Drama on the Road to Graceland

“Elvis is dead,” says our Graceland tour guide, Sheila. “We don’t know why people keep saying he is alive. He is dead.”

“But what about all those photographs and Bill Bixby’s ‘Elvis Files’? “ we ask. “Enquiring tourists want to know!”

Sheila pauses, considers the question and answers quite seriously. “The people in those photographs are probably impersonators,” she says.

This, our arrival on the hallowed grounds of Graceland, ends the mid-South leg of our three-month-long journey through America. From Texas to Tennessee in 10 days: Toto, this is definitely not California.

Here, in the South, it seems that just about everyone drives a pickup truck. There are no joggers or power walkers. Canning and pickling gear is a supermarket staple. Women wear pink curlers out in public. We pay for gas after we pump it, and grocery boys carry bags to our car and won’t take a tip.

But best of all is the Southern hospitality, as finger-lickin’ good as the all-you-can-eat biscuits and gravy at the Rainbow Diner on Kickapoo Spur in Shawnee, Okla.

Back in Texas, grassy plains, small farmhouses and truck stops were our companions along Interstate 40 as our little sedan streaked east, past a “ranch” of Cadillacs.

What was that? Our heads turn.

Sprouting out of a wheat field a few miles before Amarillo are 10 aqua-blue Cadillacs, spray-painted with graffiti and buried in dirt up to their windshields.

We stop and take a short walk into the field along a well-worn path.

“Did they crash?” asks our 5-year-old, Henri.

“No, this is art,” we explain.

We find a great little wilderness campground 40 miles east of Amarillo at Lake McLellan National Grasslands. Owls serenade us to sleep and the rat-tat-tat of woodpeckers wakes us up.

But camping in a strange place can leave the nerves on edge.

Forest noises sound like footsteps, a bird’s cry is like the sharpening of a knife. And then before you know it, your imagination is running wild into another “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” sequel.

We wake up safe and sound in Texas, but our next night in Oklahoma becomes the Paget’s version of a B-rated horror film.

To set the scene: The humidity rises, smiles widen and just about everyone we meet makes us feel like we are part of their family. There is so much friendliness, it prompts a strange reaction from city people like us. It makes us nervous.

We listen as accents twang like rubber bands pulled tight. Our AM radio picks up country tunes such as “All My Old Flames Have New Names” and “She Took It Just Like a Man.”

At our lakeside campsite in Roman Nose State Park (seriously) east of Oklahoma City, we meet and fish with local angler Glen Richardson and his extended family of about a dozen relatives and friends.

It is after 10 o’clock when we say good night to the Richardsons and prepare for bed.

The comforting trill of 100 singing crickets under a full moon is broken by the sound of a van pulling up about 300 yards away, near a street light and a closed bait shop.

We watch through our tent window as a car parks next to it and a truck drives up.

What are they up to out here in the forest, late at night?

We contemplate taking turns to stand lookout.

“Why are they waiting there?” we ask ourselves.

We are thinking the worst. Is it some strange Oklahoma cult planning to rob and leave us for dead?

We make sure the carving knife is handy, and slowly fall into an uneasy sleep.

The noise and bright lights of an approaching car wakes us. The brakes squeal outside our tent and our minds rush to the horror movie scenario in which we are victims. The killers have come for us!

Bursting out of the tent in our underwear, ready to take on the intruders on open ground, we see fisherman Glen Richardson standing in front of his car, holding a flat pink object, perched on aluminum.

“We brought you a cake, Dale,” he says. “Heard it was your 30th birthday.”

The cake is still warm and we are the most relieved tourists in America.

We eat the cake and pose for a birthday photograph: “Smile and say ‘ax murderer.’ ” We all laugh.

Glen takes a drive by the bait shop and finds that there is a public telephone around the corner, the reason for the parked cars and commotion. After constantly offering the hospitality of their home, as a substitute for more nights of nervousness, our Oklahoma friends say goodby.

A little embarrassed, we--the brave American explorers--make a mental note to stay in more populated campgrounds in the future.

In the middle of a highway on-ramp near our next scenic campground at Oklahoma’s Fountain Head State Park, we stop and pick up a hitchhiking turtle.

“Can I keep him?” Henri asks.

Henri and Matilda take turns holding the plastic bowl, home to their new companion. But laughter and delight changes quickly to terror as the turtle escapes onto their laps.

“Ahhh!” screams Henri.

“Ahhh!” yells Matilda.

“Mommy!” they both shout, prudently asking for the parent best at dealing with crises.

After an hour of fun and fear, we recapture the turtle and set it free, telling the children that our highway rescue efforts prevented him from becoming turtle soup.

We cross the state line into Arkansas, “The Natural State:” Bill and Hillaryville.

On the lookout for at least one massive sign, such as “Welcome to Bill Clinton’s State” or “Good Luck Billy,” we drive for well over two hours before seeing a “Clinton for President” sticker on a car.

The terrain is also a surprise. The “Scenic Seven” route to Hot Springs winds through rich mountain forests, past deep blue lakes and over rocky streams.

We stop at the Piggly Wiggly supermarket for provisions. We are amused as we remember it was a Piggly Wiggly that Jessica Tandy sent Morgan Freeman to for groceries in the movie “Driving Miss Daisy.”

The city of Hot Springs is an introduction to the grand Old South. Majestic bathhouses line the main street where wealthy Americans came in droves during the ‘20s to soak in the near-boiling hot spring water as a cure for problems ranging from arthritis to syphilis.

There is an informative free tour at the Hot Springs National Park Fordyce bathhouse, and we fill up our water bottles at the public hot spring fountain in town.

Several bathhouses still operate and offer full packages, including baths, steams and massages for about $25.

After more than a week of camping and driving, our recovery night at the Holiday Inn in downtown Memphis could not have come sooner.

“We going to see Avis,” Matilda announces the next day.

“No, its Elvis,” we say.

The $7.95 tour of Graceland (children 4-12 are $4.75) is a necessary extravagance on our recession voyage.

Graceland is smaller than we imagined, but the legend of “The King” is larger than ever. About 300,000 people a year tour the former home of the man who has become a national obsession.

Our guide, Sheila, likes Elvis but admits to being a card-carrying member of the James Dean fan club.

“Does anyone live in Graceland,” we ask?

“An aunt lives upstairs,” Sheila tells us. “She comes down at night after the tours are over.”

Very strange, we think.

“I want to pway on the swings,” Matilda cries as we walk by Lisa Marie Presley’s roped-off swing set. Elvis’ daughter inherits Graceland when she turns 25, next year, our guide advises us. But the tours will continue for at least the next five years.

The tour includes Elvis’ grave site, his den, television room, lounge, dining room and wardrobe of costumes. And it gets pretty crowded in the tiny hallways of Graceland.

“Ouch,” a Southern woman next to us says as a man bumps into her.

“Didn’t even say sorry,” she says with a frown. “He must be from California.”