Wilmington Weekend Update #23

It's not that I don't expect my friends to give me some flack about turning forty. I'd actually be a little disappointed if y'all didn't. It would make me feel old. I just have high expectations. You are, each of you, bright, witty, and original. So please, when you razz me, don't fall back on the old clichés: "The Big Four-Oh," "Lordy-Lordy...," and all that black Over The Hill kitch you can pick up at any Party City. You're better than that. Don't just abuse me, surprise me. At my age I've heard it all.

My parents surprised me by offering to host my 40th birthday party. Given our current financial panic (see house-painting and roofing blogs from last August) we had planned an intimate family celebration with just ourselves, the children, some pigs-in-a-blanket, and perhaps a bottle of Asti Spumante.

Instead my folks offered to fly in Thursday, March 6th and stay through Sunday the 9th. While here they would decorate, host, and pay for a fiesta at Boleros Cafe, our favorite Cuban restaurant. It gives me hope that when I'm in my sixties I, too will be able to afford a proper fortieth birthday party.

In return for this largesse I planned a weekend of fun that would knock their socks off! We started at the picturesque ILM International Airport followed by a quick drive-by tour of the New Hanover County Water Treatment Plant (for those of you from out-of-town it's really close to the airport and no trouble at all if you ever want to see it). We grabbed lunch at Sweet and Savory where I generously allowed them to pay. Then it was off to Old Time Pottery to buy me decorations for my party I was having.

Then it was time to watch Abby and Sellers practice soccer for two hours. Mom ("Granne" to the kids) stayed in the car to help Abby with her homework just as she had done for me. Once the flashbacks had passed I noticed Abby was flubbing simple math problems of the sort she could usually do in her head. I suggested she try a little harder. Mom suggested I get out of the car and go watch Sellers with my dad. She said I was, "too invested." Like, whatever! At least Sellers was playing well, living out my dreams and proving to my folks once and for all that I do too know how to raise a child and therefore have not wasted forty years of my life.

Friday March 7th, my actual birthday, dawned warm and drizzly. I got the kids to school and daycare, then returned home to breakfast with my folks and straighten up. Margaret had the day off from work, so she did what she often does on her day off, work at her office for nine hours. The weather put a damper on some of the best fun Wilmington has to offer, so instead of walking the beach I took my parents down the DMV to renew my driver's license. We arrived just as the state employees were starting their lunch breaks, so when I took number 203 and looked up to see "Now Serving 159" on the big red sign I became a little concerned. Fortunately we had time to run by the ATM as well as tour some of the droll little pawn shops and muffler boutiques in the neighborhood before returning to the DMV, where they were Now Serving 165.

Fortunately Mom had brought a book, and I had an umbrella. As the drizzle developed into a downpour we all took turns walking into the DMV to check on our progress. After a short hour and a half they were Now Serving 200. Dad and I stood in the back of the DMV reminiscing about the first time he took me to get my driver's license. Neither of us remembered the details, only a vague sense of dread. Finally 203 lit up, and it was my turn to have my vision tested and answer a simple quiz on traffic signs. Did you know the "School Crossing" sign is actually shaped like a school? Neither did I. But I did get a striking license photo!

From there we went shopping to buy me some flowers for my birthday party. We also scoped out Boleros and had a chance to clarify some points I hadn't negotiated before, like that the agreed-upon cost only covered one drink per person. By the time we got home the sun was out and we could enjoy lounging in the back yard. Mom and Dad brought their extensive gardening experience to bear, explaining why my back-yard garden would require much more labor and cost than I had anticipated and was still doomed to fail because you can't grow vegetables in the shade.

My birthday happened to fall on Friday Flop Night, our family's sacred celebration of all things stromboli and television. We ordered dinner then tried to watch Project Runway while my parents folded laundry and played with Julian. Terrazzo did us right, delivering a piping hot Italian birthday feast augmented by two small bottles of Prosecco and a desert gratis. The kids tried Calamari and at least the boys enjoyed it (we didn't remind them they were eating Squidward Tentacles). Then, while the folks continued to work on laundry I blew out my candles (and blew them out again, as they were trick candles. I was actually the one who bought them, but they were the prettiest ones at Lowes Foods.) We then sat down to enjoy chocolate cherry cake and beer. Our original ambition to stay up and watch The Office succumbed to sleepiness, and so ended the first day of my fifth decade.

Saturday there was so much to do! Our first mission was to Fresh Market, the winner of our flower contract. We brought our eight vases from Old Time Pottery, except I decided to save us money on flowers by allowing one large vase to crash to the tile floor as I pulled a grocery cart out. Mom and Dad discovered shopping with the kids could be distracting as well as annoying. We allowed them to entertain themselves first by touching all the vegetables and then by careening around the store in their own cart. Finally I confined them to a bench at the front of the store by spanking anyone who dared stand up, a threat I had to make good on several times in full view of the security cameras. “Hey, aren’t you my pediatrician?”

It wasn't until we returned to the car we realized someone was missing. Julian's favorite sleeping animal, Penguin, was no longer with us. The kids insisted he had brought Penguin into the store, but I know better than to allow such things, so I told them they must be wrong. Then I remembered taking a photo of them crossing the parking lot with Granne. I whipped out the camera to review the display:

So back in I went. I looked behind the lettuce bags the kids had been poking. I checked the candle display they'd rearranged. I looked under the bin of limes they'd send tumbling to the floor. I checked behind all the flowers, even the ones whose petals they hadn't bruised. Then it was up to the prison bench, inside all the trashcans, under all the displays, no Penguin, no Penguin, no Penguin! Finally I hunted down the manager, whose child is fortunately a patient of mine. I left her a business card with the word "PENGUIN" on it and all of my contact numbers. Then I returned to the car bracing for Julian's wailing and the sleepless night ahead. As I slumped back into the driver's seat Mom smirkingly informed me Julian had perfectly reproduced the "Son of a bitch!" I'd shouted when I left.

As a native son of Memphis my parents find it rather scandalous I know nothing of the barbecue options around me. In deference to my upbringing we took the kids to the new Bar Be Cutie, where they got a lesson in their heritage. Dad has fond memories of the original Bar Be Cutie in Nashville, but when he asked the cashier about it he got a blank stare. When we got home I tore into my sandwich with a vengeance, reconnecting to some primordial beast within me that craves smoked pig meat. He is stronger than I thought. I call him “Memphistopheles.”

By the time all the lunch hoopla was over Margaret and I realized we had less time than we thought to decorate the restaurant. We dashed over with lights, flowers, tea candles, and tablecloths (their tablecloths weren't Cuban enough for us, so we brought some Indian ones that were better). By the time we were done I was in major danger of being late to my own party.

We got home, turned the kids over to their favorite sitter Kim, and cleaned up as quickly as possible. Then we hopped in two cars so Mom and Dad could leave early if we and our forty-year-old friends got too rowdy. Fortunately only Don and Ginger Fennell beat us to the restaurant. They could tell they were in the right place.

If you were there, you can skip this part and just look at the pictures. (Who am I kidding? No one reads the text.) Maybe it's just because we've both spent far too many parties leaning on the wall and watching other people have fun, but Margaret went out of the way to help people mix it up. Key to her plan was our British friend David Burchnall, a natural-born entertainer. Let's just say he makes Richard Dawson look like Ben Stein.

Burchnall's job was to ask each guest a David Hill trivia question, such as, "Which of the following concerts did David not attend? a) Prince b) Air Supply c) AC/DC d) Culture Club" (The answer is "c". It's a long story.) Once the guest answered a question he or she could procede to the "Pick Dave's Ride" game where they would guess which six of the posted cars I had actually owned. Margaret made it a little easier by including the General Lee, KITT, and a Delorean.

Hedging her bets, Margaret also prepared each guest an intriguing nametag. For Jeff Weaver, "Ask me about Extreme Makeover, Neighborhood Edition." For Morgan Richards, "Dude, did you SEE the SUB?" (She teaches. She's hot.) For Dana Sachs, "Good morning, Vietnam!". Leaving absolutely nothing to chance, Margaret also pressed margaritas and beers into every empty hand (agreed-upon price be damned).

Melissa Bachman, active listener.

Ilana Reynolds, writer, wearer of cool jewelry.

Noelle Milam, proving "charming" is an adjective and a verb.

Steven and Morgan Richards with the St. Pauli Girl

Dr. Sandra Hall. Really, she's a doctor.

Karen and Josh Vogel, who apparently enjoy each other's company.

Jeff and Cristy Weaver (Jeff took all these photos.)

Dr. Lunsford King, monitoring our sanity.

Margaret and David Burchnall announce the winner of Pick Dave's Ride, Josh Vogel.

I may be forty, but I can still balance on this table!

I really did blow out 40 candles, albeit only 20 at a time.

Jim Harris arranged for everyone to sign a new apron for me. He picked it to match my kitchen walls.

Not content just to have a quiz, a guessing game, and clever nametags, Margaret also prepared a rooster piñata. Instead of the usual lollipops and stickers she filled this one with Lindt chocolate, Caribbean rum, and Dominican cigars. It's not our job to worry about how people will feel the next day.

Dr. Tom Milam, psychiatrist, insists that sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.

Surgeon Jim Harris insists that if you have the fine motor skills you can smoke a cigar, drink rum, and eat cheesecake at the same time.

I've always wanted to have a posse. Gastroenterologist Steve Klein (second from left) Insists people smoke cigars, drink rum, and eat way too much Cuban food.

Alas, all parties eventually end, and we trudged out with the last of our candles, twinkle lights, and leftovers around midnight (I need sleep at my age). Mom and Dad had left earlier, bringing much of the leftover food with them and experiencing an unfortunate incident involving cheese dip. The less said about this the better. All said, if you have to turn forty (and really, what are the alternatives?) you may as well have a party like this one. Thanks to Mom, Dad, Margaret, and everyone who came.

Sunday morning came early thanks to Daylight Savings Time. (Not to go off here, but why in the heck do we put ourselves through this? How is this torture saving us any daylight? If it's for the farmers, what do they get out of it? Aren't price supports enough?) I made crepes, which Margaret filled. Then it was off to the airport and, of course, the New Hanover County Water Treatment Facility.

The rest of the day was laid-back. The kids played outside. Our back-door neighbor Don Fennell came by to retrieve his daughter, Greta, who has become Julian's favorite playmate. He ended up dressed like a bunny with a feather boa. What happened in between I dare not guess.

Obviously life did not stop on March 9th, but this has been a long blog, so we'll stop here and pick it up with the Easter trip to Staunton as well as a chicken tragedy and Penguin's Big Adventure. Have a great week.

Wilmington Weekend Update #22

So with Margaret back from Virginia and as caught up as she ever gets at home and at work, life was again routine. Which meant the kids got bored. “What should we do if you won’t let us play more than five hours of Webkinz, Daddy?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Entertain yourselves.” And so they did:

Wednesday, 2/20/08 brought its own entertainment in the form of a lunar eclipse. The best viewing was about an hour after the kids’ usual bedtimes, but they were so excited we decided to let them stay up for the whole thing. Sellers and Abby made an eclipse poster at their after-school program, and everyone got bathed and jammied in record time so as not to miss the astronomical moment. As the moon slipped into the earth’s shadow around 8:30 we found the best viewing was from the playroom roof, just outside our bedroom window.

With the bed so close and an hour to go before the full eclipse, all three children climbed under the covers with mommy, awaiting my word to spring up when the moon was nearly gone. I cleaned dishes and kept a check on things, running back up near 9:30 to roust the troops. Julian had seen the beginning of the eclipse, and he likened the moon to a cookie being eaten (a Moon Pie?). Figuring he wouldn’t remember anyway I just carried him to his bed. Abby awoke with some effort and climbed out on the roof to watch. Sellers roused with lots of effort and then wouldn't stand, so I carried him in my arms through the windowsill and out onto the roof. He opened his eyes, saw the moon, and asked if I would take photos while he slept. So I carried him back to bed and returned to set up camp with Abby.

This is what we saw (it was cooler through the binoculars):

Once the Moon Pie was completely eaten I sent Abby to bed and settled in myself for a blissful sleep. I awoke at 5:00 AM to Sellers wailing that he hadn’t seen the eclipse and why, (sob) hadn’t (sob) I (sob) woken him up (sob) like I PROMISED??!! It turns out Sellers is one of those kids who can sleep with his eyes open. I’m sure this will never come up again.

We only had to wait another day for more excitement, as Francis and Diane arrived Friday afternoon for Francis’s big lecture at St. James Episcopal. They got in early enough to enjoy some Port City Java and pick up Julian, Abby, and Sellers from day care and after-school. I got home in time to snack on cheese and crackers, freshen up, and set off for the church.

We were met by Tom Milam (psychiatrist/priest/mechanic/dreamboat), rector Ron Abrams, and Louise Coggins, who helped organize the event. We actually got a parking space reserved with a traffic cone. (I’ve never, ever rated a traffic cone, but I know a woman in town who always has a couple in her trunk just in case.) We milled around in the church, appreciating a view we don’t usually have from our traditional spot as close to the escape door as possible. Then they dimmed the lights and invited Margaret up to the stage to introduce her dad (Margaret’s speech is reproduced in its entirety below, but I cannot put in how perfectly she delivered it. There were tears.)

Francis gave his usual riveting talk, starting with his childhood and how he came to science, then how he came to faith, then how science reinforces his faith, and finally giving a compelling account of how the struggle over evolution is a historical and political product of very recent vintage and a waste of energy for both sides. Finally he pulled out his guitar and led a rousing chorus of song. After that it was time for book-signing, wine-drinking, and mini-quiche-noshing in the church gymnasium. Leading a whole gaggle of our friends and neighbors I realized with some embarrassment I wasn't quite sure how to get to the church gymnasium.

Louise Coggins with a parishoner who brought Francis a book about Arthurdale, where her parents and his both served as teachers.

Saturday was Diane's birthday (observed). The children conspired to let our guests sleep late by keeping their collective noise down to the level of a 747 in flight (as opposed to a 747 taking off). Diane awoke first and shared her tea with all three children, who scattered sugar and milk all over the table, but did so with raised pinkies.

Once Francis was caffeinated Diane opened her present, a whole kit of percussion and woodwind instruments to be used by guests at the music nights she and Francis host. Of course we had to try them out. It sounded like, like...oh, what's louder than a 747 taking off?

After that the kids introduced Francis and Diane to their Webkinz.

Saturday passed with blessedly little planning. We hung out with the neighbors, cleaned the chicken coop, and ate sandwiches on the stoop.

But the excitement wasn’t over, because that evening Louise and her husband Steve had invited us to their Figure 8 Island home for a dinner with the Milams, local psychiatrists Tom and Anne Mathew, Carolina Alumnus Sam Reeves and his wife Betsy, and some retiree named Dean who apparently had enjoyed a moderately successful career in intercollegiate athletics.

Steve and Louise Cogggins, Francis, and Diane

Coach Dean Smith attempts to retrieve a basketball stolen by the Reverend Dr. Tom Milam.

"Just make it out to David's Next Door Neighbor's Brother's Kids."

I've heard many times just how charming Margaret is, but when Dean Smith says it, it makes me want to steal the ball, drive to the top of the key in a fast break, bounce-pass to the power forward, and position myself for the rebound. And I don't even know what that means.

Sam Reeves and Francis fix the world's problems.

Margaret, Louise, Betsy Reeves, and Diane

Where Francis goes there is always singing, and so the evening wrapped up with a chorus of sacred music, including “He Walks With Me,” “Saving Grace,” and “Carolina On My Mind.”

"Please, Mr. Smith, just one more photo. The folks back home are never gonna believe this!"

We celebrated Sunday with stacks of crepes, after which we drove Francis and Diane to the airport and said goodbye until Easter, when we’ll see them in Staunton. We returned home where the kids and I roasted marshmallows and weenies in the Weavers’ driveway while Margaret worked frantically documenting patient encounters. I deny trying to turn every conversation to the subject of my meeting Dean Smith. He really did have some cogent insights into the art of roasting marshmallows.

The following week was routine except that I did appear on WWAY TV3 Wilmington (“Where Wilmington turns for news when for some reason they can’t watch WECT.”) HERE you can see me scratch my eyebrow, stare at my feet, and mumble hoarsely about healthy lifestyles for children.

This week has been equally uneventful, if you don’t count Margaret contracting a stomach bug that left her too sick to work Thursday. We’re spending much of the weekend preparing for my parents’ visit this week and my 40th birthday party this coming weekend. Fortunately I’m not the least bit freaked out about turning 40. You’re only as old as you feel, they say, which means I’m at most, like, 8 ½. I can’t wait for puberty! Maybe I’ll finally grow chest hair. It’s not fair. I have ear hair.

So if you’re in town I’ll see you at Bolero’s Cuban Café March 8th and you can meet my folks. Otherwise please think of me March 7th (my actual birthday) and drink a toast on my behalf. Then another. And heck, why not a few more? Pass out and wake up with a killer headache. Take photos of the experience and email them to me so I can post them right here. It will make me feel better, really.

David

(Here's Margaret's intro:)

Dr. Francis Sellers Collins speaks on The Language of God
Friday, February 22, 2008
St. James Episcopal Parish, Wilmington, NC

Welcome, everyone, to a very special evening. I am Margaret Collins-Hill, and my family and I attend church here at St. James, usually sitting over there, trying to keep down the noise. It is a thrill this evening to climb up in to the pulpit to introduce my wonderful dad, Dr. Francis Sellers Collins.

As many of you know, my dad is the Director of the National Center for Human Genome Research at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland (you see why they use “Human Genome Project” for short). Since 1993 he has led a global effort to study life at its very origins: our DNA. He calls it “a journey into ourselves”.

When people find out who my father is, they tell me how brilliant his science is or how his faith has touched them. They seem to wait for me to wow them with yet another detail, and yet what I always want to tell them is what a regular guy he is. He’s warm. He’s sentimental. He can be very silly. He gets nervous and embarrassed and mad and excited, just like everyone else. And when he’s around, it’s pretty much the only time I feel like everything is OK.

Since Dad was barely 20 when I was born, I had a front row seat for most of his adult life. He let me tag along for whatever was happening in college, grad school, med school, residency. I had no idea my daddy was a budding historic figure. I just knew I loved to be with him, and I wanted to learn what he was learning.

In his eulogy for my grandmother just a few weeks ago, Dad said, “I learned from [my mother] that discovery of new things was one of the greatest joys that a person can have”. My grandparents taught Dad and his brothers to discover and create and emote, mostly in music, theater, and literature. But Dad discovered a greater thrill: the order of science. Science was not just knowledge and experience, but truth. Absolute mathematical truth. Ultimately the science of life was his favorite. He writes about “the satisfying digital glory of DNA, RNA, and protein” and his distress over “the …consequences of those rare careless moments of its copying mechanism”.

He arrived at that point in 1973. I was three, and we were already well into our own learning games. Daddy quizzed me on recognizing the major classical composers, demonstrated surgical knots with rope on trees, required that I learn how to name and produce every tool in his toolbox, and helped me apply rules of human anatomy to drawing people’s arms. He also taught me every word of “The Lord’s Prayer”, though I learned only years later that he, himself, did not believe in God at all.

When I was seven, things changed. Up until then I was the scorekeeper for bowling on Sunday morning, but suddenly we started going to church instead. There was new and urgent truth to pursue. As Daddy put it, “could there be a more important question in all of human existence than ‘is there a God?’”.

Dad’s pursuit of truth (or truths) is passionate, positive, and tireless. I have to admit, for myself, though, when I pursue truth most doggedly, it is usually because something else is pursuing me.

Two things pursue me. The first is the Consequence of Ignorance. Three years ago my dear friend, Connie, stood right over there, watching Ron baptize Julian. She was a beautiful, beaming godmother. I called Dad on the day of Connie’s breast cancer diagnosis, begging for hope from science. So much wonderful research was out there, but even the state-of-the-art wasn’t enough for Connie. She’s gone now. Certainly each of you carries a similar story with you. We join our walk-a-thons and even seek whole careers to uncover truth in time for someone else.

But there’s a another, darker pursuer over my shoulder. That is Meaninglessness. I dread the heavens are empty, and my life means nothing. I can search and reason forever without gaining ground. Truth has to find me, and it doesn’t happen much. And it seems to prefer crisis.

Christmas 1991 Dad, my sister, and I decorated the tree, pretending everything was fine. We didn’t talk about the divorce or not living in the same house anymore. We put on Handel’s Messiah, like we always did, and kept hanging tinsel.

As the soprano reached that passage from Matthew, “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd, He shall gather the lambs with His arms”, Daddy gathered us in his arms. “…Come unto Him, all ye that labour. Come unto Him, ye that are heavy laden, and He will give you rest.”

We all wept shaking sobs, for our fractured family, for fear of the future, but also amidst sudden awareness God was present, and He cared to cradle us as we ached. For just a moment that was clear.

Christmas is better now. Christmas Eve at 4 o’clock we’re over there, again making a lot of noise. Right in middle is Daddy, next to our darling Diane, the most shining silver lining a cloud ever had.

But Daddy and I relive our moment whenever that passage plays, weeping again, and again briefly connecting to that special comfort, stored in the bars of music.

My grandparents shared the glory of knowledge, art, and music with Dad. Dad has shared with me, and now with all of you, the wonder of the pursuit of truth, in the natural and the spiritual worlds alike.

And so, I give you my darling Dad, Dr. Francis Sellers Collins.