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short story

Current Mood: Indifferent
Female
Female - 45 years old, *, Other
sexort
Sexual Orientation: Not your Business
Relationship Status: Undisclosed


Posted: 2019-11-01 2:09:07 am Category General Viewed 425 times Likes 3

Family Weddings are the Pits 

 

 

The dark storm clouds gathered in the skies above, mirroring the dread that had built in the depths of my stomach over the last few days. The wedding is today. Being held at Maroochydore, a coastal town two hours north of Brisbane by car. A cousin was to be married and it was expected that my partner, infant daughter and I would be there to celebrate the event. That seems to be the way with extended family, various events organised throughout our lives which are only attended because of a sense of obligation. I toyed with the idea of casting aside obligation and opting for a lazy day of watching a marathon of “Seinfeld” episodes instead. However, the part of me that insisted on making my life difficult triumphed. So, I stubbed out my cigarette, rose from the chair with a loud groan and disappeared inside to get ready. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Once the last touches on appearances were satisfied, my partner herded me to the car, my infant rested against my left hip. A few moments passed as I secured her in the baby seat, after which I climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The car started hesitantly, the engine rattled reproachfully as it settled and then the journey was begun. 

It was an uneventful car trip, passed in pleasant conversation, the only memorable thing to have happened was my daughter being changed McDonald’s toilet. This was in a time before changing rooms were to be found in every restaurant and public space, hence the great difficulties parents all over Australia experienced when confronted by this situation.  

Everyone has been in a McDonalds toilet and so can appreciate that it is a cramped space, with no place to change a baby, the best option being the floor, which was done under the supervision of a screwed up cheeseburger wrapper that crouched in the corner like an obese, mustard yellow cockroach. 

Our arrival in Maroochydore was heralded by a thin mist of rain that hinted at the rain to come but delivered very little. A chilly easterly breeze blew in from the ocean, a light spray of fine, gritty sand carried before it, which left a fine sheen of golden sand across the inky surface of the road. It was the type of blown grit that tortured the unprotected eyes and invaded every nook and crevasse. A most irritating experience. But luckily, we were in the car and were immune to the stinging wind. 

A short time later, we pulled into the parking lot of the caravan park, chose a parking spot at random then hopped out of the car. Brief moments were taken up by the customary stretches and groans, which seemed to always follow a long car trip. My tired eyes then beheld the entry of the caravan park.  

If I had to describe the sight with one word that word would be white. It was everywhere. From the meticulously clean, luminous concrete paths that meandered through the park to the front office, which was a small, claustrophobic space, peopled by an elderly woman perched on a chair behind a desk, her expression kind and welcoming; though this may or may not have been genuine. 

 To me, it resembled a vain attempt to emulate the ancient Greek constructions crafted in marble. It was not a good first impression, yet I held onto a vague optimism that my day would soon improve. A naïve hope at best. 

Upon entering, it soon became evident that the prestige of the entry was a thin veneer of opulence hiding what appeared to me to be a very ordinary caravan park. A recreation room, which housed a well-maintained table tennis table and a television with a perfect reception. I spied a café nestling in the far corner, hard up against the white- washed front wall, the distinctive aroma of hot chips filling my senses, lifting my spirits and causing my tummy to rumble.  

A familiar voice hailed me from a nearby caravan. I turned and there was my family, gathered from around Queensland and standing amidst the old caravans like a flock of migrating geese. 

 Rickety clothes lines, fold out tables and plastic chairs all added to the feeling of a uniquely Australian experience. If there had been a barbeque and an esky it would have completed the scene of many a Christmas lunch. The humorous antics of Jerry Seinfeld flitted through my mind, causing the ghost of a smile to curl my lips, the expression a mixture of pleasure and regret. It was quickly swallowed. With careful footsteps we approached the waiting family members and the ritual of hugging and greeting began. 

“How are you...?” 

“It has been too long....” 

“How was the drive....? 

“It looks like we will get rain....” 

It was the usual chatter, repeated at every meeting ad nauseum, though it did take my mind off the hugging, feeling a sense of relief because personal touch was difficult for me.   

And there she was. A 5’4” tall woman in her late forties; she was dressed in a colourful blouse, featuring the floral patterns she was so fond of; her black slacks were a lovely contrast to her top; her dark brown hair complimented her sea green eyes, which were alive with happiness. My mother. She was a woman who provoked mixed emotions within me, attachment and resentment warring with each other without either ever getting the upper hand. She was a notable absentee from the hugging going on around us and it was clear that we seemed to share the same aversion to touch. This comforted me in a rather bizarre sort of way.  

There had been very little that my mother and I shared,mother and daughter so unalike, so to share this gave me a tenuous connection to her. She was a woman of many faces and I couldn’t predict her many moods. It drew my mind into the past when I was a teenager playing soccer. I was awful at soccer and spent most of my time on the bench. One such day my mother stormed onto the soccer pitch, her eyes spitting fire as she walked up to my coach, picked up a jersey then shook it at him like incriminating evidence, telling him he can shove the jersey up his arse. She strode away amidst an embarrassing silence and I lowered my head and followed after her. 

That was my mother. Her moods were quicksilver and left the rest of the family treading gently or diving for cover. 

The ritual hugging came to an end and everyone drifted away to congregate in groups quite independent of each other. I took this opportunity to slip away and saunter over to the café.  

There was very little to distinguish this café from the hundreds of other cafes that dotted the vast Australian landscape. The first obstacle was to navigate your way through the roughly paved courtyard, which was peppered with hardwood tables and chairs, each of the tables surmounted by an open, forest green umbrella. Once past this, you would stand upon the threshold of the café and the vista would unfold before you. An old blackboard set in the back wall, advertising in coloured chalk the menu and specials. Directly below the tired noticeboard stands a young lady who genuinely looks pleased to see you. She waits patiently to take your order, most of her petite body hidden behind the classic chrome and glass hot box so familiar in Australia. You walk up to her and she speaks in a pleasant voice.... 

“What will you have?” 

You peer down into the metal trays within the hot box, taking in all the favourites that populated most hot boxes. Crumbed sausages, chiko rolls, spring rolls, to name a few. The aromas of these foods intermingle, and the delicious scent fills your nostrils, bringing back many treasured memories of similar past experiences. 

“A large chips, please” you reply. 

She busies herself filling the order, the metallic sounding rustle of the chips as they are scooped from a tray pleasing to your senses. You can almost taste the chips, the crunch that is the signature of a thick chip. 

“Plain or chicken salt?” she asks politely. 

“Plain, thank you” you reply distractedly, your thoughts still upon the hot food. 

Money would pass hands then the box of chips would be passed over into your waiting grasp. Exiting through the door you used to enter, thus completing an experience which has been repeated millions of times throughout Australian history. 

 I returned to the gathering, found an empty table and settled upon a faded, lime green plastic chair, the white box of chips placed upon the table. It occurred to me that very little here is permanent, people who attempted to live a settled existence, despite the fact everything reeked of a temporary situation. It resembled a Roman fortified, military camp more than a neighbourhood of homes. The shabby caravans stood in place of tents, where racks of weapons would be found there were clothes lines, sagging beneath the weight of the garments draped over them. To complete this comparison, the white wall that enclosed the park vaguely resembled the wooden palisades to be found in Roman camps. 

“How ya goin’?” 

 The deep, familiar voice startled me. I looked up from my chips. My father stood there, 5’5” tall with brown hair and eyes, looking at me intently. He was dressed somewhere between casual and formal, wearing black slacks and a maroon dress shirt. 

My response was brief and polite. Talking to my father was a pleasant experience as he did all the talking. My contribution was to listen and nod at the appropriate moments. He would have made a great orator in Roman times because he spoke with such confidence and eloquence that I found myself swayed towards his opinion. The topic of that day was religion, something that I normally shied away from due to its explosive potential.  

The biblical book of “Revelations” was the topic of the day and it dripped of hell fire and eternal damnation. Given my day thus far, I was of the opinion of judgement having already been passed and the damnation begun. The close heat of the day mingled with the hot chips was making me drowsy and the constant drone of my father’s voice lulled me towards a nap. I resisted the urge and focused my attention on him. 

 Finally, the flow of words ceased and in response I held up the half full box of chips then asked him.....    

“Do you want the rest of my chips?” 

“Uh. No thanks. I don’t want to ruin my appetite for the reception later on” he replied. 

At this moment a slender, slightly taller than average woman approached, in her mid to late 30s; her long, flowing blonde hair cascading down past her erect shoulders, the usually calm, sapphire hued eyes looking slightly harassed. The woman was my partner. She informed us that it was time to leave for the wedding, to which my father was very responsive. He stood quickly and hustled off towards the caravan, obviously in search of my mother.  

 We collected our daughter and headed for the car. Soon, we were driving along the maze of streets in Maroochydore, heading west towards the national park which would host the wedding. I glanced to my partner as the houses gave way to bushland rather abruptly, my hands rested easily upon the steering wheel. Time elapsed slowly as the road stretched before us, then the most dreaded words in the driving world were uttered. 

“We are lost.” 

The disoriented hoot of an owl broke my concentration and I turned to see my partner with her head bent over a map. I waited patiently and soon she found our error and we were on our way again. 

Soon we arrived, and the visage was beautiful. As we walked towards the wedding area, I could see that the light green, grassed area was cradled between dark, forested mountains, the overall effect being that it brought to mind visions of the Garden of Eden,the only thing to detract from it being the ominous grey clouds that threatened from above.  

We arrived as the happy couple kissed and that was consistent with our day so far. The family photos followed, from which we and many other family members were excluded. With little else to do, we returned to our car and made the quick trek to the  

colonial house that would host the reception.  

It was a stunning house, with a covered verandah. It hinted at times past when things were simpler, and yet more difficult. A contradiction that was to be noticed in the utility of the house and the ramshackle buildings that lurched behind it.  

The first thing I noticed once inside was the stifling heat. It was a heat that had a thickness to it, and it clung to me like a second skin. Attempting to put this from my mind, I beheld the large room with its hardwood floor and beamed ceiling. Scattered around the room were fold out tables with plastic chairs, a common theme of the day so far. Towards the back of the room were two tables set side by sides, arrayed with finger food. There were piles of sandwiches and plates full of cocktail sausage rolls. I hoped these were hot, but we never stuck around long enough to find out. It did not feel right that I experienced a sense of indignation, but everything about that day was so classy yet so cheap, a man dressed in a fancy tuxedo to hide the emaciated body underneath.  

My partner appeared and I glanced at my father, who wore an expression that was a mixture of regret and disgust. By mutual, unexpressed assent our small family left. 

When we were once more safely within the car and putting distance between us and the sad excuse for a wedding, we reflected sourly on a day that had provided much aggravation but little pleasure. The car whisked through the ghostly quiet streets, the bright lamplights illuminating the path ahead until we found the highway. Then the inky black clouds, which had threatened all day, released their heavy burden, the heavens opening and casting down a thick sheet of rain, which caused us to have to pull over.  

I missed a day of "Seinfeld" for this? 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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