Page 43 of I’m Not Yours

My parents still have a VW bus. In fact, they have two. Neither is the one we puttered about in as kids wearing flowers and feathers in our hair and shark tooth necklaces, the sides painted with peace signs and flowers. No, these are newer.

Both VWs were painted by a friend of theirs, a professional, well-known artist. Across the “flower power” flowers on both sides, are the words “Hippie Chick.”

They have a huge, Craftsman-style home in the country, along a river, outside Eugene, a liberal college town. The home has wraparound decks, an outdoor pool, and a hot tub.

None of us, August, September, March, nor I saw this placid domesticity coming.

“This world was made for existential experiences and a spiritual connection with nature,” my mom had always said.

“To adventures I bow,” my father vowed.

“Never stop seeking, chasing down your curiosity, believing in the wonders of life,” my mom extolled to us.

“Challenge yourself to never, ever become boring, a life-killer,” my father admonished. “Do not die during your lifetime from inertia.”

We thought they would continue their traveling ways after the four of us fled the coop, or fled the VW bus, as it were, into college.

But as soon as March left for college, our parents were done traveling. Kaput. Boom. Quit.

The kids were gone, they wanted a home.

My father waxed eloquently, “We’ve traveled long and hard, rolling stones, stars shooting through the night, a family of land travelers on a quest for knowledge and enlightenment. We explored and pushed the boundaries.”

“And now we want a full kitchen,” my mom said, with impressive eagerness. “Where I can cook a proper turkey dinner, with the lace tablecloths and silver from my mother.”

“And we want a big tub for two,” my father said. “So nice on the back.”

“Space so we can breathe, and shelves for our books. Books are your friends, you know. Your friends .”

“A deck for gazing at the Milky Way, but radiant heat on the floor so our feet don’t get cold. Brrrr! ”

“And air-conditioning. Anything over ninety degrees is too hot, hot, hot!”

“A gas fireplace, so when we’re cold, we flick a switch, and voila. A fire, no rubbing sticks together anymore.”

“Don’t forget our dream appliances,” my mom added. “All necessary for good health: our juicer, blender, water purifier, and espresso machine.”

The four of us would have been less surprised if they’d plucked Venus out of the sky and ate it.

They wanted a home, so they went to work.

My mom used her talents as a seamstress, my father as a painter and business organizer, and together those two developed a line of Hippie Chick clothes for girls and women.

They sold them out of the back of their VW bus at various Saturday markets.

My father set up a website. They worked long hours, they marketed and advertised in creative ways, and hired the right people: my brother, March, also a workaholic, who handled the marketing and PR and the charity donations, and my sister September, who has an MBA.

I did all the legal work. August did the accounting and number crunching.

My parents eventually sold their clothes for a high price to a high-end department store.

They hired more people and treated them well.

No one in the Hippie Chick company, save a mother who became pregnant with triplets, has ever quit.

They made a bundle. And another bundle. More bundles after that.

Hippie Chick bought them their house, paid for with cash. “I will be beholden in debt to no one!” my father said, pointing his finger skyward.

“No one owns us!” my mom agreed. “We are free, free!”

Aligning with the rest of their values, they saved a bunch of money from the profits and gave it away to two different charities: one donated college scholarships to underprivileged children and one helped abused/sick/homeless horses.

“We’ve always found a friendship with horses, haven’t we, honey?” my father said to my mom. “A spectacular symbol of strength, endurance, physical magic.”

“Don’t you remember watching the wild horses run on our traveling, adventuring, rolling stones days? Don’t you? Our first kiss was after horseback riding.”

“Yes, it was. I remember every minute of it, to this day. It was spectacular. Never forgot it and the kisses have only gotten better.” My father grabbed my mom and pulled her toward him.

“Love you, you old coot.” She squeezed his butt, then kissed him back.

He put his hands up her shirt and rubbed her back.

“Get a hotel, both of you, old coots,” I said.

They laughed.

But they weren’t old. You start having kids when you’re teenagers and as you get older, you realize your parents aren’t that much older than you.

And, in my case, they were a lot more fun.

When I arrived, my parents were positively beaming and tranquil.

My mom, blond and brown-eyed, like me, petite, not like me, was wearing a flowing pink pantsuit.

On her lithe figure, it was fabulous. My father, dark-haired, dimples, was wearing jeans and a blue jean shirt with subtle swirls, and a peace sign on the pocket that Hippie Chick Man would soon be selling.

They were the picture of everlasting youth. Both were carrying crystal wands.

“Give me a morning hug, June!” My father smiled, hugging me close. “I love you, baby. We’re having the MacKenzie family Scottish breakfast, then the scavenger hunt will begin.”

“Take your wand,” my mom said, kissing me on the cheek again. “Don’t drop it during the hunt, or you lose! It must be with you at all times. Oh, how I adore you, June. You are spectacular!”

“Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll cast a spell on you now.” I waved the wand.

She opened the door to the dining room. They have the largest dining room I’ve ever seen. My parents constructed a table to seat thirty. I hugged my brother, March. He wears his silky brown hair to his shoulders and resembles our father. Women go crazy for him. “Lookin’ wonderful, sis.”

September burst into tears and hugged me hard. “Sister! I have missed you!” September is blond-haired, like August and me, but she has blue streaks in her short wedge of hair and a tattoo on her left arm with our family’s names shaping a heart.

“My Scottish clansmen and women,” my father announced, deep voice carrying to each corner. “June has arrived!” He fisted his hands high into the air.

We are so into our Scottish heritage, our kilts and tartans and family crest, but the truth is we are a multicultural group. A United Nations Scottish-American family.

My cousin Earl picked up his bagpipes and blew.

He is a champion bagpipe player. His father is from Zimbabwe.

Great-uncle Seamus was, indeed, dressed as Abe Lincoln.

He blew me a kiss. His mother’s family is from Japan.

Chuck and Duck, the circus performers, were there, too.

Their father is Russian. They did handstands in greeting.

Later they would put on a neat show with sticks set on fire.

My cousin Marci Shinola, who shot her neighbor in the knee, grinned at me and waved.

“I’m out of the slammer, June!” Her mother is from Venezuela.

The twins who always dress in monster outfits have a father from Mexico. They growled at me.

My family cheered a hello.

Yes, I was home.

The MacKenzies have many traditions. One of them is that the women— only women —get together before every wedding and have a twenty-four-hour Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine. No, it is not a bachelorette party. That happens the night before the rehearsal dinner.

The Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine involves a real-life story straight from Scotland.

It’s all about Great-great-great-etc.-Grandma Geraldine who started the American branch of MacKenzies.

Apparently she did not want to marry the man her father had chosen.

She was sixteen, and you know how those rebellious teenagers are; it’s so difficult to force them to marry someone they don’t want to marry.

So, Geraldine left her clan. She walked.

And walked and walked. In fact, she walked so far away that on her wedding day, though her family hunted high and low, they couldn’t find her.

There was no wedding.

Days after the wedding, she returned. Rested, refreshed, relaxed.

Family lore has it that she declared if she was forced to marry someone else, she’d leave for America. Well, in due time, her father corralled her into another marriage, but this time he had the relatives stand guard so she couldn’t take off.

It didn’t work. She managed to sneak off, this time with a bag in hand, and darned if she didn’t land in America a year later, dead poor and sick from the trip.

She later married Cormac MacKenzie and had eight children.

She lived to be ninety-two years old. Her father forgave her. Her ex-fiancés did not.

So, in her honor, the Salute to Our Heroine Geraldine involves all of the women going on a hike early in the morning.

A looong hike, to remember the long walk that Geraldine endured to escape her wedding.

Then we volunteer our time to clean something, usually it’s a women’s shelter, a soup kitchen, etc, to show respect for the hard work that Geraldine did as a maid to earn passage to America.

We take a boat ride, with a lot of wine, to memorialize her trip to America.

After that, we Americanize the journey: We all go to the spa.

Many spas. They can’t hold all of us.

“Geraldine would have wanted a spa trip if she’d had the opportunity to go to one,” my mom always said. “She would know she well and truly deserved it after all she’d been through.”

“In spirit, she’s with us, getting a hot rock massage,” Aunt Wilma declared.

“She’s with us as we get oatmeal and chocolate treatments spread all over our bodies,” my sister September said.

“At Myrna’s wedding I had the lemongrass and vanilla massage,” Cousin Darla said.