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Did Anyone Bring A Camera?
A Hippy Wedding in the 70s
I think it was something to do
with living in the 70s. Why else would a couple decide to get married on the
spur of the moment, with virtually no planning (other than to apply for a
wedding license) and while they were about to head off in different directions?
I was going up the Queensland coast, he was going down. Yet here we were, in sunny Brisbane, the capitol of Queensland, agreeing to meet in three weeks and get married at
the city registrar.
I had to catch a train back to Brisbane for the wedding. No family members were to be present at the ceremony because they
just couldn’t make it. We didn’t exactly give them time to prepare, but they
had sent gifts and vouchers and impressed upon us the necessity of taking
photos of the wedding.
But as I got off the train that
sunny September morning, I wasn’t thinking about photos. I didn’t have a
camera, and assumed my bridegroom would take care of it.
I had a small bag tight packed
with clothes, including a blue dress with embroidered daisies I had bought for
my wedding. I was wearing a short skirt and a pink knitted sweater of unknown
vintage. It was a pretty thing, and one of my favorites, but I needed a place
to change. The wedding was at midday and I had to find my way from the station
to the registry office. I’d get changed there, I decided – there was bound to
be a public loo.
I caught a taxi outside the
train station and was dropped at the park near the registry office. It was
still quite early in the morning, but the flowers were in bloom, and I strolled
along the walkways, trying to spot my bridegroom. He was nowhere to be seen, so
I took a seat and waited.
He arrived about two hours late.
It seemed the buck’s night had gone on longer than intended (don’t they
always?) and he hadn’t been awake long. We were both starving and went to a
café for breakfast. Then we strolled up to the registry to check the time of
our wedding.
``Witnesses?” My bridegroom said
blankly, as the receptionist waited, pen poised to write down the names. ``What
witnesses?”
``You must have witnesses,” she
said. Her disapproving look told us we were a pair of irresponsible hippies not
to have thought of it ourselves.
``I don’t know anyone in Brisbane,” I said. ``Where can we get witnesses?”
But my bridegroom had by now
gripped me by the arm and was steering me out of the office.
``I know some people,” he said.
``Let’s see if they’re home.”
Some time later, we were sitting
in a sunny kitchen, waiting for the hastily assembled witnesses to get
themselves organized for a wedding. My bridegroom’s friends were thankfully
free for the day and their ten-year-old daughter was ecstatic at her unexpected
chance to be a bridesmaid. She was being bustled into her best dress, and we were
enjoying a cup of tea. It didn’t occur to me that this would be a good time to
get changed into my wedding dress.
In fact, I didn’t think of it at
all until we standing in front of the celebrant, and I realized I was still
wearing my pink sweater.
The only person actually dressed
for a wedding was the registrar himself. He was wearing a smart suit with a
carnation in his buttonhole. He seemed to spend a long time explaining to us
the responsibilities of what we were about to undertake.
But finally he seemed satisfied
– or just gave up – and proceeded with the wedding. Our witnesses clapped and
cheered when we were pronounced man and wife, and then the little girl’s mother
asked the dreaded question.
``Did anyone bring a camera?”
Bridegroom and I exchanged
accusing looks. ``I thought you were taking care of it!”.
The reception was held straight
after the wedding, in the same café where we had eaten breakfast, and then we
spent the rest of the day wandering around Brisbane. I was ignorantly blissful
of where we were going to spend our wedding night until darkness fell, and my
bridegroom suggested we find a hotel room.
``You mean you didn’t book one?”
I said.
``Well, it’s hardly the tourist
season. Should be plenty of rooms available.”
In spite of his confidence, we
drove up and down the coast until one in the morning before we found a room
that had recently been vacated by a bunch of backpackers. It had four beds in
it.
``Take your pick,” the hotel
owner said cheerfully.
The next morning we set off down
the coast again to pick up our first home. It was a Kombi van. Well, it was the
70s.
When I tell my kids about our
wedding day, they refuse to believe we weren’t completely stoned. And they are
still very disappointed that neither of us remembered to bring a camera.
Gail Kavanagh 2006
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