Yesterday marked an event that is burned indelibly into my memory and for the life of me I cannot explain precisely why.

I walked into a convenience store in Portland, Ore., on Aug. 16, 1977 to make a purchase of some kind. I looked down at The Oregonian news rack that carried the early edition of the next day’s paper and saw the headline in big, bold type:

“Elvis Presley dead at 42”

What the … ? 

Hey, you know that moment has to rank right with other seminal moments in my life and in the life of Planet Earth. We know where we were when President Kennedy was gunned down, when the shuttle Challenger exploded, when 9/11 occurred, when Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon.

What’s more, I remember my first kiss (and the girl’s name), the first time I laid eyes on the woman I would marry, the day the Army summoned me for service, the first time I heard the greatest song ever recorded, “Hey Jude.”

And when we learned that the King of Rock ‘n Roll had passed on.

He was a young man. I can barely remember my 42nd year in this world which, I suppose, makes me an old man. I get it. That’s because I am!

My wife and I visited Graceland a few years ago. We got a glimpse of how Elvis lived. I look back on that visit now and nod in understanding how it was that he was gone at such a tender age.

Rest in eternal peace, Elvis.