As glamorous events go, my marriage to Gluten-Free Mama came and went, my army fatigue jacket possibly symbolizing how crucial glamor is to me in my life. OK, you got me. I did switch into something more appropriate in terms of garments, before sashaying into Judge James Luther’s chambers, speaking of glamorous, to exchange vows.
 |
| Gluten-Free Mama and HeadSodBuster, around the same time period |
My brother Noel and his wife Olga stood up for us, along with a three-month-old little HeadSodBuster, ensconced in his front-pack-cocoon on my chest. Judge Luther, his demeanor warm and inviting, his personality low-key and accommodating, presided over our nuptials with alacrity, the entire process taking no more than five minutes.
We dined sumptuously at the Palace (when you frequent such an establishment, you are allowed to leave off the “Hotel” part), with Noel and Olga, and then ventured forth into the Ukiah area, shopping for both groceries and the upcoming Holidays.
We picked up a simple kitchen table, the one I am currently word-processing on, (I finally stopped writing “typing on”), from the old Monkey Wards Outlet. Sigh. Another one bites the dust.
We returned to the Palace for a delectable dinner, during which lil HeadSodBuster slept like the angel he is. GF Mama recalls relishing an order of locally-grown lamb chops, and afterwards, we retired to our room without having to leave the premises.
This in Ukiah.
The following morning, Old Paint, laden to the point of laboring coming back up Oil Well Hill on The 101, suddenly emitted an alarming noise, sounding like a 727 trying to land on the roof of the old bus. And then there was silence. Deathly quiet was suddenly far more alarming than the noise. This could not be good.
We glided-oh, so smoothly-to a stop about three hundred feet south of The Sleepy Hollow RV Park of Willits, there at the bottom of The Hill.
“Me hitchhiking into town?” I asked tentatively, realizing that meant leaving her and a three-month-old on the side of the highway, with the weather hovering around the freezing mark. Gotta love country living.
“Do we have a choice?”
Old Paint was just not equipped to get a message any farther than the sound of his horn, these not being the days of smart phones and texting. As it was I got picked up by a dude in a Pontiac Bonneville, the size of a destroyer, with hair like that of Joe Cocker.
I could barely see his face, from my angle in the front passenger seat, for the billowy curls sprawling outwards in tumultuous fashion. As I tried to pin down the fragrance permeating the interior of the ship, Dude whipped out his- [Editor’s note: STOP!] Not to worry, he drew out his little glass pipe, stuffed to the gils with hashish.
Now I was no stranger to hashish, but under the current circumstances, rocking a hash pipe and trying to navigate the churning waters of hitchhiking on the highway, was just a bad mix. So there I was, pipe in hand, but unwilling to jeopardize the feelings of my rescuer.
I know. I’ll take a big mouthful of smoke, to be polite, but I won’t inhale it.
Well, that was the plan, anyway.
Dude was an intriguing driver. His technique of weaving back and forth from the slow lane to the fast lane, was breath-taking. And then, just for comparison’s sake, why not? Shall we try the shoulder for a while?
It took about eleven minutes to travel the fourteen miles to the ‘Ville, where I staggered down the gangplank of the vessel, and disembarked at the ‘Ron. I had quickly spotted neighbor Rex across the parking lot, and knew he was good for the ride.
 |
| "All aboard whose goin' aboard!" |
We were back on the mountain within an hour, leaving Old Paint and all of its contents on the side of the road. There was no way to lock the old boy up, so we just trusted to luck.
I never could figure out why folks were not naturally drawn to the calico-colored (OD green, primer red, with the words “The End” spray-painted in black on the back engine-cover) hippie van, on the side of The 101, but somehow we dodged a bullet and nothing was disturbed.
And that’s the story of our getting hitched. As for HeadSodBuster being three months along, I gotta be blunt. GF Mama and I were dating for five days before we started sharing quarters. When the littlest sodbuster came along, neither of us felt that a marriage should be automatically forthcoming.
When the time seemed right, we woke up one morning and set the date for the next day, pending the availability of our two witnesses.
As Herself put it this morning, “We’ve had our ups and downs and our runarounds, and we’re still together.”
I’m still spinning but from love, the greatest power of all.
No comments:
Post a Comment