Yesterday would have been the 75th birthday of the King of Rock and Roll....which caused me to recall:

I met Elvis on a boat crossing between the Greek island of Corfu and Albania. (My wife Mette and I were on our 'honeymoon'.) Uncharacteristically, he walked right up to me and in a very friendly and "down home way" told me who he was.

Now, he didn't look at all like the Elvis I remembered (all fat and old), so I asked him a few question about his life, Memphis and Priscilla....you know, the things that I remembered from growing up in Memphis.

As far as I could tell he had a very clear memory of all the first hand facts needed to prove (to me) he was exactly who he said he was.

That chance meeting occurred in August or September of 1995 and of course, everyone knows Elvis died in 1977. The young man who told me he was Elvis was about 18 years old and had the cherub pure face of a Down syndrome child. Sweet as honey, just as those in Elvis' circle of friends described him.

Some folks believe when a person dies his soul scrambles around a while among the rest of us and then, when the time is right finds a new existence to be born as....and, if the last was a good one, then the next is better, and so on until the pentacle of 'good' is reached in a place named Nirvana.

The Elvis I met could easily have been born not long after the death of the old, fat (but sweet and mostly good) man who mostly silently and anonymously gave millions to the needy as The King.

I guess the young man I met on that boat was nearly perfect, and could now be a someone's faithful, unconditionally loving Labrador Retriever--next stop, Nirvana.