Legacy Writing 365:57

Speaking of trips (as I did in Saturday’s Legacy Writing post):

I was shopping the other night when I decided to take a detour through the CLEARANCE! section of a discount retailer. I rarely find anything I want there, but you never know. I spotted this on the shelf. I don’t routinely buy collectible Barbies. You may think otherwise, as you’ve seen photos of a few on my blog, but trust me, compared to what’s available every year, I have only a modest number. Their premium prices scare me away. Plus I’m not a collector in the true sense of the word. I always remove my dolls from the boxes and mess with their hair and redress them, which renders them mostly worthless in the world of collectors. And do I really need more dolls? (Well, yes, always, but I believe I’m the only person on The Compound who feels this way.)

I picked her up. No sticker anywhere. Usually when I see the collectibles in a discounted area, they’ve been left there by some parent or spouse who says, “It’s HOW much? I don’t think so.” But on a whim, even though I wasn’t buying anything else and had to stand in line to find out, I took her to the cash register and had her scanned.

SHE WAS OVER FIFTY PERCENT OFF!

I smiled all big and the guy said, “Is she worth something?” I answered, “She’s not worth anything except that NOW I WANT HER.” So she came home with me, and the next time I get my two Elvii out of doll storage, she’ll get to pose with them. And she’s prettier than they are. Which is ridiculous, because when Elvis was at his best, was anyone prettier? Okay, maybe Ricky Nelson.

But my trip through CLEARANCE! is not the trip I’m talking about here. When I was a young lass, my parents and I visited my mother’s brother John and his wife Fran, who lived on a lake outside Memphis at that time.

Uncle John in an inner tube, my mother holding an oar in the boat, and some other person who I can’t identify. I know it’s not Aunt Fran because she had HUGE hair bleached white-blonde at that time.

My aunt and uncle had this massive RV in their driveway, and my parents and I stayed out there–it was our own little guest suite. For some reason, Uncle John kept calling his wife “Frannie May” and my mother “Dorothy May.” One morning he heard me talking, and looking around and not seeing anyone, asked to whom I was speaking. I pointed to their German Shepherd and said, “Princess May!” He loved this so much that from then on, she was Princess May, I was Becky May, and my father became Billy May.

Me with my hair in curlers and wearing a Clemson T-shirt that I pilfered from some sibling or another.

One afternoon, Aunt Fran took my mother and me into Memphis in her big ol’ Cadillac. We went to the daycare center she owned and which her daughter managed. And then we took a side trip to Graceland. The gates were closed, but Aunt Fran whipped up to them so we could get out and stare at the house. And I’m not sure I was even born yet, because at that time, Elvis was still very much alive and was in residence.

He didn’t come out to see us though.