I found out that my parents, until today, had never heard of Jack Kerouac.

I can't rightly put into words why I found this so troubling, but perhaps you can imagine.

Hey, did I ever tell you guys that I'm inbred?  Yup, the ol' family tree branches out, then straight back in.  It was a long time ago, so I'm sure all the genes have sorted themselves out by now.  It is kind of interesting to think, though, that my grandfather had eight brothers and sisters who were also his third cousins.  His parents were his second cousins once removed.

If you're wondering how all this came about, I'll try to explain the logistics.  Once upon a time there were two brothers.  They each had children (first cousins), who each had children (second cousins), who got married.  Far enough apart to be legal, but not far enough to be called "distant."  Now there's a culture that doesn't let anything get in the way of love.  Hooray for my Alabama ancestry.

My mom was talking to some folks at the table about how my dad had a beard at their wedding.  Only I heard "beer."

Well, it's funny if you know my dad, the Southern Baptist preacher.

I think my dad was left on the doorstep as a baby.  He is the only one in his family to have ever left his hometown of Gadsden, AL, and when we go back to visit, the lack of family resemblance becomes noticeably stark.  He doesn't look like them; he doesn't act like them; he doesn't tawk lahk theyem; and fundamentally, he doesn't think like them.  So different is he that my relatives can't hope to understand him, much less my mom or why he married her.  It's obvious they don't know what to do with us (especially my mom and me), and they don't tend to make much of an effort.  That my dad feels compelled to go back to that place every year and honor some imagined familial obligation seems absurd.  He ought to just let it go.  But he can't.

As we drove through the streets of the small southern town, I saw old storefronts and faded signs.  I saw neglect and disrepair.  But if I squinted, I could almost see the Gadsden my dad sees.  The Gadsden of the '60s and '70s.  Everything takes on a greenish-yellow tint and you can hear the crowd at a high school football game in the background.  There are parades and local heroes and... possibilities.  My dad had so much going for him then, and he has more than met his potential.  He wants to come home and have his family be proud of him.  But his parents are dead, and his many successes are lost on his siblings.  It's a big world out there and they've never seen it.

I just found out that I am related (albeit somewhat distantly) to the bassist from Carbon Leaf, only my most favorite band.

See if you can follow me here:

My mother is Joanne,
whose brother is Fred,
whose daughter is Candace,
whose mother is Constance,
whose brother is Jerry,
whose son is Jordan Medas,
the bassist from Carbon Leaf.

He is my first cousin's first cousin.  I feel so special.

My father's remarks to me while holding up the coveted brass letter-bucket given to my mother by one of her friends:

"This is another one of those 'go figure' gifts."

I love being the cool older cousin.  I was afraid I nearly lost my cool older cousin status, however, when my younger cousins convinced me to play four-square with them at Thanksgiving.  I was just as untalented at the game as I was in elementary school when I first played it, only now I had to try to think back 18 years to remember the rules.  Christmas is my chance to redeem myself, though.  I'm going to give them cool older cousin presents, the likes of which will make them forget I ever flaked out on the four-square court.  I won't tell you what the presents are, in case my cousins get their hands on my URL before Christmas, except to say that I amaze myself with my own coolness and gift-giving ingenuity.  My reputation is saved; I am cool once again.

We had an interesting conversation at my uncle's house last night.  He and his wife are self-proclaimed atheist-leaning agnostics; my parents are clergy and devout layperson.  Not having been privy to one of these controversial discussions before, I took the role of observer and tried to bridge the gap whenever possible.  Even though I whole-heartedly agree with and support my parents on spiritual matters, the last thing I wanted to do was to set myself up as another spiritual antagonist to my aunt and uncle.  Not that my parents have done that, but I have a feeling that's how they are viewed.

The conversation veered toward the dreaded topic of <shudder> God when my uncle expressed his discomfort about all the Christian influences in His environment:  "It's like it's not politically correct to not be religious these days."  We thought that was pretty interesting, since we find exactly the opposite to be true.  Everybody in the room felt like he or she was in the minority of society, being careful not to offend anyone and seeking not to be offended in the process.  The shared experience of feeling outnumbered opened the door to a very candid discussion about many things faith-related.

I don't think it's a quirk of fate that my aunt and uncle find themselves lately inundated by Christianity, nor that my parents and I were available to talk about it, when they felt prohibited from bringing it up to anyone else.  Something is happening over there, and I just hope I will get to see it come to fruition.

My parents are particularly persnickety people.  It took me a long time, and a good bit of interaction with the world at large, to realize that they are not the norm in this respect.  The conversation topic of choice at restaurants is always how the service and/or food is lacking.  Sunday morning worship is not complete until they pick apart the sermon.  And heaven forbid anyone should have a body piercing or an unacceptable haircut.

Growing up I always felt bad for the victim du jour of their criticism (especially when I was it).  For this reason, I undertook the lifelong quest to Not Be Like My Parents.  I seek out the good in people and situations, rather than the bad.  I try to be content in all circumstances, and I avoid making unnecessary value judgments.  Some things are important and I stand firm on those:  theology, morality, truth.  But others are a matter of individual preference, and I relish the things that are different about us all.

The irony of my resolution to be as unlike my parents as possible is that I have to accept them and their idiosyncracies the same as everyone else's.  Even though I am opposed to their predisposition to negativity, I must embrace it as that which makes them who they are, as valid a choice as any.  To indict them for their critical attitude would be to go against my guiding principle of non-judgment.  This self-improvement gig ain't easy, man.

I recently returned from a week-long road trip with my parents to Alabama.  I'm sure you can imagine how thrilled I was to embark on this journey.  Fortunately, it wasn't that bad.  Ready?  Here goes:

Day 1
We depart around 8pm for Chesapeake, VA, where my parents have made an appointment to be shown a house at 8am the next day.  This is a 200 mile detour en route to our intended destination.  It seems that the Senior Olympics convene in Chesapeake during this time.  This makes it rather difficult to find travel accomodations.  Lucky us, we get the VERY LAST motel room in the entire township and surrounding area.  And now we know why it was still vacant.  Let's just say that my mom wouldn't take off her shoes the whole time, and kept muttering something about us all getting crabs.

Day 2
We depart the heinous motel room to go check out the house.  The house belongs to a friend of a friend and hasn't gone on the market yet at this point.  My parents had seen pictures of it, but decided they didn't want it because it has a pool.  Don't ask me what's wrong with my parents.  However, after not finding anything else to buy or rent or occupy at the navy's expense, the house with the pool was starting to look pretty good.  My parents put a contract on it as soon as they see it, and now I have a place to live in the fall.  Everybody's happy.  We make it all the way to Augusta, GA.

Day 3
At 6:45am, at my mother's behest, my dad calls the father of the bride to find out what time the rehearsal is that day.  My dad reassuringly tells him, "We're leaving now."  He neglects to tell him we're leaving from Augusta, GA.  The bride's family spends the entire day in angst thinking we just left from Virginia.  How fun.  At the rehearsal, we meet the groom's family, who have the collective social skills of a hat rack.  We enjoy most excellent BBQ.

Day 4
Day of Wedding No. 1.  Dress that I ordered special to match the bride's color scheme does not fit.  Forgot tuning key for the harp.  Panic ensues.  We rush to the mall and the hardware store.  Panic subsides temporarily.  At the church, I find out that my quick-fix substitute for a tuning key does not work.  This is bad news considering that the harp at this point sounds like an, albeit angelic, flock of geese.  Hick relatives to the rescue!  The groom's brother-in-law has the necessary tool in his car.  Now all that remains is for me to actually get through the songs without mishap.  Yeah, right.  I butcher the grandparents/parents' processional.  It's so painful.  And just when you want to crawl under a pew and hide in embarrassment, you have to go to the reception.  I attempt to blend into the upholstery.

Day 5
Day of Wedding No. 2.  With the stress of the previous day forgotten, we head up the road an hour to my father's hometown.  There we meet my uncle and drive to my aunt's new house.  My dad performs the wedding on their back porch and we have a big picnic.  I get to see my cousins in various stages of starting their own families:  my eldest cousin is married with a daughter, my next cousin has a daughter but is not married, and my next cousin is engaged with no children.  And then there is Meredith, who is moving back in with her parents.

Day 6
We visit my great-aunt and -uncle in the morning.  We marvel over their restored WWII radio and hear stories about the Depression.  Actually pretty cool.  My dad pores over family tree paraphernalia with my great-aunt; my great-uncle succumbs to the urge the rest of us are fighting and promptly falls asleep.  We meet my aunts and uncles again for lunch and later catch up with some other friends of the family (read:  friends of the parents) in the area.  We resume our quest to patronize every Cracker Barrel on the lower east coast.  We stop someplace in Georgia.

Day 7
We have nothing to do today besides go home.  Books on CD from Cracker Barrel keep our stir-crazy selves effectively sedated.  After having amassed an impressive collection of splattered bugs on the windshield, we finally make it back to DC.  Next time I'm flying.

My mom to me:

"I've always worried about you.  I worried about you when you were swimming around in the womb...  but at least I knew where you were!"

Yesterday was upside-down and backwards day at the Hill home.  To start with, my parents bought a car.  Yes, they actually spent money on a car.  For those of you who know my parents and the cardboard-box-on-wheels that they currently drive, I will give you a second to regain consciousness.  ...  Yeah, they bought a Mazda Tribute, silver, and it is shweet!

So we go out to dinner to celebrate their new car and my new acceptance to grad school.  The usual place is too crowded, so we drive around a little bit, and my dad--my DAD--suggests the Peking Gourmet Inn.  Now, my dad has very simple tastes, which is a nice way of saying he only likes about 5 things.  I have never in my life seen him consume even one cubic centimeter of Chinese food (or Mexican food, or any other kind of interesting food for that matter).  But apparently, unbeknownst to me, he has been to the Inn a few times for office gatherings and has worked up an immunity to the dreaded Chinese food.  He likes it.  He actually likes it.

At this point I'm trying hard not to have a coronary after my parents getting a cool car and my dad liking Chinese food all in the same night (and this not long after their buying a [gasp] *DVD player*).  As we cruise around in the new Hill-mobile, my mom turns to me and says, "See, Meredith?  We get cooler as we get older."  Hm, this bodes well for me.

Congratulations to my parents, for on this day, they were married--26 years ago.  And on this singular day, I would like to take the opportunity to share with you a little of my family story.

In the summer of 1976, my dad was 23 (whoa, that's how old I am).  A seminary student, he had taken the position of summer youth minister at Great Neck Baptist Church in Virginia Beach, VA.  It was there that he met my mom.  She must have stood out in that small congregation, with her stylish way of dressing and her long, sleek, reddish hair.  She was a new Christian, and had only been coming to the church for a few months.  After their first date, they both had a sense that they had found something special.  My mom knew that my dad was a world apart from any other guy she had ever met.  My dad spent that night walking along the beach, pondering it all.

When his stint at Great Neck was over, my dad left to take up a pastorate in South Carolina.  And he was miserable.  He was so lonely apart from my mom, that after just a few weeks, he proposed to her over the phone.  They were married that spring, on Easter--April 10, 1977--in the little church where they met.

Epilogue:
I found out later that it was my dad who performed my mom's baptism there.  He baptized me there, also.  In 1987, when I was 7 years old, we were stationed in Virginia Beach with the Navy.  We attended Great Neck Baptist Church (which was across the street from my elementary school), and it was there that I accepted Christ.