| Gidget Goes to Memphis (excerpts from the book) |
| "I got Beale Street Music Festival tickets for you and me for Sunday," read Eve's e-mail on my computer. My daughter and I were finalizing plans for the weekend I was to bring her home from Memphis, Tennessee, where she was finishing her junior year of college. We were hoping to spend the night Sunday with my mother's friend in Germantown, about half an hour's drive from campus. It promised to be a weekend of music and mother-daughter bonding. Then I found out two interesting facts. One was that my mom's friend was out of town. The other was that Derby weekend coincided with the weekend of Eve's leaving college and the music festival. I work as a paramutuels teller at a horse racing track in Kentucky, by the way. We are partially owned by Churchill. Derby Day was and is not negotiable. But life goes on. We planned to attend the portion of the festival on Sunday, at least. Mom wouldn't be coming along, so I'd be in my own car. It would be a pleasant four-hour drive. More e-mails followed. Lorilei: "What should I wear?" Eve: "...shorts and a t-shirt and COMFORTABLE SHOES... it's hot down here now..." Lorilei: "Which t-shirt? Is my Green Eggs and Ham shirt okay?" Eve: "Yeah, whatever, just no Simpson Elementary or anything." Lorilei: "Ah, durn. I can't wear my Red Team shirt ... or my 'I am a TEACHER, not a student' shirt (oops ... never got around to making that one) ... how about a silver-sequined bustier? And some shiny black stretch capri pants with black platform sandals." {NOTE: In summer 2000, Eve considered these remarks silly -- which was my intent -- so she ignored them. In the summer of 2001, however, such an outfit is considered quite fashionable!} Eve: "What's up with the trailer hitch?" Lorilei: "Do you really want to go to the festival with a trailer in tow? I haven't pursued it further. We will park the car in a place where hopefully no one will break into it. Yes, we're going to the festival! I meant that afterward we would start home, if we haven't been able to contact Emily before then. If I get tired, I can catch a cat-nap in one of the rest-stop areas." Eve: "What are we going to do with my couch in the meantime?" (I.E. change in plans, Mom.) Lorilei: "EEK. I was hoping your friend could babysit it. Darn. I'll come up with something. Maybe your dad will let me borrow his truck (oh, joy). Bobby's transmission wouldn't survive the trip, or I'd ask to borrow his. I'll e-mail Jim and Christy now, and I'll call them in the morning." Eve: "grrrrr." Lorilei: "...sorry. I will do this, however. It's the only other thing I know to do. I don't think I can get a trailer hitch installed before the weekend, and I don't relish the thought of driving 500 miles with it, either. Besides... well, anyway, will there be public transportation to the festival so we can leave whatever vehicle parked as far away as possible, or am I living in Fantasyland? (And why don't they have room service?) I would not be happy to come back from the festival to find someone had stolen stuff out of the truck (like said couch). Let me know fast, before I start e-mailing the vehicle request. <3 " After having worked my first Derby Day at Kentucky Downs, taking bets from excited newcomers who made me feel like an old hand at horse-betting by comparison, and wearing a pair of pretty brown high-heeled pumps I rarely wear (and may never wear again), I was tired on Saturday, May 6, 2000. Nevertheless, I grabbed some clothes, stuffed them into my black and purple duffle, and drove to my ex-husband's in the next county to borrow his red pick-up truck. I will never go to Nashville by way of 31E again. A trip that takes about an hour from Franklin stretched out from 9:45 into midnight as I wound through hilly terrain from Scottsville, finally reaching the I-40 west entrance. I got out of range of my favorite Nashville Oldies pop/rock station. Jim's truck tape player made my jazz and Beatles tapes sound like they were playing on a very old AM radio. I finally reached Memphis. It was 3:30 A.M. when I asked campus security to call Eve for me. When I got to her dorm, she didn't meet me downstairs at the door, as I had hoped. Another student took pity on me and let me in. Eve had thought some of the doors would still be open, since everyone was moving out. I slept on my old pal, her couch. (Okay, it's a love seat. I'm five feet tall; I don't need a couch.) Then we got up about four or five hours later. I realized how out of shape I was as I helped Eve carry all her belongings down three flights of stairs. I was even heard to make the wildly sexist remark that I needed to remarry again so we would have some help next time. (Preferably a handsome widower with three teenaged sons who loved moving furniture. Oh, well.) Afterward we walked to meet her friends at a cool little cafe called Dino's. They have WWII memoribilia on the walls. One of the guys commented that John Wayne and Ronald Regan on the same wall made him nervous. As we walked back, I realized my choice of my new adorable Dr. Scholl's walking sandals might have been the wrong one, at least for that day. (Note: Never break in any kind of new shoes on any kind of outing... even if you think you'll be sitting most of the time!) We rode with Eve's former R.A. (resident assistant) Susan in her car to the Beale Street/ Memphis in May Music Festival. We then walked several more blocks to Front Street, and on past Beale Street. It became apparent that Beale Street's music festival wasn't actually ON Beale Street. The park area next to the beach does begin there, however. After we had walked several minutes, I asked, "So, are we in Missippippi yet?" The stage we were heading to was all the way at the other end, of course. I could already hear the lead singer of Cowboy Mouth telling about the hurricane party they'd had in their native New Orleans. |
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| I had never heard Cowboy Mouth before (since, generally speaking, I don't do contemporary music), but they were fun. Eve really likes their music, which they define as "good old southern rock'n'roll!" We were near a stage, on a large wooden floor, so close I could feel the physical impact of the music hitting me, vibrating every bone in my chest as if I wore armor or a shield. I stood unflinching against the force. It was a unique feeling that, at least, distracted me from my aching legs. Eve and I were with Susan, Nia and Seth. The fun was infectious as I watched the energetic college students dancing like there was no tomorrow. |
| But I could not bring myself to jump, shout, and boogie. I was ill-prepared for the marathon I'd been on that weekend, and my legs were sending hate-messages up my spinal column. The request that we all crouch down and then leap into the air screaming almost did me in. The lead singer had promised that it would create an "orgasmic" reaction -- though I personally seemed to remember that experience as different from what I was feeling. "Come on, Mom, dance!" Eve urged. "No!" my feet answered vehemently. I clapped, anyway. By the time we walked back for lemonade, the already-mushy ground had been pulverized into the nastiest mud I have ever seen. Nia and I were making jokes about the cows that had evidently been brought in to provide something to hold the sand together. Judging by the smell (and the location of the port-a-potties), I'd say we weren't far off. I couldn't sit under the tree on the grass with the others as we sipped freshly squeezed lemonade. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stand up again. (Besides, I was wearing some cute creamy-khaki shorts I was sure would be brown-and-green-spotted when I stood up.) And if there was one thing I remembered from high school track, it was that I needed to move around in order to avoid feeling stiff. The place was like a county fair -- being held at Daytona Beach, and with well-known artists performing. Most of the ladies in attendance that time of day were dressed in shorts and camisole tops. Seth was puzzled by the fact that his female companions were running commentary on the girls we saw, not the guys. They said, "We're clothes shopping." Besides, most of the guys I saw were really not worth writing home about. Sad, but true. Let me comment here on something a lot of men just don't get. Often, women watching other women is like men watching other men in their cars. We're like, "Hey, I want to be like that, to look like her. What's she doing right, and can I make it work for me?" I walked around the grounds, looking at kiosks and tents filled with tie-dyed dresses, jewelry, t-shirts, and all manner of wares. The atmosphere was evolved into something more Woodstockesque. I noticed people in Dead-Head garb, men with outrageous tattoos, girls in handkerchief and bikini tops with wrap-around skirts. There were young people I could have sworn were transported through time from 1967 San Francisco (cue Scott Mackenzie...) in copious flowers and beads. Flower children. They were even barefoot. I thought of the mud around the AutoZone stage. (Eeewww -- let's don't go there -- at least, not barefoot, guys!) Of course, there were the authentic hippies, too, or at least former authentic hippies who have become more establishment-friendly in the intervening years. I saw them as I struggled back down towards the AutoZone stage to see and hear Little Richard. I didn't get as close this time, not wishing to become caught in the quicksand. Folks in their twenties (as well as more mature folks) were there to enjoy the performance. |
| Little Richard had invited a few ladies from the audience to come up and dance on stage during one number Above the park, on the hill where Riverside Drive runs, are a row of beautiful houses overlooking the river. On a deck behind one of them was quite a crowd. I'm sure the house owner had invited friends and relatives over to watch. Little Richard seemed to be pleased when he saw the extra audience, so he sang "hello to the people up on the hill!" and told all of us to wave at them. We sang along to "Lucille" and "Tutti-Frutti" before my feet said it was time to move again. |
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| I went in search of Eve and her friends, who were listening to another band. I couldn't find them. I was tempted to go sit near the entrance, where the effects of three or four loudspeaker systems playing different music would be less annoying to my head. When Eve finally foundme sitting in the common area, about 5:45, I was too tired to do anything else. I still had another 250 mile drive ahead of me. I was sorry to drag Eve and Susan away from the festival, I told Eve aside, but I honestly was miserable. "Well, I knew this would happen. I was just hoping you'd have fun first," Eve said sympathetically. "I did have fun. It just got overwhelmed by the other stuff," I explained. We were going to miss Collective Soul, who weren't scheduled until later that night. But Susan philosophically said that she needed to make sure the students from her floor were actually moved out, so they wouldn't be fined by the college. (She would be the only one on her dorm floor that night.) "And I need to do laundry, anyway," Susan added, for good measure. My conscience was clear. We walked back to the car, stopping once on Front Street for me to remove my sandals and check my toes for vital signs. |
| "You're sunburned," I commented to Susan, while I was doing triage. "Yeah, well, in a couple of hours, I'll be brown," she said, sounding pleasantly unconcerned. I knew I was going to be sunburned too, only my red would be showing up about the time hers was changing to a bronze color, and maybe sooner. Normally, I wear sunscreen or sunblock, but those were among the things I had not remembered to pack for my trip. Besides, I had naively thought this event would be taking place in the afternoon and evening, on Beale Street, inside. It was supposed to be jazz, rock, and rhythm and blues in the night, not a beach party! I'm sure this never happened to Gidget. |
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| Eve and I reached home a few hours later, having accomplished my hoped-for bonding experience through a heart-felt discussion of events of the last few months. During most of this time, we gave the radio a rest. But as we approached Music City (Nashville), I tuned in to Oldies 96.3 again. They didn't play Little Richard, but we did hear some old-time rock and roll. the sequel: Gidget Goes to Boot Camp |
| Background courtesy of Leah at the Classic Cafe "Memphis" written by Chuck Berry, sequenced by Frank DiGiovannangelo Return to Lorilei Lee's Page of Art |
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