Well last week you read about how John talked me into going camping on our honeymoon. And you learned a bit about how different we were. Well this week, as we continue on that honeymoon, you’ll read about other ways in which we differed. I know you’ll be amused. Enjoy! And if you feel like commenting on how I’m doing, what you’re finding interesting, or what makes you want to keep reading … or not … please let me know in the comment section below. Thanks!
CHAPTER 2: THE HONEYMOON: PART 2:
How do two relative strangers who’d never even dated before getting married handle being stuck together mile after mile for hours on end? Well one of the first things John came to know about me was my bladder control was out of control and pit stops would be required every 2 hours! As we pulled into yet another highway gas station so I could relieve myself, noticing the attached coffee shop, John said:
“Any chance you could skip picking up a coffee this time?”
I pretended I hadn’t heard. “Have you got a dollar? I’m dying for a cup of tea!”
He sighed and reached into his pocket, realizing his practical suggestion that I don’t pick up a coffee or tea at every pit stop was falling on deaf ears.
For my part, I learned that the cheapest hamburger on the menu was the only selection that made sense to John:
“You don’t need cheese on that burger do you? You’re always complaining that you’re putting on weight with all this sitting in the car, so why don’t you skip the cheese? 25 cents extra for a slice of cheese is a bit rich, don’t you think?
“Well,maybe I could have a salad instead?”
“Did you see what they’re asking for a bit of lettuce and tomato? For that price, we could buy a tomato farm! Highway bloody robbery!”
Everything else on the menu was “ridiculously over-priced” so I’d settle for a dry hamburger drowned in ketchup and mustard.
John learned that I had a habit of telling him to turn left when I meant right. I learned that I couldn’t read a map and watch for street signs at the same time. At first, it was funny and we both laughed about it, but after thousands of miles, we both sat in sullen silence, each blaming the other for missing the exit we needed or not pulling into the last pit stop when my bladder was bursting.
Then there was the camping scene. We’d haul into the cheapest one…or often the only one we could find after hours of driving…and pitch the pup tent. Rather, John would pitch the tent while I, useless with a hammer, watched or located the facilities which ranged from okay to dreadful: toilet cubicles with no doors, showers with only cold water, sometimes running rusty brown, and water so hard that soap wouldn’t lather and I couldn’t wash it out of my hair. I longed for warm showers and soft fluffy dry towels that weren’t still wet from the morning’s cold shower.
Frying sausages and heating canned peas on our little hibachi seemed to take forever when we were hungry but downing a couple of beers that I didn’t like and John loved, helped lessen the tension I felt. I was quickly learning what “roughing it” meant, but when, after checking for spiders and creepy crawlies, we finally snuggled into our sleeping bag and made sweet love, everything was okay again in this new role of being a married woman.
But then there were “those” sleepless nights, like the one where the memories surfaced no matter how hard I tried to push them back under. I closed my eyes listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the open forests, interrupted now and then by John’s snoring. My father’s face loomed before me, at first angry, then crying, still threatening, still frightening. As I lay in the dark surrounded by thin canvas, it was near impossible for me to believe he was no longer in my daily life and dictating my every move. I knew he wasn’t there and yet I could hear his voice, his never-ending lecturing and brain-washing. One time I turned so quickly in the sleeping bag as if pulling away from the sting of his criticism, the censuring threat of his disapproval, that I kicked the tent pole in fright. I knew if my father could see us now, he’d be laughing at us. I clamped my hands over my ears to block out the sounds of him scoffing at us, deriding the man who’d taken his new wife camping in a pup tent for a honeymoon. I tossed and turned in that tight sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable. I wished sleep would come. I guilt-tripped over mama trying to cope with him now on her own. And I stared into the dark void of the night wondering if I’d ever see either of them again.
Do I ever see my parents again? SUBSCRIBE BELOW to find out as I continue to BLOG MY BOOK, chapter by chapter. Share with a friend and let them subscribe too. Thanks for your support! And if they haven’t yet read “NO TEARS FOR MY FATHER”, tell them they can purchase a signed, printed copy or an eBook for any e-reader right here on my website: VIGA BOLAND.COM