Elvis Lives! (In the Suburbs)

On Saturday morning, I am woken up by Elvis and bagpipes. I lean over to see if my alarm clock is stuck between radio stations, soon realizing that I hadn’t set an alarm. It is Saturday. Saturday equals sleep for me.

Perplexed, I get out of bed and peek through my curtains. And there he is, in all his glory: Elvis – clad in a white bedazzled, studded shirt with the collar flipped up, and matching white bellbottom pants with a belt that you could see from space. Yes indeed, Elvis is alive and he is crooning, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” at my window.

The bagpipes are about twenty feet away from Elvis (not far enough). I am having flashbacks of my childhood: my mother drilling our Scottish heritage into my head by means of endless recordings of her favorite pipers and my father trying to instill in me what “real” music should sound like by playing LPs of Elvis, playing along with his guitar. I watch the pipers, and in my head, I go through the motions of Scottish country dancing – ugh. I turn my focus back to Elvis, and I swear one of my legs starts to wiggle, but it may just be pre-caffeine jitters.

I have never thought to imagine the King of Rock ‘n Roll and a band of twelve pipers go head-to-head for the spotlight on a suburban street in May. Nor what they are here for in the first place. I just moved to the suburbs after living in the city my entire life. In the city, Elvis might make an appearance, but only in the form of an over-confident, slightly inebriated fan, after closing time at the karaoke bar. But pipers? Not so much. I’m at a loss, so I walk into my den, where my community calendar is pinned up on a corkboard on the back panel of my workstation hutch. I flip through the calendar as I rub the sleep out of my eyes.

The May Day Parade! Upon realizing this, I am perhaps a little over zealous, but I have never really lived in a community before – the only parades I’ve gone to are more like protests than anything else. Wrapping my duvet cover around my shoulders, and with slippers on my feet, I visit the coffee maker for my essential caffeine kick (which did help my leg stop swaying) and then head for the deck.

One of the beauties of living in suburbia is that I have a rooftop deck – not a tiny Juliette balcony that looks out to a concrete alley between city blocks that I can only fit on if I lean up against the wall. No, this deck is huge and amazing and now that I can fit more than a body on my deck, I have completely spoiled both this deck and myself with stunning, quality patio furniture. But what feels like the greatest thing about this deck today is that it has a perfect view of the entire parade.

The parade lasts for a good hour and a half. Elvis and the piping band are followed by heaps of different community groups – from kids’ sports teams and school bands to War Veterans and vintage cars to Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. When all that is left is a few lonesome streamers and candy wrappers, I get up from my porch swing, head inside to my couch to catch up on the sleep that Elvis interrupted, with a smile on my face and an old song in my head.