The ceremony

I stood with party shoe blistered feet under the food tent at my brother's wedding in the low country sunshine. I watched as carefully stacked chocolates melted like cocoa rivers across little paper dams and silver-plated trays. I watched my brother and his new bride sitting exhausted in folding chairs in the late day heat surrounded by party guests. He still in his brand new suit and she in her beaded wedding gown and blush of simple veil. They had "should have gone to Vegas" written all over their bemused faces. They also had glimmer-in-the-eye love as apparent as neon hum.

In the background, a mix CD that the groom made for the wedding reception drowned out the fountain cascading pink nectar punch as Buddy Miller wailed, "Take me....take me...somewhere trouble don't go..."

It was perfect.

Post Cards From The Edge

I'm about to become an eight year old again. No....sadly to say, I have not found the fountain of youth. It's a road trip! My brother and my parents and I are about to get in the family truckster and take a road trip. Pedal to the metal in the Oldsmobile - going to the low country to see my brother hitched. That's right. The boy is getting married.

Of course, I am excited about the wedding but, I am also excited about the road trip. It's going to be like my brother and I are little kids again. I'm going to punch him a lot and scream, "Mom! Andy hit me!" just to get him in trouble. I'm going to eat Cheeto's cheese puffs and wipe my orange powder fingers on the back of the bench seat. I am going to regain the bladder of a child and ask to stop every 30 miles adding 10 minutes more to the trip with each stop as my parents try to rope me back in to the confines of the car when the fresh grass feels like home in every town.

It is going to be surreal. I haven't taken a trip with my family in almost 20 years. I wish we still had that custom-by-my-parents 1970's van with the carpeted walls and the tinted windows. I wish we were going to listen to 8-track tapes and stop for fresh sprays of Solarcaine and lunches of deviled ham and mayo sandwiches on soft Sunbeam bread. I want to smell the Hawaiian Tropic and cheap vinyl floats and sleep that little kid, back seat sleep that only lulls deeper with each bump and dip in the road.

But, I'm off to see what the new version is like. I'll probably come back covered in brother-induced bruises and sunburned shoulders; with sacks of cheap souvenir trinkets just like I used to. I wouldn't expect any less.

Fire up the time machine. I'm going to get myself a sister-in-law, more Hardee's food than one person should consume and some good quality time with my family.

The A-Bomb or the Hammond B?

Today on my answering machine I had the strangest call. It was obviously a misdial but I couldn't help but listen to the whole message even though it went on for quite some time. After a minute or so I realized that the call was made by someone in a car full of senior citizens. They kept laughing and pointing out different things on the route. At one point, an older gentleman shouted, "Hold the phone! Hold the phone!" and I thought he had discovered the misdial and my voyeurism was about to end. It turned out that this was only his way of telling someone else in the car to wait.

Towards the end of the conversation, I heard an elderly lady's voice chime in with, "Oh my! You'd be surprised at the number of old people who are taking organ lessons!!" and then the whole car was full of laughter. Just uproarious laughter and then nothing.

That was the end of the phone call.

I couldn't help but imagine that I had for a moment been privy to an underground group of senior citizens who were about to take over the world with weighty organ tunes. Where were they headed and how many were there? How many old people really are taking organ lessons and to what end?

I pray that we never know.

The trees are full of bunnies

This weekend I'm on a tight budget - okay, a nonexistent budget. But, I've come up with a list of things to do to entertain myself for free:

1. Get to the bottom of this whole Easter egg tree phenomenon. How did it start and why do seemingly tasteful people decorate trees in their yard with plastic, brightly colored eggs tied on with string? I might even take this one step further and delve into the inflatable bunny trees which to my mind's eye always look like big-eyed bunny soldiers dropped to earth in an air raid from an imaginary Easter war. The trees are full of bunnies, my friends.......

2. Find out why every vintage clothing item that I buy - no matter what state or country it is from - smells like patchouli or some nose-watering incense. On a related note, find out how to get that opium den smell out of my clothes closet. Wonder if Heloise has ever addressed that one....

3. Find out why Brini Maxwell looks better in makeup than I do and why it is me who ends up looking like a drag queen and not her (him?).

4. Research at what point songwriters stopped using "milk cow" in songs to refer to women (i.e. " If you see my milk cow....please, drive her on home, 'cause I ain't had no milk and butter since my cow been gone..." ). Try to convince one or more local songwriters to bring back this practice. Hey, it is offensive but it is somehow offensive with a hint of quaint nostalgia that I think the modern songs are missing. Perhaps it could even bleed over into rap songs and the terms "bitch" and "ho" would phase themselves out? I dream of a better world.

5. Tell myself over and over why I can't buy a ticket for the Wanda Jackson show tonight.

6. Practice my yodeling. Coax the cats out from under the bed.

That should get me through Saturday.

Tomorrow, I will just do my usual Sunday things : watch Meet the Press with the sound off, bake a ham, do some front porch sittin' and confess my sins.