Trip to Tulum leaves much to be treasured

According to Daddy, there’s nothing worth doing outside of Epsom. So when baby sister Audrey announced that she was getting married in Tulum, Mexico, Daddy was caught in quite the quandary.

“Mexico,” he frowned as he lit a cigarette.

For months, Daddy protested Audrey’s plans for a destination wedding. He flat out refused to go.

“I think your father’s afraid to fly,” Mama confided in me one night as we discussed the wedding plans turned disaster.

“He better go,” I replied. “Audrey’s the only daughter he’ll ever marry off.”

Perhaps Daddy realized the ramifications of his wedding day absence. For a few days later, he grudgingly agreed to the Tulum trip.

“I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t,” he conceded, as he closed his eyes for an afternoon nap.

Now, while Daddy dosed up on sedatives for his first flight, another member of the Eaves clan likewise prepared for the international nuptials.

“I can’t stand pale skin!” Granny said as she snagged a can of sunless tanning spray.

And thus began Granny’s pre-trip tanning session. Granny sprayed her fair legs from top to bottom with that can of sunless tanner. And then, she rubbed the quickly drying spray onto her legs. For a grand finale, Granny dried those dyed legs by the fireplace.

“I’ve got this bad habit of not reading instructions,” Granny confessed to our troop of travelers the next day at the airport.”That is, not until I’ve already used something.”

“Granny Virgie!” we all screamed as she showcased a pair of bronzed palms.

“The directions said, ‘Do not rub,’” Granny frowned. “And flammable!”

As my family took flight for Mexico that morning, we thanked the good Lord that Granny’s legs hadn’t burst into flames the night before.

We didn’t reach our resort until nightfall. So, sunrise and excitement were our alarm clocks the next morning.

“Look outside!” I hollered to my best friend, Kris. “Can you believe it’s the middle of December?” I gasped as I pulled our patio door open to a garden of palm trees and yucca plants.

While Kris climbed onto an outdoor hammock, I tiptoed to Mama and Daddy’s room.

“Have you looked outside of your window yet?” I asked a fully dressed Daddy who greeted me with a smile and a cigarette.

“I’ve already been to the beach,” he replied.

While Daddy described the birds he’d seen and the gardens he’d walked, I stared at this man who was suddenly as foreign to me as the country we were visiting.

The rest of the day was filled with similar surprises.

“Where’s Granny Virgie?” I wondered aloud while Kris and I strolled the resort that afternoon.

“Look!” Kris pointed ahead at a nearby balcony where Granny Virgie stood, sipping a strawberry daiquiri and wearing a t-shirt that said, “What happens under the mistletoe stays under the mistletoe.”

“I think Granny Virgie likes the Mexican men,” my older, unwed sister Wendy giggled as we greeted both her and a very tan Granny by the balcony. Granny smiled, and then took another sip of her cocktail.

Meanwhile, some male bonding had begun by a nearby table.

“You’re the son I never had,” Daddy said as he hugged his soon-to-be son-in-law, Justin.

It was then, at that very moment in Tulum, Mexico, that I realized my dad was delirious.

The next day, we all gathered under a Mexican sunset for my baby sister’s wedding. And as my childhood playmate passed from Daddy’s arms one final time as Audrey Denise Eaves, I couldn’t help but cry.

Nor could the bride and groom.

“It was sweat,” Justin later explained to an unconvinced crowd during the reception.

As with all weddings, there are toasts to be shared. But of all that was spoken that night, perhaps Audrey said it best.

“I had my reservations about this destination wedding,” she began as she toasted the wedding travelers under a Mexican full moon. “But this has been such a blessing.”

And for the Eaves family, it certainly was.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

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