Paula, the Kings and I

Tomorrow marks the 3rd anniversary of the death of Michael Jackson. I liked Mike, the younger version. I have a couple of his albums, danced to Thriller in my high-school-dance-class days, and thought he was cute and extremely talented. As he got older, he just got weird. But still, when I learned of his early death, I mourned for the passing of the Michael of my youth.

It's funny how you'll never forget where or what you were doing when certain events took place. For example, I'm sure everyone remembers where they were the day the twin towers came tumbling down. If I were 10 years older, I'm sure I would remember what I was doing when Pres. Kennedy was shot. I even remember where I was when I heard the news that Elizabeth Smart had been found.

I remember where and what I was doing when I learned of the sad news that the King of Pop, and the King of Rock had both died. And both times I was at Paula's house.

My cousin Paula and I are only 2 days apart. When I was younger, I took pride in the fact that I was the older one, a fact I don't brag about anymore. We spent many a summers sharing a week at each other's homes growing up. I remember I loved going to her house, she had a purple room all to herself. I had to share my purple and pink room with my sister. She lived in the valley where the streets were flat and perfect for bicycle riding, made even more fun because she had a bicycle built for two! I lived on a hill where riding a bike was more exercise than it was fun. She had a Circle-K convenience store within walking distance where we could load up on penny candy. I had a 7-11 located at the bottom of several very long hills. Paula had a cat. I had a dog. Everything that I loved about going to Paula's house, she probably loved the opposite about coming to stay at mine.

It was in August of 1977 during the end of one such stay that I learned that Elvis Presley had died. My Mom came to pick me up, and as I was loading my stuff in the back of the car she told me they found Elvis dead on his bathroom floor that day. I was sad. I liked Elvis, the younger version. I had a couple of his albums, had danced to the tunes of Jail House rock in my younger entertain-my-sisters-by-making-up-dances-with-them days, loved the old Elvis movies, and thought he was extremely handsome and talented. As he got older, he just got fat and weird. But still, I mourned for the passing of the Elvis of his youth.

Fast forward, June 25, 2009. Paula and I got together to celebrate our birthdays. Trey and I met at her house to enjoy lunch; our boys played together while we got caught up on our lives. Chelsea called on my cell to tell me Farrah Fawcett had died, another icon from my Charlies Angels feathered haired days. I knew about Farrah, the news was on the radio on my way over to Paula's. But then she dropped the bomb-shell..."Did you hear about Michael Jackson? He died." 

Sadly, I couldn't tell you where I was or what I was doing when I heard about the passing of Pres. Hinkley, or any of the prophets for that matter. Not sure what that says about my character or where my priorities lie. Maybe the events with Elvis and Michael stick out in my mind not because of who they were, but because of who I was with. Paula has always been such a dear cousin and sweet friend. I love her and wish we could find time to spend more of it together.

Happy Birthday Paula! Let's do lunch...if we dare.