The only thing I regret about my wedding is the impromptu speech I made. I hadn't considered speaking, but as my dad addressed the crowd I thought, "Say. Maybe I should get up there and say something." That was my first mistake. The second was actually doing it. I promptly molested the microphone into making an ungodly squeal and at once knew the immensity of my mistake. "Drop the microphone, grab Lindsey, and run like heckfire" was my initial response. But as I looked into a crowd of half-strangers I realized that I had taken Oral Communications in both high school and college, so I was prepared. I mean, I was the weatherman for our school for a semester, what's a little wedding speech? It's my own wedding after all—it's OK.
So like the true lunkhead, I listened to myself and stayed up there. As I began and then actually continued speaking, I realized that this was my worst decision since I tried to set off two dozen bottle rockets with a joint at noon in the Stanly County Sheriff's Office with a bag of aborted fetuses in the other hand and two dead bald eagles stuffed into my illegal immigrant's gay son's husband's hooker.
I fought the urge to impale myself for about three minutes, said lots of stupid things, and finally sat down. It wasn't until two days later that I realized my biggest mistake. I mentioned lots of people, mainly members of Lindsey's family, and thanked them and everyone for coming, and some other boring things. In my stupidity, I forgot to thank my own family. Not only my mom, dad, and brother, but also all the other members who had sacrificed loads of leisure time in order to attend my wedding five hours from their homes. I immediately fell face first into the sand and began swallowing in hopes of happy death. Fortunately, Lindsey recognized the problem and scooped me back up, brushed me off, and explained that it was OK—that I was nervous, hadn't planned the darn thing, and that everyone realized it. My family knew that I greatly appreciated their being at my wedding, she said, and that I can always thank them when I get home.
Well, even though few of my family know my blog exists, or even know what a mouse is, I thought this would be a good time and place to thank them publicly. I might as well. To my cousins, Justin, Josh, Nathan, Eric, and David, thank you for being my groomsmen. You were some of my best friends growing up and you mean a lot to me. Thanks to aunts and uncles—James and Cynthia, Susan and her daughters, great-uncle James and his wife Myrtle, Bobby and Lisa—I thank you also for taking the time and effort to be there; it means a great deal to me. It wouldn't have been the same without you.
And before I forget, thanks to my dad, mom, and brother Carlyn. Dad, you taught me how to play chess at age two, encouraged me whenever possible, and instilled a set of values and a commitment to learning that haunts me to this day. I'll never forgive you for it. Mom, you're weird and we don't get along a whole lot, but I think that might be because we're too similar—our mutual love of decorative wooden utensils and romance novels has put us at odds for years. Maybe it will be different now that we're not competing for stomping ground. Carlyn, even though a huge ravine of nine years divided us, I think it also helped us to bond. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm amazingly immature. In any event, thanks for all those years of video games, fireworks in the kitchen, the countless games of basketball, and generally taking my abuse with good humor. I'm sorry that I'll probably die many years before you do.
I need to go finish our thank-you cards.
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By now Lindsey and I are at Nags Head and we've been married for 24 hours. Praise God and thanks to everyone who made our wedding special. Yes, I'm writing this two months before yesterday even happened (starting to feel like Marty McFly here), but I know that even if aliens invade, gunmen arrive, or, God forbid, a dress strap breaks, it will have been a wonderful event simply because of what it is. Thank you, Proctors and everyone else in Poquoson, Yorktown, and the surrounding area who were involved, especially the members of Poquoson Baptist Church who welcomed me. I feel like I suddenly have a big new family. I've felt this way for nearly two years now, especially with Lindsey's immediately family. But now that it's official, well, it just feels great.
You've all been such a big help. Dee Forrest, Sylvia Wood, Sandra Lindell, Donny Goodrich, Bobbi Fordham, Pastor John, thank you for your cooperation and help. There were a few tough times, but we made it through.
Thank you, Kathy, for being a great mother-in-law. I don't know what's with all those rumors and jokes about mothers-in-law (Fred Flintstone just had a rare, unfortunate situation, apparently). You're great. That "in-law" part is negotiable.
Ashley, what can I say! You've always been very nice to me, right from the start. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a real sister. Too bad I wasn't there to torture you as a child.
Bud, thank you for also being great. I remember when I first met you in KFC's parking lot in Albemarle. On that first day I could tell that you're a fantastic person and father. I look up to you, and not just because you're 6-foot-7.
I could never forget Gammy, who has become a grandmother to me. I lost both of my grandmas in 1994 and I've missed them a lot. You are a wonderful addition to my life and I love you, Gammy.
My biggest thanks goes, of course, to God. Without Him, Lindsey and I would never have met.
Lastly, but not quite least, Lindsey. Thank you for loving me and proving to me that there are some people out there worth risk; that things aren't as bad as all that; that I could find somebody worthy of love and who would echo it fully. You've loved me through all my bad times, when others would have left. You've helped me. You've probably saved my life, and only you can know what exactly I mean by that. To others wondering what that means and whether it's a cliché: it's closer to reality than rhetoric. Lindsey keeps me straight; "I walk the line." But enough with this talk! I love you, Lindsey. Let's start our life together.
My dog Gig, part beagle, dalmatian, mostly et cetera, has lived through three different decades. He saw the fall of the Berlin Wall, the rise of globalization. Gig lived through the endless patterns of seasons with their floods and droughts; the freeze of winter and hot haze of summer. He witnessed me, from the age of 7 until today at 23-years-old. On this day in 1989 Gig was born. Our yard has never been the same.
I spend time with him often, as I always have. Yesterday our time was especially drawn, and I took my camera just for fun. He's much older now, in every way one can be. He has arthritis and is much slower. He's probably lost 85% of his hearing or more, and his sight isn't much better. I still see him running and skipping about every now and then, though. To be very honest, very blunt, however, I must say that I think this is his last birthday. I usually buy him some type of bone on which to chew, but I don't think he can this year. I fed him very well—lots of people food. He's old and feeble, but I think he's happy.
Here are the pictures I took. I eventually started taking pictures of the grass for some reason. I'm afraid that when I wind up buying the new camera I want that there will be many, many more pictures of this sort. Just preparing you.
I waited 12 years for this feeling again. Is it ironic or hypocritical that I'm such an advocate of mental and social independence yet I root for a sports team? No. Tar Heels win!
I guess it's a good time to be a fan; three of their five championships have been in my lifetime. I was too young in 1982 to remember it now. I was at home watching the 1993 game in the same living room in which I saw this one, also with the same people. That, of course, added to the experience.
I had the same feeling both times. It's camaraderie on a grand scale. It's a legacy you're tied into. Having this experience of winning the national championship is something very rare and unlikely, something that happened before and may happen again, hopefully. And if you're lucky you might get to see it. Sure, it's just a game. But the game is made of relationships and history.
The statistics and numbers aren't that important to me. I was happy just seeing Jordan and Dean Smith there. I wish Dean had stayed a little longer. I wish Jordan would come back and coach, although I have no idea how well he would do.
I thought it was a good game. If only it had been against Duke. Illinois gave them a good fight, though.
I'm sad to see Jawad Williams go. He was my favorite, ever since I first saw him play. I can't really explain it, I just like the guy. There are rumors that the Tar Heels may lose May, Felton, and Marvin Williams in addition to McCants. I hope they don't go, and I can't even guess as to whether they will or not.
It was a great night. I was up until 4am doing a little mild celebrating. Who knows how long it may be before this happens again?
PS: Sorry, Bill.
Rocky River Springs Fishhouse, hidden away inside Aquadale, is one of the Hathcocks' annual destinations. Each year around the middle of March we gather to honor the head of our family with laughter, love, the sharing of memories, and, of course, fish. Edward "Buddy" Hathcock will turn 77 on March 15 and today was the day we celebrated. Most of the Hathcock clan was there: Jeremy, Amanda, Justin, Justin's girlfriend, Josh, Jodie, James, Cynthia, me, Carlyn, Gary, Penny, James Morgan, Eddie, Eddie's wife, Aunt Doris, Libby, John, Sue, Catie, Erin, Emily, and Papa.
I start to feel very nostalgic once I see the sign pointing toward the "fishhouse." Jeremy, Justin, Josh and I always reminisce a great deal. We range from 18 to 24 years old, yet we still talk about the past like we're wiping 40 years of dust from an old Bible. It's precious to me, and even though they never speak of it as such, I think they feel the same. I hope that all of our children will be able to play together and develop relationships like we had and have.
Warning: the following will be quite boring to anyone other than myself.
Seriously, this is going to be very boring. We had the usual Christmas. We all assembled at grampa's house the night before. Everyone who still lives was there except for Eddie and Jeremy. I haven't even seen Jeremy since he married, so that was a disappointment. It was a nice night, though. We mumbled and laughed our way through it. Grampa told me of when my dad was little. One morning he was the first of the six boys to get up and went into the kitchen where his mother was cooking breakfast. She told him to go wake the others. When he did he also told them there was a robber in the house. I have no idea why. They crawled through their windows and went to a neighbor's yard. They stood under an awning in the rain until they were called back. I know I'm the only one who finds these things interesting, but what do you expect from my journal? I put this stuff in here so I won't forget.
After we had had enough of each other we went to our homes. It was 10:30 by then. Carlyn and I watched Ernest Saves Christmas until we went to bed, which was around 12:30. I woke up a little after four. I heard something in the living room (I wonder what) and decided to stay up. After the footsteps ceased, I went in and placed the presents I had wrapped only yesterday under the tree. At 5:45 I made my way back to Carlyn's room and checked to see if his camcorder (which he received last Christmas) was charged. He had attempted to start the charging process before he went to bed, but it somehow was set to the Player mode, so it hadn't charged at all. So we used it by plugging it into the wall in the living room while presents were opened.
After that was done, my parents rushed to cook breakfast. They were set to arrive around 9, which they did (Grampa first, of course). Everyone was there except Eddie, Jeremy, and Sue. The food was really good. I think everyone had a fine time. Since Grampa arrived first I had time to squeeze some more tales of the past out of him. I asked him what Christmas was like when he was young. He described a time during the depression when the best they could hope for was fruit, nuts, and maybe candy. Once they each got a 25¢ toy. He and another brother, Carl, I think, got cap pistols. Ralph received a toy banjo but later tried to shove it up the chimney back to Santa Claus because he didn't want it.
I actually have a new picture of ordinary old me.
My new digital camera can record crappy video as well. Here's a short clip of a game between my brother and I that I made just to test it out.
