The Wedding

My dad’s family was rather large. For a set of parents that knocked out only four kids, those four kids spawned a whole army of offspring. A party at my Grandpa’s house was an exercise in crowd management. If couldn’t handle your personal space being violated you were pretty much fucked. There was a lot of shoving, grabbing, multiple lap sitting (this is when an older cousin holds a younger cousin who holds a younger cousin too, great space usage, three bodies in what normally would only sit one), running, marching and the rest of the general mischief and antics that go along when you get the 25 kids and young adults together. Throw in boyfriends, girlfriends, neighborhood hanger owners some Burger beer and Bourbon slush and you’ve got yourself a party. And our family didn’t need an excuse to have a party, it was great; Christmas and Easter, party; Someone’s birthday, party; a dog had a litter of puppies, party, Pete Rose let a fart go around third base, party, of course.

The house itself was pretty small and kind of dark, it had a smell of Swanson's TV Turkey Dinner with the occasion waft of Salsbury steak. One thing was for sure and that was my grandmother’s commitment to vitamin C. She loved the stuff and professed it would work wonders on anything. She would have been happy to be an unpaid spokesperson for the junk. Orange juice, cranberry juice, citrus of all kinds and her personal favorite, those dusty, chewable, fake orange flavored vitamin C tablets. I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth. She shoved them down your throat like they were candy. Her intentions where good. All in all she was a cool old broad whether she was reciting her schpeel and greeting on her days as an Avon lady, doing the Louisville Lou or leading the fam around the house on a March to 76 Trombones. I’m sure it isn’t true, but I can’t ever remember ever seeing her out of a tired house dress

We were over there for some event or another and it was a big one because there was a lot of tripling up on the couch. I’d just come in from doing some porch jumping. You know, when you climb over the railing, shuffle along, pretending there’s sharks or something down below, but the Injuns are coming so you have to jump down and try not to drop your shield or dog. If you’ve never porch jumped I suggest you try it. It’s a blast.

My hair was plastered to my head when with sweat when I went in the house. Everyone was planted around the TV in the living room. There wasn’t a seat to be had; floor space was taken up with kids sitting Indian style, no couch space, nothing. We were celebrating the airing of the Wizard of Oz, a big event, because you couldn’t watch it anytime you wanted, VCR’s and DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet. There was once spot, on my grandmother’s lap and I crawled up with her permission, got comfortable and only got to see the last scene where Dorothy wakes back up in Kansas with all the goofy farmhands. Oh well, porch jumping was much more intense and I’d seen the movie before anyway.

Cousins, aunts and uncles dispersed a little bit as the news came on; I was comfortably planted in my Grandmother’s lap so I wasn’t going anywhere. We sat there, idly talking about her glass menagerie on the mantel that was kind of eerie in a fascinating sort of way. She’d rarely let anyone hold on for fear that you might break off a dolphin tail or butterfly wing. There were a couple of pieces that had appendages broken off and had to be glued together by my grandpa, but mostly the set was in pristine condition.

The television droned away in the background as 60 minutes came on and featured a story of the hippie and yippie movement. I was memorized, of course it in black and white but the crazy sloppy get ups were the coolest. I was more interested in watching the TV than what my grandmother had to say. I remember it sounded like she was talking to me through a card board paper towel tube when I realized she was badgering me about what I wanted to be when I grew up? She was suggesting the typical bull shit, doctor, lawyer, the president? I looked at her, looked at the TV, back at her and said

“Hippie. I want to be a hippie!”

She looked at me with disgust. “Oh… you can’t do that, they don’t bathe… they’re dirty pigs.”

Confused I replied “…yeah… that’s the point.”

She picked me up, moved me off her lap, stood up, rearranged her house dress and shuffled off into the kitchen in disgust throwing me one look of revulsion over her shoulder. I knew I made the right choice and was committed to trying to become a hippie over the next few six to eight years. Or at least until 79 when I discovered the Sex Pistols.

Weddings where big in our family and cause for great celebration. There was always a long drawn out mass in a stone church with no air conditioning with the sound of the priest’s voice humming along in the background about love, commitment and God. I always found it odd that a dude who hadn’t been (supposedly) with a woman talking about love and commitment. Granted he was obviously an expert when it came to God. He was standing at the middle of the stage… err altar after all.

So when I heard the news that I’d be going to Dennis and Barb’s wedding I was ecstatic. I knew it be a real kick ass hippie affair because Dennis and Barb where a real kick ass hippie couple. Barb was a cool, easy, sun-shiny kind of a hippie chick, always nice and happy and ready with a slice of banana bread or carrot cake. But no, you can’t eat the brownies, “they’re burnt.” Right. Dennis was just a cool dude, seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, bell bottoms, raggedy army jacket and just enough worn out t’s. Also, always nice and always could make time to make a little shit running under foot feel welcome. The thing that was coolest about Dennis was his mustache, I thought of it as sort of a cowboy or swashbuckler stache, but today one might call it the Pancho Villa or Wilfred Brimley. They were groovy.

I don’t know how they made their way into our group, but they did and as I said, I liked them. They’d come over to the house for parties, my dad and K would go out with them or over there house for dinner, I tag along even though there was nothing really for me to do other than eat, get a contact high, and generally be underfoot. One evening when we were chilling out at their place, the old lady next door knocked feigning the need for salt or sugar or something, Dennis let her in. The room was a bit hazy from smoke and she looked around suspiciously. As Barb got her the sugar or whatever the old broad scanned the room, there were rolling papers and a stash box on the coffee table, incense burned and the remnants of our the crappy barley soup and home made seven grain cardboard bread on the kitchen table. She looked doubtfully at the plants in the corner saying she’d never seen anything like them before…

“What are they? Some sort of spider plants…”

Responding quickly, Dennis said “Err... no, they’re Mexican tomato plants…”

Nodding with approval the old busy body took her sugar, walked toward the door and said “Well, let me know when you get some fruit, I’d love to try one.”

I thought that was the awesomest! Clever, fun, whimsical deceit, no one got in trouble, no one got hurt. After all, people where going to jail for less. It was a life lesson learning moment for me.

Dennis became my dad’s best friend, I don’t know if it was reciprocal or not, but I know my old man got him a job and he must of felt indebted, as well as generally liking him, after all my dad was a pretty likable guy. After a stint of living in sin Dennis and Barb decided to tie the knot and my dad got asked to be the best man, so, I of course in my feeble mind I was the best boy, which I eventually learned didn’t really exist but I still felt lucky to be going to my first hippy wedding.

I knew it was going to be a cool time when Barb dropped off some ponchos for the groomsmen to wear. Bitch’n, I was psyched, even I was contemplating getting a little mini poncho for me, jumping around, throwing streamers, spraying silly string and drawing peace signs on the side of cop cars… until I saw it come out of the box. It was robin egg blue, why? ARG! The disappointment, didn’t they see Clint Eastwood in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?! What about Billy Jack?! Out of all the cool ass, kick ass coolers had to pick something that came out of a kid’s story? Why not army green, dark purple or everyone’s favorite fall back, tie-dyed. I even knew robin egg, baby blue or tiffany blue as it’s called today wasn’t cool. It was gay and not in the cool 70’s porn sort of gay, bawl chic a bow wow. Apparently Barb liked the color robin egg blue but she obviously didn’t have respect for the poncho! Someone should of told her about the poncho‘s long history as a garment for the native speaking populations of the Americas or the poncho protecting service men of the Civil, Spanish American and WWI from the elements. She tried to cool it up by having the wives of the groomsmen needle point zodiac signs but it only succeeded in making those wives bitch and moan about having to needle point. Kind of like giving someone work as a gift, like a vacuum cleaner.

Finally the day of the wedding arrived, the ceremony and reception were to be held in a woodsy park. It was at the end of a turn around and our party was set up under a cast concrete pavilion decorated with cheap streamers and unfolding paper wedding bells. There was a stereo set up in the corner and card tables lining one side of the open pavilion filled with deviled eggs, paper bowls of chips and pretzels, assorted jello molds, trays of sliced olive and pepper loaf, dried out salami with a crock of mustard drying out and getting crusty on top. It all looked so appetizing as the flies flew from one slowly cooling casserole dish to another, one little fucker seemed to stuck in some sort of mayo or chip dip. I watched him struggle for a couple minutes, trying to free himself of the sticky emulsified, saturated fat of a an onion dip before I took my index finger and forced him down under the surface of the dip for no one to see. After all, a lot of these hippies liked to eat alternatively.

Looking around in disappointment, trying to find a way to distract myself from what clearly wasn’t a hippy wedding I perused the guests. Typical, I’ve been to weddings like this, the only hipster’s were the wedding party with their baby blue ponchos and hippy loose fitting Stevie Nicks hippy dresses. One nit wit, a “special friend of the family” was wondering around wearing swashbuckler boots, a purple velvet cape and a crazy ass wide brimmed hat with feathers in it. Apparently he was the photographer and was complaining about his get up and couldn’t wait to take it off. I thought he looked cool, even though he was sweating everywhere and had to dry his equipment every time he took a picture. I had to wonder though, if he was so unhappy and miserable in his get up, why didn’t he just take it off. Everyone else looked like they walked off the pages of a J.C. Penny catalog. Unstylish, uptight, pouchy middle American sheep. No kids to play with, no skittish uncle back from Viet Nam to torment, no drunken old men, I don’t even think there was beer.

After a disappointing service on a hill side accompanied by some out of key third cousin playing the Wedding Song, an acapella version of Paul William’s “We’ve only just begun” and the photograph taking pirate clicking around it was time to call it a day. If that wasn’t the most disappointing wedding, let alone hippy wedding I’ve ever been too, I don’t know what was. The only blessing about the whole experience was that we we’re only there for an hour and a half before we piled back into my dad’s pick up and drove off. I sulked and pouted in the back seat as we rumbled along thinking about what a waste of time the whole experience was, too think I could of spent my day trying to filch the latest issue of MAD magazine.

Bouncing and veering down our dirt word my dad told to saddle up one of the horses. It was nearly dusk, asking him where he was going, he replied nowhere, I was. Mysterious, I liked that. Getting out my dad dropped the tail gate of the truck revealing about a dozen cases of beer, he started unloading and icing them down as he told me some people from the wedding where coming over and I was to ride to the end of the road and sit there on a horse, waiting for people to drive up and give them directions down our barely visible, sign less road.

Cool, I grabbed Sunfighter, a red roanish and white paint who I wasn’t particularly crazy about, he was skittish, hard to catch and not always the most reliable horse, he’d been beat’n at some point before we got him but he was spirited AND he was the coolest looking horse we had. If I was going to be standing at the end of the road, pointing people in the right direction I had to look good. I got Sun, threw a bridle on him, didn’t feel the need for a saddle so I mounted him bareback and asked my dad how long I had to be down there. Bout an hour he said.

It took about 15 minutes to walk a horse at a fair clip to where our road met the highway, I was in a hurry so we galloped down in a matter of minutes, I crossed the highway, turned the horse around and sat there. A car would come by, I’d wave, it’d honk, Sunfighter would flinch and the car would drive on, then nothing. Being excited I’m sure that time was passing slower than it really was; nearly every car just kept driving by me. I waved at everyone; nearly everyone honked and kept on going. Finally, one of the cars that passed me squealed to a stop, reversed way to fast, pulled up in front of me and jumpy Sunfighter and asked if I knew the way to the reception. Of course I did, it’s at my house, I pointed them in the down our road as they flipped me the bird, flashed peace signs and a blue smoke trailed off behind them. Suddenly it was like Grand Central, every car that drove by was going to my house, I happily pointed them in the right direction and couldn’t wait til my hour was done so I could go down and join the action. It was like a gypsy parade, crazy VW Busses and Bugs, old beat’n up Sedans and Thunderbirds, a splattering of bearded bikers. Barb and Dennis drove by, waved, honked and turned down the road. Sometimes a car would pull up, let some people out and drive off; those folks had to hoof it down the mile or so to the house. My hour had come and gone but cars where still coming so I did my duty and gave them directions.

After a dry spell of about 10 minutes without anyone stopping I crossed the road on Sun and started my quick trek back to the house. Suddenly a car stopped, a hippy chic got out carrying a duffle, is this the way to the party? Sure was, climb up and I’ll give you a ride. I’d never had a lady on the back of my horse and I admit it was a bit of a thrill for me. She was scared, never having been on a horse herself before and she held on really tight. I didn’t mind, I liked it actually. Once I got comfortable I’d gallop and get make sure Sunfighter wasn’t running in a comfortable gate, I could feel that hippy chic boobs bouncing up and down against my back, then once I got really comfortable I’d get a good hard gallop going and suddenly stop, feeling her press her body against me as we slowed down. Dirty little bastard I was, she didn’t seem to mind and I suspect she guessed my motivation.
At the house, she dismounted and disappeared into the crowd; I freed Sun into the coral and started wondering around.

NOW this is what I was talking about! I don’t know how many people where there, it could have been 50 it could have been 200, it was a lot and it seemed everywhere I turned there was something going on, a little story unfolding. A hippy couple sitting in the hanging chair making out; two guys swapping pills in the corner, people dancing on and around the big jim; guys outside playing guitar, folks grilling sausages on the weber. Outside some dudes started a fire pit and they started shooting bottle rockets, evidently they decided that I’d make a good target and started shooting them at me, thankfully I was nimble and managed to evade a direct hit. Later I got my revenge by waiting on the roof over the back door and dumping a five gallon bucket of manure water I’d made over the main culprits head. He was too drunk or stoned to climb the roof but later that night when he got his hands on me he was throttling me good until some long hairs came to my rescue and dragged him down to the river. All in all I’d say it was a pretty good wedding party and I my wish was coming through. It seemed everyone was represented, afroed black militants; flamboyant boa wearing Elton John gay wannabes, your general GI issue Army jacketed hippy, ladies with flowers in their hair, halter tops and bell bottoms. It was heavenly, but also wearisome so I decided to sneak away to my room and hopefully fall asleep through the loud music, whooping up of the party and the general buzz and smokiness.

I didn’t bother to say good night to anyone and I’m sure no one cared as I made my way to the back room. I opened up the door, took a couple of steps in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw; it was a multi-limbed, multi-genitaliaed mess of a flesh writhing together as a constantly moving and changing sweaty, hairy, pinkish colored monster. It took a few seconds to see what I was witnessing, these were people, doing together what I thought only two people did, obviously that wasn’t the case here, I couldn’t tell how many people where there, where there equal parts men to women? I didn’t know. I just stood there, mouth agape, dumbfounded, trying to digest a what I was seeing. Yikes, after a couple of minutes or seconds one of the men saw me, picked up a pillow and threw it at me, I took a step back, still staring as one of the girls looked at me, smiled and gestured to me with her index finger in a come hither sort of way. Panicked I turned and ran not even bothering to shut the door behind me. I hurriedly found a sleeping bag, climbed up to the roof, got myself comfortable, starred up at the stars and felt if I never went to another hippy wedding it’d be too soon.