And Miles To Go Before We Sleep | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: And Miles To Go Before We Sleep | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marlene Bonney
07/07/15
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And Miles to Go Before We Sleep

Walter Collins had saved up his vacation hours like Scrooge’s hoarded coins. He was getting married in three weeks, and he and his bride-to-be were planning a dream honeymoon.

Melanie’s family didn’t go on vacations so she was as excited as a dog with a Christmas ham bone. She had never traveled farther from her hometown in Michigan than to a Christian college campus in Indiana. Miami Beach loomed gaily before her while Walter, a more seasoned traveler, was more excited because she was.

The November, 1970 wedding at the only church they had ever known was reserved. They were both marking the days off their calendars each night; he, after a long day at work, and she, after hours of what seemed to be never-ending wedding details.

Both rather shy, neither one of them looked forward to actually walking down the aisle in front of more than a hundred pairs of eyes, but spending their lives together forever was well-worth any embarrassment of a brief ceremony. They didn’t know it at the time, but the bride’s veil would smoke when she blew out her candle, causing some gasps from the onlookers.

It snowed for the first time that winter on their wedding day, as witnessed by a photographer’s shot of the thrown, air-born rice mingling with the snowflakes as Walter and Melanie rushed to the getaway car and the crisp wind blew the bride’s hole-burned veil helter-skelter.

The couple departed Michigan thereafter, traveling to Sylvania, Ohio the first day. Wanting to savor every minute of the trip, they took their time to enjoy the scenery. It was wonderful to be alone together--no restrictions--no chaperones--no parents. They were on their own! No longer caged like a pet canary, Melanie took deep, exhilarating breaths many times that first day.

Day two found the young couple in Toledo, Ohio where they ate dinner at a newly-opened restaurant touted by an airplane-toted banner above their car. On day three, they arrived in Williamston, Kentucky, enjoying strolls down its avenues and shopping in souvenir gift boutiques. Chattanooga, Tennessee took up day four, serenaded by Walter’s baritone rendition of the “Chattanooga-Choo-Choo” for more miles than the actual train covered.

Macon, Georgia became their nemesis on day five, as they experienced a rude awakening, literally, Melanie giving up the previous night’s dinner into the motel room’s single wastebasket.

“Why does the bed keep shaking like I’m still in the car,” her weak voice pled, even as Walter departed for the nearest drug store. . .

“Pregnant, is she,” the smirking pharmacist erroneously guessed.

“Car sick,” mumbled the dutiful husband, recalling a fuzzy conversation he and Melanie had a few years ago when she told him of this childhood ailment that she had “supposedly” outgrown.

With sighs of relief, they finally departed the aired-out motel suite, only to be fraught with another dilemma a few hours later. The red clay of Georgia had stuck their car into a muddy ditch, the closest rescue in a nearby subdivision. Notwithstanding, they still made it to Gainesville, Florida by day six, enjoying hand-in-hand meandering down its boardwalks in balmy breezes.

St. Petersburg was reached the following day and Winter Haven the next. A side trip to the famous Cypress Gardens was in order, where Scarlett O’Haras’ roamed across perfectly manicured lawns in ruffled long gowns that took Melanie’s breath away.

And, finally, day nine found the honeymooning couple at their reserved Chateau motel suite on Miami Beach. Three days of sunning on sandy shores and dipping into the Atlantic Ocean’s salty waves became their routine. The initial swim was followed by an introduction to the motel’s social director, who cornered them at an outdoor umbrella-ed table for two.

“Oh, are you HONEYMOONERS? I’m SO excited—you’re my very first! Stay here—I’ll be right back!”

Walter and Melanie cringed at the unwanted attention, but did not want to hurt the woman’s feelings. She returned quicker than the buzzing fly attacked their plates, a “My Honeymoon” sealed scrapbook in one hand and a festively-ribboned bottle of “Chateau Martin Wine Sparkling Burgundy” in the other. The couple did not have the heart to tell her they didn’t drink alcohol and that they already had a memory book.

Forty-five years have gone by and the album and the still-sealed wine are stored away in the older couple’s cedar chest. . .

“Let’s just let the kids take care of it after we’re gone,” Melanie and Walter agreed.

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NON-FICTION, except for couple's names.

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