August 5, 2007
Sucker-Punches
A BBC feature on the August 5 1962 death of Marilyn Monroe abruptly called to mind the summer day when I was eight years old and first came to contemplate Dead and what-all that meant.
And I remember exactly where I was standing when I heard the news of Monroe’s death — the front porch of the Dwinnells’ house — just as I recall with stinging clarity later moments . . . November 1963: President Kennedy, then — two weeks later — Grandma Ryan; 1968: too many to list; spring of 1969: both Duncan grandparents, and then come August: Sharon Tate, and then September: my father . . .
And the list rolls on. But those initial hits, though their force may fade, can still sneak up and sucker-punch you.
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I remember where I was when Elvis died. My mom was in the kitchen getting her hair cut and a man came on the television and said the king was dead.
I expect that was kind of confusing, eh?
very.
When Elvis died, I had only very recently moved to Madison, Wisconsin, and the morning after he left the building for ever and always, I was awakened ’round 7:00 am by loud talk concerning his demise from a couple of guys repairing a stretch of walkway just outside my apartment window. Their conversation — disrespectful though not outright mean — called to mind the scenes of low humor in so many of Shakespeare’s plays. It really was an updated version of the gravedigger scene in “Hamlet” — and that is how I will always remember the Death of the King.