Compared to the thousands of people whose lives were turned upside down by Hurricane Katrina, the storm was a minor inconvenience to me. Instead of being trapped by rising waters in New Orleans, I was caught in a trap by the spirit of Elvis Presley. ”Caught in a trap,” get it?

In the final week of August, 2005, my colorful grandson and his equally colorful bride were married in Las Vegas by an Elvis impersonator. I use the term colorful literally, not figuratively. Grandson Dallas is a living billboard for his three tattoo parlors in Ohio. Body art covers him from head to foot. And his beautiful petite wife, Amanda, also displays an abundance of rainbow shades. Twice, she has appeared on the cover of Tattoo Magazine—available at your local truck stop or by subscription, if interested.

Granted, body art is an acquired taste. Like most members of the family, it took me awhile to adjust to my grandson’s appearance. But Dallas has a great deal of creative skill, which extends to interior decorating and other similar talents. His art is a far cry from the work of tattoo ”artists” that I somehow  avoided during my drinking days when I frequented low class dives in neighborhoods where shady looking characters drew naked women on arms, and labels of sweet and sour above men’s tits.

The fact that I escaped my alcoholic escapades without vulgar tattoos is something of a miracle. Many worse things occured. Sober, I took a dim view of body art—especially when it came to a member of my family, who is frequently accused of having many of the characteristics of his grandpa. But my attitude has changed. Dallas is a great kid. Grandchildren are always kids, even in their thirties. He proves that looks can be deceiving. And for sure, he gets a lot of stares.

Because of an off-beat personality, Dallas was the family’s leading candidate to have Elvis nuptials—an event that is more memorable than most traditional weddings. I have no idea what kind of pastoral credentials are held by Elvis impersonators. But performing weddings must be a lucrative field since several Elvis chapels are scattered around Las Vegas. At the wedding of Dallas and Amanda, couples were married by “Elvis” before our arrival and lined up for ceremonies afterward.

For readers who have missed the experience, this is the format. The rear doors swing open and the bride is driven to the front of the chapel in a pink Cadillac while Elvis sings Love Me Tender—not the best imitation of the original, but a passable rendition. Prior to vows, he offers another ballad. Then the wedding concludes with a rousing version of Viva Las Vegas and everyone is invited to dance.

Unfortunately, the mood was less festive when we returned to the hotel and learned that Katrina was bearing down on New Orleans. Annette and I departed Las Vegas about the time the levees gave way and devastated the area. By the time the flight reached Atlanta, all connections to Louisiana had been cancelled. We spent the night a few miles from the airport at the home of Annette’s son, Ken. The next day, we rented a car for the trip home—not realizing that nearly all gas stations in Mississippi and Louisiana were closed because of power outages.

Thus began our minor Katrina inconvenience, which seemed major at the time. But in the context of the tragedy of the storm, it now seems like a hiccup. Halfway home in Meridian, Mississippi, the rental car was running on bare fumes. So we were forced to check into a motel, though it had neither power nor water. But in the parking lot, we encountered a couple of tree trimmers who had a supply of extra gas. At first, they refused to sell us a few gallons. But noticing that one of the men wore a tee shirt displaying an image of Jesus, Annette asked the obvious question. “What would Jesus do?”

Apparently Jesus would gouge. They sold us five gallons of gas at five dollars a gallon. I’m not complaining. I would have paid much more. Anyway, it got us to Jackson. As I exited behind a string of cars to find another motel—one with electric power, perhaps—I discovered all the vehicles were lined up to get gas in one of the only stations in the city that had a large generator.

It took only a tank full to get us home. And remarkably, just as we drove into our tiny golf community, the electricity came on after three days of outages. I’m almost embarrassed to share these memories of Katrina. However, on the fifth anniversary of the storm, most people in Lousiana have a personal story to relate. Nearly all are more heart-rending that mine. But at least I can tell a tale of Elvis.

Happy Anniversary Dallas and Amanda.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.