I swear we didn’t plan it this way. Two days ago, we visited the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, which talked pretty extensively about Elvis’s death and the Day the Music Died. Yesterday, it was 4 hours at Graceland which has the actual dead Elvis. Today? We spent 4 hours absorbed in the assassination of JFK.

Greetings from the Grassy Knoll.

Earl was way too excited about today’s planned Big D Fun Tour and visit to the Sixth Floor Museum when we talked about it over breakfast this morning.

The excitement fueled about 2 hours of Mommy-Daughter Sing-A-Longs in the car on the way to Dallas. Garth, of course. With a dash of “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose It’s Flavor?” thrown in for, well, flavor. There may or may not be video which may or may not ever see the light of day.

We arrived in Dallas just in time to perhaps make the 1:30 trolley tour (we had reservations at 3, but were told they could take us early if our schedule allowed), but I went to the wrong place and we ended up going to the museum first. It was going to be perfect. All the literature said to allow 90 minutes to explore the whole museum. Excellent!

Except I looked at my watch when we were about halfway through and it was 2:50, which meant we had to high tail it out of the Texas-Book-Depository-Turned-JFK-Museum without getting into the nitty gritty of the investigation and conspiracies.

We met the trolley across the street and hopped on board. Our tour guide, Mike, was jovial and helpful, directing us to the coolest seats and quizzing Earl about her interest in history. Then it was on to the main event – a drive through Dallas and that fateful day in 1963.

We began by following the path of Kennedy’s motorcade down Main St, turning onto Houston, then that turn onto Elm and into Dealey Plaza. With great aplomb, Mike recounted the chaos of the second following the shots, then, as the trolley sped off under the Triple Overpass, he switched tracks from JFK’s path to Oswald’s.

We retraced the route of Oswald’s short bus ride, then the cab ride that took him back to the boarding house where he’d been staying.

From there, it was the best-guess path to the spot where Officer J.D. Tippit was killed.

We then went past the Texas Movie Theatre where Oswald was arrested, and the story shifted once more, to Jack Ruby.

I’ve read a lot about the Kennedy assassination. I’ve watched a lot of hours of TV about it. But being there, on the streets, following those paths, seeing all the landmarks I’ve seen in photos and screen my whole life brought it into a stark reality. And Mike told every bit of it with the contagious enthusiasm of the best history teacher you’ve ever had.

After the trolley, Earl and I decided to head back to the museum to finish our exploration there. I decided it was good enough that I’d even pay admission again since our original tickets were clearly marked “No Reentry.” At the counter, I mentioned that we’d had to leave mid-museum for a tour. The woman thought for a moment, asked if I had our tickets and receipt from earlier. I did, and showed her. “Sugar, y’all just go on ahead and pick up where you had to leave off. No need paying for the whole thing again.”

Sweet!

An hour and a trip through the gift shop later, we were back in the car, Earl in her new lipstache sun specs.

Thwarted by Dallas rush hour traffic (“Why do they call it rush hour when there is no rushing?” she kept shouting at the stopped cars around us), we detoured to a Whataburger for our first taste there.

Despite the look, it was a hit. She wants to go back again tomorrow.

But no, my child, tomorrow we haul it across West Texas toward our next time zone.

And our first (hopefully) death-less day.

400 miles in and we are both still alive, which is truly remarkable when you consider how many times today we have listened to Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places (The Long Version).” This is what happens when you let the newly-minted Garth fan control the iPod.

After a quick stop in Nashville for lunch with an old friend, I introduced Earl to the Roadside America app. I navigated the quick rainstorm between Bucksnort, TN, and the Duck River while she explored. So, it figures that our first detour didn’t come from the app, right? We saw a sign for the Tennessee Fresh Water Pearl Museum, and Earl jumped at it. I hopped off the interstate and headed down the little 2-lane.

Looking at the website now, I kinda wish we’d actually stopped. As it stood, we couldn’t find anything about it on Roadside America, and the signs appeared to lead us straight into a trailer park. Now, I have no problem with people who live in trailer parks, but it was wooded and I sewanee there was banjo music, so I pulled a u-ey with Earl saying, “Can you drive faster?”

I proposed a stop in Jackson, TN, at the Casey Jones Village—a place I frequented in the summers of my younger years when I was dragged by my mother and her friends to the annual Miss Tennessee Pageant (Miss America system, not Miss USA, thankyouverymuch). They used to have a pretty cool little ice cream shop and general store. Earl agreed with a bit of a grumble and went back to the app.

“Ooh, Mama! I found somewhere I really want to go!”

Referring to Agreement #2, it was settled: We were detouring from our scheduled detour.

To the International Rockabilly Hall of Fame Museum in Jackson, TN.

That’s Lee Gaugh, our phenomenal tour guide. I’ll admit, our arrival was a little inauspicious. The door was locked despite the “Open” sign, and there was a sign saying to ring the buzzer for a tour. It seemed a bit sketch, but before we could back out, an older gentleman walked up the sidewalk and unlocked the door. There was a group in a room off to the side, and Earl and I kind of stood just inside the door and looked around for a moment. I was plotting our departure when Lee popped out and introduced himself.

It’s not your typical museum. Lee was quick to explain there aren’t any fancy exhibits, but there are lots of stories. And, boy, was he right. He grew up knowing Carl Perkins (who claims Jackson as home), and his tales were a wonderful mixture of legend, personal moments, and sheer history.

Earl was won over the moment Lee said, “Now, when you go to Graceland, one thing they won’t do is open up a display case and let you hold an actual artifact.”

She had no frame of reference for the significance of the blue suede shoes he placed in her hands, but she was duly impressed and obviously petrified she might drop them.

Did you know “Blue Suede Shoes” was written after Carl Perkins was performing in a club and heard a kid warn the girl he was dancing with not to step on his shoes? True story.

We heard tales of the history of rockabilly music, of Elvis and Sun Records, of Jerry Lee Lewis and the Million Dollar Quartet. Then we were led into the Dance Hall where, up on the stage, was a set of drums. They were given to the museum by Elvis’s drummer D.J. Fontana. Lee urged Earl up on stage and handed her a pair of drumsticks donated by Johnny Cash’s drummer W.S. Holland. Then this happened:

We’d only planned to stop for 30 minutes or so, but we were at Rockabilly for an hour and a half. I was certain Earl had been bored by the stories and all the talking, but as we walked out the door, she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. “That was so awesome.”

Hopping back in the car, I agreed with her declaration. “Yeah, that was pretty cool, wasn’t it?”

“It was!” she chirped. “And it was all my idea!”

Yes, my child, it was. What a great idea it was!

Tonight, we’re bedded down in Memphis in a quiet hotel undergoing extensive renovation that seems to indeed be outside of the murder district (knock wood). Tomorrow: Graceland. Then westward we go. Earl’s excited. Once we leave Tennessee, we’ll be in all new-to-her states.

I’m just hoping I get to control the iPod for a bit tomorrow. Clearly, I need to properly introduce her to Rockabilly.