said. "It is not lucky."
    "But you have a whole annual holiday, sao mu, sweep the grave, where you go to the graveyard. Have a picnic, make offerings."
    "Yes but one time only. When you walk away, don't look back. And do not go home directly."
    "In case you are followed by ghosts?"
    "Yes."

Ping did not leave a bouquet at the gravesite in the "Meditation Garden." She did not even glance at it, or the graves of mama and daddy and grandma. Will Lisa Marie and Priscilla join them?
   As a former People Magazine writer who has written about both the ex-wife and the child, I will not be surprised if they do. (One of my seminal moments as a gossip writer came right after I had quit work at People for the whateverth time, when the marriage of Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie was announced. I almost passed out in disbelief.) Some 600,000 visitors a year go to Graceland, which I believe is now owned by Lisa Marie, though she has given up ownership of the company making a fortune on tours. Priscilla retains business interests as well. Suits are ongoing.

 

So, like, I would not be waiting for the King in this creepy, musty Jungle Room. I believe it was made out of some back patio, which was enclosed in the mid 1960s, obv.

   I do not understand the American obsession with Graceland, written about in a New Yorker article recently.  Yes, it is the second most-visited private home after the White House (ugh). I can almost understand when I listen to the Paul Simon song. And yet.  

   Ping wanted to go aboard the mouldering airplanes. And look at the souvenirs, so readily available at every turn. But in the end, she found them tacky and contented herself with some old black-and-white postcards, four for a dollar, of the young Elvis when he was beautiful and without sideburns. 

    She did not look back when we left.

  

watching the water flow

Today would have been my 40th wedding anniversary.

excuse me?

Am I living in an alternate universe? Who was she again?
Also, what's with her hands?  #britneyspears #wtf

holidaze

Emma Ann lights up the Goose.

Kid readies his duck for the race.

 Holidays are for kidz. And my great enjoyment is watching them enjoy. Thomasville is making a comeback bid as a real hamlet, and to that end threw a major July 4 party. The duck races of old were returned, there was live music (country, bluegrass, gospel) and fireworks over the rodeo arena. No one was hurt in the making of these pictures.

The adults are busy launching the ducks, but this kid is catching crawdads.

This is the flame-shooting alligator, but the big hit turned out to be the pooping dog firework. If you are lucky I will get you one.

fireworks and fixins

Buy a lot of condiments you don't ordinarily use. Not to mention foods.
Make sure the grill works.
Buy fireworks.
Clean up.
Shuck corn.
Buy ice for the Dr. Pepper and Coke and beer. I draw the line at Budweiser.
Get ready for duck races in the river and fireworks at night.
Homemade ice cream and fried pies at the Community Center.
Be American. At least for today.

meanwhile, back on the island

The resplendent railings

After

Before. Note sleeping dog. But don't bother her.

My sister Erin has been at Claudia's Surf City for a couple weeks.
Thank goddess.
She wrote a haiku celebrating the season.

Paint chips fly briskly

Like snow, blowing in sea hair

Rites of Block Island. 

Well, her rite anyway. She's the railing and Adirondack chair queen. However, she has taken matters into her own hands and purchased plastic chairs which will never need to be painted! The railings, though. 

-->

ping on the mississippi

Did you know that you should wear red underwear for luck  while traveling? I did, but I had almost forgotten until packing for my road trip. Oh yeah, I do have a pair of red underwear! Don't you?
  Also, Ping and most of her friends won't drink iced drinks, especially in the morning. Room temperature water, no ice. (Of course Ping begins her day with a boiled egg and a large helping of yogurt with an avocado, a banana, some blueberries and any other fruit available mixed in. She is unusual in that most people from Taiwan revile milk products, especially cheese, which she likes.) Lately she has discovered a taste for latte, so I put together a little kit for her to take home.

Ping saw the pyramid shining in the distance (top) from the bank of the Mississippi River. I tried to find it by eye, but almost took us back across the river to Arkansas, before getting lost again and then magically finding the parking lot. The pyramid was opened as an arena in 1991, hosting basketball games and the Rolling Stones. However, due to a series of problems, it went dark in 2007. In 2015, it opened as a Bass Pro shop, including a shooting range, restaurants and hotel as well as the Missouri organization's usual ourdoorsy huntin' and shootin' offerings. Think L.L. Bean to the millionth power.

  

Ping was incredulous. From a bridge, she filmed the huge catfish swimming in the store's pond. She took pictures of the alligators in their enclosure. And for the capper, we took the world's largest freestanding elevator to the apex of the pyramid.
   I was about done just on the $10 ride up, watching the racks of clothing and stuffed bears on the ground whoosh away. But when it came to going out on the observation platform, I hugged the inside wall as Ping bravely walked across the glass floor to the railing. Granted, the view of the city and The Big Muddy was staggering, but I din't need to get any closer to it.
   "Taoling, I don't think you afraid of anything!" Ping said.
   "Well, I'm afraid of heights."
   "Me too."
   "You were standing right next to the edge!" Just the memory, as I write this, gives me a frisson.
   But she gamely explored the entire perimeter as I nursed a bottle of the local Ghost River Gold at the Sky High Catfish Cabin bar around the aquarium. It was smack in the  center, about as far as from the edge as you can get.

ping: walking in memphis

Walking in Memphis.
Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale.
I'm afraid to listen to this fab Marc Cohn song again right now (though you really should, and can listen here) because I've just got rid of the earworm after a week. It played in my head the whole time I was, um, walking in Memphis.
  It was both fun and challenging acting as Ping's personal photographer, chauffeur and tour guide to America.  
   

 The romance of the road and the railroad, the highways and the riverways, hits me deep in the gut. I heart Americana. The open fields and amazing skies, the crops and canals and abandoned farms make my heart sing.
    It doesn't sing to Ping. She got excited when she recognized a familiar brand name—Hampton Inns or CVS—something to cling to in this vast, unfamiliar landscape.

-->

She is my dear friend of 50 years, my only older sister and sometimes my personal chef. To clarify, she is not my lover, as one of my oldest friends suspected.
   I love her dearly, nonetheless. When she decided to come with me on my annual peregrination, she said she wanted to see Graceland, she wanted find out  what a road trip was like, and she wanted to spend time with me. We did these things, and it was great.
   I will wrap it up next week. Have been busy with an assignment this week. Anon.

meanwhile in block island

Before and after powerwashing

Since I left BI precipitously to fit Ping's vacation schedule, many things were left undone in Block Island. Like porch railings. Always.
   Every year Erin and Hannah paint railings, and every year I bless them. I just make a mess of it.
    This year, in a new improvement, Chris powerwashed the porches before painting.
   Please note his outfit. Ahem. Note that he is my son-in-law, not a blood relation.
  So now Hannah and Chris are snazzing up Hannah's, while Erin is snazzing up Claudia's.
  How lucky am I?

That's what I'm talking about!

  
  

ping dines out

Ping's passion is food—planning it, cooking it, eating it, even photographing it. I had no idea that she needed to eat three squares a day plus snacks to avoid passing out from low blood sugar, so we did a lot more eating than I typically do. I am more of a yogurt/soup/snacks/beer person. (As most of you know.) (Oh yeah, and bananas.) All she wanted to do in Memphis was sample barbecue. But first, we had to see the famous Peabody Hotel duck march. She sipped lemonade, and I a martini, at the lobby bar while the Duckmaster led the ducks to the fountain, and then back up the elevator to the roof. Dunno how they are so obedient. 

 Next stop, across the street from the Peabody Hotel, was the Flying Fish, which came recommended by gourmet David. It was downscale from the Peabody, but the food was excellent. Ping approved her grilled trout and fries (the first she had eaten in years), enjoyed trying my hush puppies and fried okra. The fried catfish was the best ever, succulent and crisp.
  At the Flying Fish, Ping spotted a handsome policeman. "Can I take a picture?" I asked him, and he agreeably posed. He is now my newest Facebook friend, but I can't reveal his name on account of the criminals. He fears for his family. I was tiring of the order-and-pay-at-the-counter-and-then-sit-and-have-your-food-delivered motif, but that seemed to be the way of the bbq.

 Payne's is considered one of the best bbq restaurants in the nation. So Ping and I headed to the outskirts of Memphis to the old gas station it has called home for almost half a century. Their signature sandwich is chopped pork with a mustardy slaw. There were people in there from as far away as Kansas City (they are bbq aficionados there too). Ping opted for the ribs, while I got the sandwich. She pronounced them good, but I could see that she was a bit concerned about the sanitary conditions. (I had previously no idea she was such a clean freak. I mean, I knew she took a shower every night, always has, but no notion  she was quite so OCD.) Me, as a gas station dweller myself, I was so enchanted with the decor I could hardly eat.

For dinner we patronized another known joint, Central BBQ. It was more upscale, being at the edge of the hipster Cooper-Young neighborhood. Though you still had to stand at a counter to order. The ribs were good there too, Ping said. I can't even remember what I ate, I was so sick of pork. I may not eat for a month.

ping does graceland

 We  made it! After all the tsouris, we arrived at the home of Elvis Presley, aka the King. Ping idolized him when she was young, collecting pictures and magazines. "He was so handsome," she sighs.
  After Hounddog when I was about eight, I wasn't really aware of the singer until the Las Vegas Elvis appeared in glittering full-throttle Liberace, so the romance eluded me. I had been to Graceland before and needed no refresher course on his execrable taste.
  But Ping's enthusiasm carried me through the three hours of touring with all-white and mostly overweight fans guided by an all-black Graceland staff.
  Ping and I were 27 and 28 when Elvis died of a heart attack brought on by barbituate addiction while on the toilet. As far as I know this was was not mentioned on the iPad tour (available in many languages including Chinese), but I wouldn't know because I never donned my headphones.
   Changping avoided his grave—bad luck, as she explained. As we finished touring his airplanes and headed to the gigantic parking lot, crammed with cars and buses, she sighed. "Elvis, my lover. I still miss you." And she added, "I hope I dream lof him tonight."

ping on beale

 Memphis is getting to me. I feel emotional in this town where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot, when I see black people and white people playing music together, working behind the bar together, dancing together and walking down Beale Street with their families, united in tourism and in their common love of music. When one band covered Prince's Purple Rain, my tears rained.
   Ping has felt Other, as an Asian in this country, for twenty years. I felt Other in her country all those years ago. But I have no notion of what it is to feel Other in your own country. Here in Memphis the worlds seem to draw closer than they do in the Northeast. Everybody loves the blues and barbeque.

W.C. Handy park

ping goes to memphis

Ping poses at Mammoth Springs, Arkansas.

 Mammoth Springs, Ark., about a half hour from the Goose, pumps out 9 million gallons of water a minute. The Ozarks have a wealth of water, but the people are poor. As we headed to Memphis we passed town after town with opened churches and shuttered businesses—including, alas, the cowboy boot store where I have bought my boots for years. Mind you, I can't wear them any more, so it's a nostalgic rather than practical loss.
  "I feel so lucky," Ping said, as we passed the falling down houses and dirt-yard trailers. "I have what I need. I have enough money. I can travel and do what I want. These people are so poor."
   I feel lucky too.

Settled in Memphis at the Marriott, a cut above my previous choice.

ping is entertained

 I wanted Ping to meet my friends so that she would understand why I like it here in the godforsaken Ozarks. We went out for pizza and beer with Bill at a new brewery.

 David, a notable chef and oenophile, wined and dined us at his house.

We reciprocated  with a pick-pick lunch at the Goose. Ping made a beautiful asparagus and cucumbers with ham. We also had roast chicken and quinoi and a strawberry cobbler made by an Amish woman.

 We gathered at the table Frank and Dianne gave me (they also gifted the plates) after the flood left me without. David, needless to say, brought a cooler of delicious wine, Bill brought a cooler of beer. We all travel with coolers here, given the lengths of drives and the temps near 100 degrees.

Ping sports the cowboy hat gifted by Frank.

And then all bade Ping adieu. Today we head for Memphis. And Graceland.

ping makes hay

"I don't understand. What is hay?" Grass that is cut and dried a bit, I explained.
 "But what do they use for?"
"For food. For the cows and horses."
"Oh, I see. During the wintertime."
We saw Dianne's handiwork—hay cut, raked, baled and stored under cover.
 Ping was fascinated.

 Frank took Ping out into a field to visit a few mares and their foals. She fed them Range Cubes from the mule and somehow avoided getting chiggers.

 Then we headed to barn, where Dianne instructed her in the fine art of forking up hay to feed the stabled animals, like the stallion and those horses to be trained.

And as the sun came down on the farm, Ping had the best experience—bottle-feeding a calf whose mother has no milk. She loved it. Though she  said, "Before I feed the baby cow, she follow me everywhere. When milk all gone, she run away."
   It was a delightful day for her.
   Nonetheless, she says, "I never visit the countryside any more. Let my friend come to Boston, okay."

the trials of ping

Ping engages in her first home improvement project.

They definitely looked like flea bites. She had them all over. We blamed them on the awful motel. But they kept coming. We threw out the pillow she had taken into the motel. We worried about the luggage. And still she kept getting bitten. The itching drove her into a frenzy. I didn't have a single bite.
  She managed to get some stubborn screws into the Ikea sofa, which was one of the items we had managed to wrestle off the truck in the rain (Did it have fleas?) and was flushed with success.
  I had gone to bed when she screamed. "Taoling! Taoling!"
  There were fleas swarming all over the bathroom floor.
   I did not want to open the hatch of the hot water heater to find the animal I was sure had died in there. Nor did I want Ping to see me find it or e ven know that I suspected its presence. Fortunately. I had some bug spray.
  Changping got on the phone to her son, to see if he could change her ticket home to soonest. It was prohibitively expensive. She was in despair. She lay on the sofa she had helped assemble and talked to her friends and listened to videos in Chinese. And scratched her legs, her arms, her neck.

roadtrip with ping: disaster area

There is no way you can really warn someone how it feels to land in a destroyed and desolate town. It wasn't much to begin with—maybe 50 people and a cafe—and now it is a disaster. That's the ruined cafe across from the Goose. Maybe five people live in town. Well, now six, with me here.
  Ping was in shock. Culture shock and just plain shock. Terrified by the street dog, worried about crime, afraid of the strange people. And inside my place was worse.
  From a beautiful oasis, the Goose had been wiped out by seven feet of water. Last summer I hastily replumbed and electrified, put in a kitchen and bathroom and had to leave. Almost a year later, I couldn't really remember what had been done and not done. I did know I had asked the phone company to hook me up the month before.
   But of course the phone didn't work. DSL seemed to be on, but I couldn't remember my password, so Ping couldn't get on line. The place was supposed to have been cleaned, but it was still pretty dirty. I hadn't realized Ping was a bit OCD about cleanliness.  Aaand, the AC wasn't working. Ping was very unhappy. And that was before the flea bites.

roadtrip with ping: the end is nigh

Across the mighty river

 To cross the Mississippi River heading west—at whatever point—is always exciting for me. Changping had never heard of the Mississippi river. I tried to explain that it was one of the world's mightiest rivers, but I couldn't even begin to describe what it means culturally. I gave up.
    On this bridge, halfway across you enter the state of Missouri, which means I'm about three hours from home. This area is called the Bootheel. It floods. There are cotton fields. It is closer to the South in character than the rest of Missouri, which itself has a split personality—Midwestern, Western, Northern, Southern. Its borders eight states, the most in the US: Iowa, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas and Nebraska. The Ozarks, my area, is hillbilly central. I spent my formative years in the Ozarks, in Arkansas, and the rolling hills feel like home.

Storm forming over the Walmart parking lot in Dexter, Mo.

When I hit Missouri, I hit Walmart. The chain began in Bentonville, Ark., not all that far away, and dots the state of Missouri. However, there are few such emporia on my route, and I need to buy drinking water, milk and other necessities to get me through the night at my place, which is half an hour from the nearest store or gas station.
   I should have taken that storm as an omen.

roadtrip with ping: romance

Ping at the second Arby's.

The reason Ping was so excited (or, as she would say, "so exciting") to see Arby's was that the chain apparently doesn't exist in the Boston area, where she lives. She hadn't seen it since she was first married and living in Miami.
   The first road trip—and last til now—she ever took was from Miami to Boston, where her new husband was moving to take a job at Wang (remember Wang computers?).
  "That's about the same distance as we are driving," I said.
   "We stayed in motel two nights," she said.
   "We could do that too, but what. would you do hanging around in a motel room for hours," I said.
   "Make love."

  In the event, we stayed in a flea-bag motel somewhere outside of Dayton. I should probably mention the name just so you never make the mistake of staying there. But you wouldn't make this mistake. My problem is I like to be able to see my truck from my room.
   I knew it was a mistake when I saw the two construction workers having a tailgate Bud Lite party in the parking lot next to me. But I had paid, so. . . The light fixtures were dangling by wires off the hall walls, the carpets were tatty, the sheets dirty. But oh well, it was just for a night. The partyers went to bed early. We did not sleep well. Ping dreamed about her ex-husband, not happily.