4th July 1956, Wednesday

[Graeme]

Day number 7849Site Date Map

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Al's Edit:These photos were all included as one with yesterdays, 3rd July, and not stopped and rebegun under today. They have been now. I'll gradually insert quotes from Al Wertheimer to go with the images which will also help me put them in the right order eventually.
      

      “Good morning, Colonel, how are you today?”
      “Good morning, Wertheimer, see you made it. Sit down, have some breakfast.”
      He always called me “Wertheimer.” He said it like a sergeant says “Atten-hut.” The last time I had been known as “Wertheimer” was during my two year stint in the army four years earlier. This time I didn’t say, “Yes, sir.” I said, “I think I will.”
      The Colonel pulled the paper in front of his face and continued to read. After the black waiter had taken my order, I looked over the front page. The headline of the Knoxville Journal declared “Integration Tied to School Bill.” The secondary headline read “Hungary Declares Independence.” It was July 4th.
      I tried following the lead story but the Colonel lowered the newspaper so that he could peek over its top. He was about to say something but, instead, quickly jerked the paper up in front of his face and whispered a command.
      “Wertheimer.”
      “Yes, Colonel?”
      “Listen to me. Ask me a question, any question but just call me Colonel and say if loud. Now.”
      With a full voice appropriate to addressing a chief of staff, I declared,
      “Uh, well, now, Colonel . . .
      As I said “Colonel,” | heard a snap behind me. Two crew-cut paratroopers in parade dress, their pants tucked info gleaming black boots, stood at attention with a smart salute. The Colonel dropped his paper, returned a casual salute and directed, “At ease, gentlemen, at ease. Have a good breakfast.”
      They answered in unison. “You, too, sir.”
      The troopers proceeded up the aisle to a table. I could see the light in the Colonel’s eyes as he looked over the edge of the paper. His day had started out right. I didn't learn unil later that the Colonel's title had not been earned in the armed forces but was an honorary title bestowed by the govenor of Tennessee in 1953.
      On his way out of the dining car, the Colonel took one more opportunity as he passed the paratroopers. “Enjoying your breakfast gentlemen?”
      “Yes, sir. Have a good morning, sir.”
      “You, too, ya hear.”

      We pulled into Chattanooga shortly after seven o'clock that morning. There was an hour left to kill before we changed to the day local to Memphis.
      In the lobby of the train station, Elvis wandered over to the newspaper stand to survey the collection of men’s magazines, comic books and movie pulps. Modern Screen caught his eye. Without saying a word to the two young women behind the counter, he brought the magazine across the lobby and borrowed a pen from Junior, who always had a shirt pocket full of pens, and wrote on a page in the middle.
      On top of the stacks of candy bars, Elvis laid open the magazine to what was now an autographed story about himself. He turned and looked at me, as if to say, watch this. To the two women running the stand, he said, “That's for you.” They looked at the photos, then at Elvis in his suit, white shirt and tie, and again at the photos. The woman at the cash register said, “Are you Elvis Presley?”
      Elvis rubbed his hands together and said casually, “Yeah, I'm Elvis Presley. That's me.”
      He pointed 1o hus pictures. They took turns looking curiously at the magazine while they served other customers. The woman at the register looked as if she didn’t know whether to say thanks or ask for a quarter.
      Elvis said, “You buy any of my records?”
      She answered cautiously. “Yes."
      He grinned. “That's nice. That's for you, honey.”
      She gave him a half-hearted thanks, stll not convinced that he was Elvis Presley. Elvis nodded and walked away, happy that he had started his day right.
      While Elvis finished his breakfast in the station shop, the rest of us waited in the main lobby.

A porter walked by. The Colonel rose from his seat, raised his cigar hand and called, “Eh, Portah? Portah?”
      The porter, a tall black man in his forties, replied with grace. “Yassuh.”
      The Colonel reached his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out some bills. They were folded, so it was unclear how many dollars he held. Using the cash between his thumb and forefinger as a pointer he instructed the porter.”
      Portah, you see these bags here.” The Colonel pointed his hand at some luggage near the bench.
      “Yassuh."
      “We're going on the eight o’ clock train to Memphis and it should be here soon. Could you toke these bags?”
      “Yassuh.”
      “And there’s some musical instruments out on that handcart on the platform.” The Colonel pointed the money at the door. “And youl see a teddy bear with them, a large teddy bear. Just make sure that they all get on that train.”
      “Yassuh.”
      "You do that now, ya hear?”
      “Yassuh.”
      “And if you need some help, that's fine, you get some help.”
      “Yassuh.”
      The porter pulled over a small handcart, picked up the load of luggage and wheeled it out the door. The Colonel tucked the folded bills into his coat pocket.
      A voice over the public address system garbled destinations. I heard Memphis announced. On the plattorm, Elvis, D.J., Junior and Bill gathered around Scotty and his pocket calendar and discussed upcoming dates. The number thirty-five day local to Memphis coasted in, and as Elvis climbed on first, I saw the Colonel marching up the platform with the porter at his side.
      “Now, Portah, did you make sure that all of the luggage got on the train?”
      “Yassuh. I got one o’ the other boys ta help me.”
      “That's good. That's very good.”
      The Colonel mounted the car. The porter stood patiently on the platform. As he turned to face the porter, the Colonel reached into his coat pocket and, with a closed fist, laid the payoff in the grip of the porter’s hand.
      “Thank you, Portah.”
      When the porter unraveled the folded money, he discovered it was a single dollar bill. Saying “you” like it was a curse, he sarcastically replied, “Thank you, Suh.”
      The sarcasm was wasted on the Colonel. The porter shrugged it off and joined the other man who had been helping him.
      I had heard that the Colonel was a man of his word. It seems he took that quite literally. He hadn’t signed any contract with the porter.

      Elvis spent the morning reading Archie comic books, looking out the window and combing his hair. At one point, tired of the comics, Elvis fidgeted and nervously pumped his leg. The conductor wandered by and asked him, “You nervous, son?” Elvis looked at him blankly and said, “Yes, sir.”

      After consuming two orders of Southern fried chicken picked up in Sheffield, Alabama, Elvis took a stroll with his teddy bear, a hefty panda the size of a chair. Haltway down the aisle, he found a couple of prospects. One was a brunefte in a polka dot dress; the other was a blonde in a flower print. Both were in their early twenties. The blonde had
his atftention.
      “Hi there, how are you?” Elvis asked her.
      With the proper distance of a Southern lady, she replied, “We're pretty fine.”
      Elvis leaned on the seat in front of them and presented his furry friend. “l want you to meet my teddy bear.”
She smiled politely and obliged, “Hello, teddy bear.”
      Elvis pressed on, as if he were the host of Romper Room and she was his guest. “Teddy would like to know your name.”
      She played along. “My name is Cindy Lou.”
      The brunette had been watching this exchange with a mild skepticism, looking as if she had heard some lines before, but this beat them all. Elvis turned his charm on her.
      “What's your name?”
      She answered matter-of-factly, "My nome is Ann.” Out of courtesy more than curiosity, Ann returned the question. “What's your nome?”
      “My name is Elvis.”
Now she was curious. “Are you Elvis Presley?”
      “Yeah, that’s me.”
      “Really?”
      “Yeah, there’s a photographer.”
      That made it a fact. Ann didn’t know what to do. “That's nice.”
      Elvis tried to move things along. “I'm going home to see the folks. We'll be doing a benefit tonight at Russwood Park. You going to Memphis?”
      The blonde now spoke. *No, we'll be getting off before Memphis.”
      “Too bad you can’t be there. It would be nice to see you.”
      “We sure would like to be there.”
      “Maybe I'll see you later.”
      They both smiled graciously and said good-bye.
      Elvis wandered up the aisle with the teddy bear on his hip and took a drink from the water cooler. As he walked back down the aisle, he held the, teddy bear in front of him. As he passed the two women, he moved the teddy bear 1o his side, and like a ventriloquist with his dummy said, “Hi, y'all” as he breezed on. The brunette peeked around the seat to see if Elvis looked back. He didn’t. The two giggled. It was hard to tell if they were laughing at him or his joke.

      On the other side of Grand Junction, Tennessee, Elvis woke from a catnap. I was seated across from him, reading Life and keeping watch. The Colonel was across the aisle, an unlit cigar in his mouth chatting with Tom.
      It had been like musical chairs the entire trip. You had your seat as long as your body filled it. Otherwise, it was fair game, and at this point, I was in the seat the Colonel had occupied earlier.
      Elvis got up and leaned over to me. With his eyes, he toId me to keep quiet. He grabbed the Colonel's hat from the luggage rack above me and obscuring the hat with his body, sauntered past the Colonel into the hallway toward the lounge. I was ready for a soft-shoe number.      Wearing the hat at a rakish tilt, Elvis paraded down the hallway, exaggerating the Colonel's imperious drawl, “Now, y'all, y'all hear this. Now y'all make sure...”
      The Colonel didn't get it. He wasn't paying any attention. He was busy gabbing.
      Elvis returned the hat. The Colonel interrupted himself, looked at the hat, realized it was his, stuck it on his head and carried on where he had left off. Elvis looked at me and threw his hands up. Better luck next time. I thought about suggesting a paratrooper outfit but kept it to myself.

As he approached home, Elvis tucked his shirt in, straightened his tie, combed his hair and washed his hands. There weren't any paper towels.

      At a stop in a rural suburb of Memphis that wasn't much more than a grass field turning yellow and a signpost that read “White,” the Colonel let his boy go with a pat on the back and instructons to say hello to his Ma and to be good. Elvis swept his hair back and stepped off the train carrying only his records.
      We pulled out in the direction of downtown Memphis. Elvis, still dressed in his suit and white knit tie, drifted through the burrs and foxtails, wondering which way to go. When he reachecd the sidewalk at the edge of the field, a black matron gave him directions. With a wave to us, and a smile that could be seen for a hundred yards, Elvis walked home alone.

[Alan]

1034 Audubon Drive was a postwar suburban home that could have been built for any Gl-made-good anywhere in the country. The late afternoon sun highlighted a typical American house: pastel green board-and-batten siding, slate-grey filed
roof, red brick trim, white windows decorated with black shutters and a black ranch-style front door. A freshly cut lawn grew from the sidewalk to the front door, which looked rarely used. No well-worn path ran to the front porch. The occupants were as recent as the hedge saplings in the brick planter on the face of the house.
      There were no picket fences or brick walls. It was a neighborhood of family homes and manicured lawns whose only boundaries were driveways and trees.
      On the left side of the house was a carport sheltering two late model Cadillacs, one pink, one white, and a crowd: young mothers with babies in diapers, littlle girls with flowers in their hair, local boys and young women dressed in their best.
      I edged by the gathering toward the side door. A graceful young blonde in a white dress answered my ring and invited me info the kitchen. Elvis had changed from his coat and tie into a collarless shirt and motorcycle cap. He had his arms around a stout woman in a baggy housedress. Her features, round and soft from age, deepened her eyes.
      The blonde closed the door and quietly stepped aside. I greeted Elvis. He looked at me and said, "Ma, this is the photographer I was telling you about who was up in New York with me.”
      “How do you do, Mrs. Presley.”
      In a subdued, kind voice, she said, “Come in.”
      I thanked her, set my gear down and returned to my range finder. It was a family kitcheh. Doors of the veneered cabinets were ajar, the formica counfers were cluttered with cereal bowls and drinking glasses. Elvis rolled up his sleeves and said, “Ma, I'm going out. I'm gonna drive around a little on my motorcycle.”
      Gently, she said, “You be careful now ”
      He put his arm around her, and said in the voice of assurance that every boy has used on his mother, “lt's, okay, ma. I'm a big boy.”
      She fiddled with something in her hands. “Are you sure you don't want something to eat?”
      “No, ma, I'm not hungry.”
      “Well, if you do, just let me know.”
      “I'll see you later.”
      Elvis gave the blonde a good-bye kiss on the lips and went out the door to the backyard. His mother addressed me. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of milk or some soda?”
      “No, thank you. I would just like to put my camera bag somewhere.”
      She directed me to the den, a ranch-style room with a beamed stucco ceiling, dark wooden wails, venetion blinds and an odd mixture of Victorian and 1950’s overstuffed furniture. It looked like the catchall for what didn't fit in the rest of the house. On a card table next fo a standing ashtray was a portable phonograph buried under a litter ofrecord jackets and notebooks. Newspapers filled a metal rack. A sewing table supported potted plants and paper bags. The walls held a plastic kitchen clock, a corncob pipe, a set of longhorns and Elvis’ high school diploma. For “having sustained a cor- rect moral deportment,” L. C. Humes High School had “entitled” Elvis Aron Presley to a “testimonial” on the third of June 1953.
      Mrs. Presley showed me a corner for my stuff. I wanted her to know I was interested in her son. “You know, Mrs. Presley, I've been with Elvis for the last few days and he's a very interesting man. He kind of runs you ragged though. He's always doing something.”
      “Yes, he is a little nervous.”
      “Oh, I don't mean nervous. He's just always busy.”
      “Well, he has a lot to do.”
      She escorted me to the living room, a showcase of popular contemporary design: wide, thick chairs overlaid with bamboo leaves or tumbling ferns, blond split-level tables, a blond hi-fi console, brass standing ashtrays, two television sets (another was in the den) and white drapes splotched with some abstract design borrowed from Joan Miro. Scattered around were stuffed animals: tigers, monkeys, bears, dogs.
      Hanging on the blond paneled wall next to the drapes was an oil copy of the “collectors edition” publicity photo, a dreamy Elvis with his cheek resting against his clasped hands, his lips full, his eyes looking intimately at the viewer. A lamp was attached to the top of the gilt frame.
      All the other frames on the wall were his awards. These were what his mother wanted me to see. There was a Cash Box Award of 1955 for the “Most Promising Up and Coming Country Male Vocalist,” a Disc Jockey Award from Billboard for being “Most Promising,” also 1955, a Billboard Triple Crown Award for “Heartbreak Hotel” and finally, the big money, his first gold record, awarded in April 1956. The excitement of a mother’s pride lifted her deep eyes and, for a moment, gave Gladys Presley a joyful youth she seemed to have missed.
      In the backyard, which was a ranging field bordered by a thick stand of trees at its rear, a swimming pool was being filled with a garden hose. From the brick patio, I saw the three-foot-high fence of the carport contain more than thirty people. They were watching Elvis, who was jumping up and down in the midst of another group on the far side of the yard.
      He couldn't start the motorcycle. A chubby friend straddled the front wheel of the Harley to keep it steady, holding on to the handlebars and pressing his belly into the headlight. Elvis jumped on the starter again. No luck. He kept trying until his shirt stuck to his back, and when he finally took a breather he said, “Some days, things just don’t go right.”
      The girls who were standing by, all dressed up and holding their purses and Brownie cameras seized the opportunity for some autographs. The boys looked exasperated, as if they had business to take care of. Elvis had to get a motorcycle started, why are you bothering the man with this stuff? As far as the girls were concerned, they couldn't care less. They didn’t want their man going anywhere.
      A man in a checked shirt and dark slacks crossed the grass. His handsome face with square jaw and high forehead under blond wavy hair made him look younger than his years. He was about the Colonel's age but without his weight. His name was Vernon Presley.
      He said, “Having problems, son?”
      “Yeah, Daddy. Daddy, can you go get me a wrench?”
      After Elvis had given a few autographs, his dad arrived with the wrench, got down on his hands and knees and took care of the problem. Elvis kicked it over and the engine popped into motion.

      The carport crowd commented “doesn’t he look good” and “doesn’t he look healthy” as “Elvis wheeled the bike out of the driveway. He signed some more autographs, took on a young boy as passenger and rapped down the street. Ma kept vigil.
      When he returned, I asked him, “Elvis, how about taking me for a ride around the block and then I can get some pictures of you in action?”
      He didn't hesitate. “Hey, that's a good idea. I like that.”
      I handed my second camera and spare film to the young boy as I took his place on the back.
      The city block I had in mind turned out to be a country mile. While we shot down the road, Elvis pointed out the sights. I couldn’t pay any attention, I was trying to hold on to my camera with one hand and my life with the other. I looked at the speedometer. It read “50.” Riding in a car moving at fifty miles an hour doesn't seem that fast but, on a motorcycle, it feels like a hundred
      “Elvis, can you slow down a liftle bit?” I asked.
      “Going foo fast for ya?”
      “It's jiggling the camera.”
      We slowed down, but not because I asked. The motor started coughing, and then it died. We coasted to the side of the road in front of a few isolated storefronts closed for the Fourth of July. There wasn't a gas station in sight.
      Elvis walked to the dividing line and looked up and down the road. I was more concerned than he was. I had run out of film and was enraged af myself for losing the great “running out of gas” story.
      “Elvis, what do we do?”
      “Don’t worry about a thing.”
      “Whaddya mean don't worry about a thing. You're out of gas. You want me to go and get some gas? Tell me where the gas station is and I'll bring some back,”
      “Just sit tight and don't worry about a thing.”
      He stood by the side of the road. A few cars drove by. Then a Chevy skowed down and poulled up next to the motorcycle. The driver was a young woman with her five-year-old girl. Elis tipped his cap, leaned on the driver's window, looked into her eyes, and in a drawl, sweet and soft, he said, “Ma'am, I'm outta gas. Would you be kind enough to bring some back?”
      I couldn't tell if she recognized him or not. She just nodded and drove off. I was a bit skeptical.
      “Elvis, how do you know she's going to come back?”
      “She'll be back.”
      “But how do you know?"
      I know.”
      I couldn’t say much to that. All I could do was watch Elvis kick pebbles.
      Minutes later, she arrived with a yellow jerry can. If this was Southern hospitality, I was impressed. My city-wise suspicion had informed me that she would never be back.
      Elvis met her halfway, took the can without uttering a word and emptied it into the tank. With my handkerchief, he wiped off the gas that spilled on the paint job. She held the can while he jumped on the Harley and started it.
      Letting the motorcycle idle, he took her hand and escorted her to the car, explaining, I gotta get back to the house, some people are waiting for me.” He kissed her cheek. I thought he was a little too forward but she received it as only natural. As she got behind the wheel, Elvis walked around the car and kissed the little girl. They waved goodbye and drove away. I thought they deserved more than a good-bye kiss.
      “Elvis, | could have given her some money.”
      “Don’t worry about it. It's okay, she didn’t want any money. She wouldn’t have taken it anyway.”
      When we returned to the house, Elvis’ mother was waiting at the edge of the driveway. Concerned that her son might have been splattered on the highway, she asked what happened. Elvis' explanation was direct and to the point, “We ran out of gas,” and without another word, he drove into the carport with the crowd trailing behind. He didn’t waste words with his mother, either.

[Alan]

      The warm afternoon air lay still under a ninety degree weight. Mother and grandmother relaxed under an umbrella on the pafio. Little girls sat on the edge of the pool apron watching the boys play in water that was shallow because the pump didn’t work and the garden hose was slow. A small group of teencgers viewed the backyard play from the shade of the carport.
      Since I had arrived, the carport had become the fans’ designated area, and though they were well-behaved, they were steadfast. The Presleys’ calmly accepted this constant oudience.
      Elvis trotted out in his trunks, dove into the pool and, as soon as he surfaced, was tackled by one of his young mates. Elvis pushed him away. “Bobby wait a minute, hold it, don't” Bobby recoiled, his hands against his chest. Elvis shook the water from his arm. He had forgotten to take off his watch.
      Instead of leaving the pool and drying off the watch with the towel he had tossed at its side, he yelled for his mother. Mrs. Presley promptly left her chair on the patio and scurried down the grassy incline.
      “What is it, son?”
      “Ma, I left my watch on.”
      He removed his watch and met his mother at the edge of the pool. Bobby and a couple of boys gathered round to await the verdict. As she examined the watch, Elvis asked, “Ma, is it still working?”
      “I'll see, son.”
      She dried it off with her dress and held it fo her ear. "l think it'll be fine son. I'll take care of it.”
      Elvis let out a rebel yell, splashing and wrestling his younger playmates with glee. In the three-foot-deep water they all looked like kids who had just discovered a watering hole. It was the first time I had seen him really relax.
      When Dad tested the water, Elvis invited him to join the fun. “Come on, Dad.”
      Dad shook his head. “Not right now, son.”
      While the boys pounced on Elvis, Dad wandered to the edge of the pool and stood alone, treading his hands slowly through the cold water.
      Elvis in his swimming pool was a good picture story for the fan magazines, so I borrowed a swimsuit from Mrs. Presley and waded in with the camera. Everybody carried on like I was just another relative taking snapshots.
      From the pool, the center of activity moved to the den. The kids milled around waiting for the next event. Elvis took a phone call. The only phone in the house was located in the hallway that led to the bathroom and the bedrooms. It was placed at the botiom of a shelf rack that was a landing area for odds and ends: old newspapers, a spare light bulb, an empty candy box, a plastic red phone body studded with rhinestones and a photo album.
      Dad was in the bathroom shaving, the door wide open. When I took his picture, he said, “But I got shaving cream on.”
      I told him it was all right. He rinsed off his razor and smiled, “Well, if that’s what you want, okay.”

      Elvis hung up. Ma gave her boy a fresh pair of jockey shorts, and in return, he gave her a kiss on each cheek.
      While Elvis was in the shower, I asked his mother if I could photograph the family album. The possibilities that the family pictures might be spread from coast to coast didn't seem to faze her. It was “go right ahead if you want to.” She was just being polite, but I wondered how a house this open could remain a home.

      As I finished recording the family snapshots, I heard "Don’t Be Cruel” coming from the living room. Elvis was leaning on the hi-fi console, bare-chested, in only his pants and socks, hair sfill tangled from the shower.
      Across the room, his grandmother, Minnie Presley, sat deep in the couch, craning her head forward fo make out the words. Next to her, a young lady perched on the edge of the couch, both hands holding her purse on her knees. She was a model of gentility in a blue polka dot white dress and polished black pumps. Curly brown hair drawn into a bun framed a noble face of teardrop eyebrows, inteligent eyes and fight red lips that restrained a kind smile. She was pert, prim and polite. Her name was Barbara. She could have been a school-mistress.
      Elvis, on the other hand, looked like the unruly student who spent most of his time leering at the teacher. “let’s dance,” he said
      The lady demurred. “No, not now.”
      Elvis persisted as if he were trying to charm a first
date info more than a good night kiss “Come on. It's okay.”
      To make sure that it was all right, Minnie excused herself, saying she had to get ready for the concert
      Elvis took the lady’s hand and began dancing in the narrow lane between the coffee table and the couch. She went through the motions, and when she knew Elvis understood her heart wasn't in it she told him she just wanted to listen.
      He shrugged, plopped down on the plush chair and sulked. She sat on the edge of the ottoman next fo the hi-fi, picked at her pearl-clustered ear- rings and stared at the carpet. Elvis stared at her, clamped his lips in a pout and glared at a different patch of the carpet. His record filled the room, “Don’t make me feel this way, come on over here and love me.”
      By the time the song was over, he had forgotten she’d been cruel. He wanted her approval. “How do you like it?”
      "I think it's very good. I like it."
      That made him happy. Instead of being the forward promoter that he was with his fans, he modestly offered, “Do you want to hear the other song?”
      She answered vyes.
      He put on “Anyway You Want Me,” and as she stood with her arms folded, Elvis gathered her against his bare chest in an awkward embrace. I figured I'd been a fifth wheel long enough, so I wandered back to his bedroom and committed it to posterity.
      His bedroom had more color than Technicolor Cinemascope. On pastel yellow wallpaper speckled with blue and orange hung leaping ceramic minstrels on black oval plagues. White quilted bed-spreads printed with pink and blue flowers covered the twin beds and overflowed into rose satin trim. Blue puppies rested against the blond headboards of the twin beds. And all I had was black and white film.

      It was time to get ready for the concert. While a friend tuned Elvis” guitar, Dad and Elvis were in the bedroom closet trying fo decide on which tie he should wear. The decision was red, the only color in his entire outfit, which was a black shirt in a shiny black suit that could have stopped them on the corners of Little ltaly.
      In the hallway, I saw the silhouette of a hat and cigar. The Colonel filled the doorway, crossed thethreshold with a hortatory “how ya doin’” and took control.
      A black and white sedan waited in the dark with a crowd of mothers and fathers, young boys and girls. As Elvis walked from the kitchen door to the police car, the oldest of the girls, who was on the verge of becoming a teenager, blurted out, “Elvis, I think you're wonderful and I love you.”
      Elvis acted natural. He caressed her hair, looked her square in the eye and spoke to her as though she were the only one. "That's real sweet of you, honey. Sure makes me feel good.”
      It made her feel better, so good she couldn't move.
      Amid shouts of “Good luck” and “We're with you,” Elvis climbed into the front seat and was soon squeezed in by a patrolman on his left and the Colonel on his right. I took the rear.

[Private Presley]

Elvis at Aududon home getting ready for the concert

[Private Presley]

Photo taken on June 14, 1956 in Memphis. Elvis Presley looking at a promotional poster for his benefit concert for the Cynthia Milk Fund and the Variety Club's Home for Convalescent Children at Russwood Park in Memphis Tennessee, Wednesday July 4, 1956. Someone pasted a newspaper clipping in the middle of the poster which shows a picture of him and Judy Spreckels whom he had met in Las Vegas in the end of April, 1956

[Alan]

The police car cruised through the warm suburban night. Inside the radio squawked instructions to faraway patrols, like the manager of a prizefighter, the Colonel asked his boy how he felt. Elvis said that he felt good, he felt fine, he was glad to be here, but he was concerned about the folks. He wanted fo make sure they were going to get good seats. The Colonel fold him Tom was taking care of it and not to worry about a thing.
      They sat silently, cramped in the front seat watching the streetlights flash by. The cop added a note of reassurance.
      “The place is packed. In case there’s a problem, we've got enough boys from the sheriff’s department and we've got the Shore Patrol.”
      What was the Shore Patrol doing in Memphis?
      Russwood Park was packed. Banks of arc lights lit up thousands of people who covered the infield, left field, center field, right field and all the seats beyond; the throng seemed infinite as it swelled beyond the light into the shadows. The Colonel’s prediction was right. It was faces on faces.
      The sedan crept down the left field line and parked next to a tent that was pitched just outside third base. An immense bandstand trimmed with red, white and blue bunting filled the lane between third base and home plate.
      The officer turned off the headlights and gripped the steering wheel. Elvis remained in the police car, tapping his fingers on the roof of the car while the Colonel left to instruct Tom Diskin at the tent.

[Private Presley]

Elvis arriving at Russwood Park

[Private Presley]

Dewey Phillips was the emcee

Mrs. Hank Williams, Elvis and Dewey Phillips

[Private Presley]

https://www.memphisflyer.com/fat-ladies-anonymous

Elvis with Helen Putnam, nightclub singer and founder of the organization, "Fat Girls Anonymous" (an actual support group for overweight women). Helen sang the song "A good man is hard to find", which she dedicated to Elvis.

[Alan]

      The family party of Mom and Dad, Minnie, Barbara and a few relatives arrived and were escorted by Tom to some empty folding chairs beyond the far side of the bandstand. On the near side, next to the tent, the Jordanaires and Elvis musicians tried to hear themselves above the sounds of the Bobby Morris Orchestra on stage.
      It was past 10:30 pM, and if the posters in the park were right, all these people had endured the heat and some procession of acts since eight o'clock that evening. No wonder they were restless. When the emcee fold them Elvis was on his way, the restlessness quickly escalated into a chair shifting, neck-strefching anticipation. A legion of deputies and sailors propelled Elvis to the stage, the master of ceremonies announced, “Here he is, and there he was, the deliverer, slicked and shiny black, taking possession of the stage with supreme confidence, releasing a tremendous roar with the power of a shock wave.
      Waving all around, he cruised back and forth across the stage, feeling the place that was his, and before he returned to the center, he saluted his family as he stood at the edge of the stage.
      After the first wave passed, the the emcee presented Elvis with a scroll, in appreciation of his donation to a worthy local charity, (The entire concert was a benefit performance.) Elvis modestly claimed it was really his honor to sing for this wonderful audience. And when the applause faded into silence he let them know, he let them know this one wos, going to be his way. “I’'m gonna show you what the real Elvis is like tonight.”
      He did. He sang hard and soft, fast and loose, the way he wanted it, ripping from “Mystery Train” to "I Got A Woman” to “Blue Suede Shoes”and to “Heartbreak Hotel.” When he walked away from the mike, drenched in sweat, his hair in his eyes and his legs rubbery, they cried, they screamed, but they didn’t charge. An act of faith kept them from crossing over.
      It was fulfilled. He came back, and in defiance of all the lines that had been drawn, he howled “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” breaking any restraints that still survived, sending fourteen thousand people to the white-hot tip of a Fourth of July sparkler.
      Elvis burned out at the edge of the stage, took a bow, waved good-bye and was quickly enveloped by a phalanx of policemen. The crowd roared and rushed the stage, but before they could overtake him, his guardians had dispatched him in a police car and returned him to the night.

[ColinB]

In action on stage	Elvis with security	Barbara Hearn, Minnie Mae & Gladys
Elvis & Scotty in action	Elvis waves to the crowd upon arriving by the sheriff's b&w under the ad sign for the laundry	Vernon, Gladys & Minnie Mae
Parker handing out 'signed' Elvis photos

[Private Presley]

[Alan]

1956 June 14 Memphis.jpg


Photo taken on June 14, 1956 in Memphis. Elvis Presley looking at a promotional poster for his benefit concert for the Cynthia Milk Fund and the Variety Club's Home for Convalescent Children at Russwood Park in Memphis Tennessee, Wednesday July 4, 1956. Someone pasted a newspaper clipping in the middle of the poster which shows a picture of him and Judy Spreckels whom he had met in Las Vegas in the end of April, 1956

Great collection from this day PP.
I think the photo with Judy was taken between rehearsals for the June 5th Milton Berle show. Not 100% sure, but could have been this one:

So it went from negative developed to published, printed, sold, cut out and stuck on that poster in less than nine days
Fans didnt hang around back then!

[Alan]

phpBB [media]

[Alan]

Now there's a couple of days I'll never get back
Worth it? Oh yeah!!

I've altered the times in the database of some of the posts above to change the order they appear in.
I've added some text from Al Wertheimer to compliment the photos and to enhance the timeline of events.