It was a hot and steamy July day. I’d invited my mother to spend the afternoon with me. She didn’t know what we were doing, but I had lunch and a movie in mind. I wanted to take her to see Elvis. Besides hearing his songs played, I don’t remember much about Elvis except when they interrupted my afternoon shows to tell us he was dead. I was 9 and was probably watching Gilligan’s Island or Happy Days or something. My mother was of that age though- the generation that had a front row seat to his rise to fame. She remembered when he was first on The Ed Sullivan Show. She’s always thought Elvis was handsome and had a voice that made her swoon. It could be what she saw in my Daddy with his thick, black hair pushed back. Who knows. I guess you could say she was definitely a fan. Not the kind that would’ve had Elvis salt and pepper shakers on the table, or kept a candle burning near a framed velvet portrait, or thought she’d spotted his face browned into her morning toast, but just the regular kind of fan that enjoyed his music and thought he was easy on the eyes. 

We enjoyed a nice lunch. Got the vegetable plate to offset the meat overload of Independence Day. We stopped in a few shops near the restaurant and then headed to the movie. It was a Tuesday afternoon. The day after a holiday. I was sure we’d be among very few there. We rounded the corner to the theater and found out just how wrong I was. There were women. Older women. Hordes of them. As far as the eye could see. It was a virtual sea of post-menopausals. Grasping their printed tickets. Clutching their purses. Waiting in line for popcorn and Raisinets. Running in and out of the restroom before they went to take their seats. Mama and I had already taken our bathroom break before we even got there as she’d reminded me that it was going to be a long movie and we’d just had all of that tea with lunch and the theater restroom might not be so clean. Once we got there, I offered to buy popcorn and drinks, but she pointed out that it would just make us have to visit the ladies’ room again. It was like I had wandered up in the middle of the filming of an “At Progressive, we can’t keep you from becoming your parents” commercial. 

We made our way to the theater and found our assigned seats. The theater was quite full and I only saw two men in there. No, this was a movie for the ladies. And here they came. Coming in groups- some with canes and walkers- all with big purses. They were using their phone lights to maneuver the dark aisles. Getting situated. Getting their feet elevated to the right height and their head reclined without spilling the overpriced popcorn. You could tell they’d been waiting for this a long time. Despite the reminders on the big screen, there were the errant flip phone rings during the show. It obviously took a while to dig them out of those big purses and then to find the right button to silence them. There was the occasional whooping out loud when Elvis would be looking especially handsome. There was a lot of “whispering” in normal speaking voices. And the older lady next to me thought she’d join him in singing one of his songs at the end. Everyone knows how much fellow moviegoers love that. 

The movie was over and everyone sat there a minute. Then it happened. The audience started clapping. I really felt the Progressive parent commercial coming alive then and wanted to step in for Dr. Rick and say, “No one who made the movie is here.” We exited weaved our way back through the lobby. The ladies were all heading back to the restroom. Trying to find their groups. Throwing away their popcorn tubs. We passed one poor woman who was off by herself with tears in her eyes. She was needing a minute. 

It was a really good movie. Even being outside the Elvis generation, I really enjoyed it. It was done very well. He wasn’t from my decade, but his same story has been replayed plenty of times in musical icons from my day. People with extraordinary talent who achieved crazed fame and it not ending well. I don’t think the human brain can process or manage the pressure that comes with it. Every generation has their big stars. Their heartthrobs. Never to be fully understood by the next generation. But, every generation will eventually become their parents. Just like the commercial says. Symptoms may appear gradually over a period of many years before the full blown transformation takes place. My son-in-law calls me Joni Sr. -insinuating he’s married to the junior. Sometimes, I hear myself say something or catch a glimpse of an expression on my face and I can just feel my mother spilling out of my pores. Progressive can’t help us, so may we be parents worth transforming into and may we be grateful for those parents we’re becoming. 

Happy Thursday! 

JONI