MacD turns 40! Happy Birthday!

Today is my brother Mac's fortieth birthday!

Woo hoo!

And...wow.

It got me thinking... I remember our Dad's 40th. And I am the youngest of the three Hardcastle boys. Dad just turned 70 last month, so he was just 30 when he and Mom had Mac, their second child. I was looking at a photo of Mac and me at my 30th, and even though it was only five (well, almost six) years ago I was considerably slimmer with more hair. And looked like a baby. I still feel there are times I can't take care of myself and Dad had a big house, career, and three kids by the time he was the age I am now.

I will be 36 in a couple of weeks, so I must have been five years old when Dad turned 40. I remember there was a big party at the house we had moved into just a year earlier. I remember that day fairly clearly as I was sent across the street to the Warner's house where their youngest, Mary Laird, was babysitting me during the party (as long as we are on the subject of birthdays, ML and I have the same one, just seven years apart).

After we came in from playing outside, Mary Laird asked me to close the door behind me. It was a wooden door with about a dozen glass panes, and I put my arm through one of them. She rushed me across the street (my house) to see her Dad, a doctor. I thought it was fine and didn't start crying until I saw the blood. Then I was screaming bloody murder for, according to reports, six hours or so. They washed me up and checked me out in the kitchen and Dr. Warner decided I needed stiches. Of course, the house was full of people for Dad's 40th birthday party. It's odd sensation for me to realize while typing this that ML must have only been 12 years old, the same age as my little neice.

We live on a dead-end street with a tightly-knit group of families. Most of the parents have known each other since childhood and they all moved to be near other on this very special street. The four families each have three children, at roughly the sames ages, so we all grew up together very closely. In many ways. Collectively, we affectionately refer to each other as the "street people."

So as little 5-year-old Wilson lay screaming and bleeding, Joe McAlliser got his station wagon from up the street, Beth Harwell held me, and Dr. Warner made the necessary medical arrangements. I screamed the entire car ride over to Baptist Hospital (where Dr. Warner works to this day, although now he is the Chief of Neurology).

So Beth, one of my mothers, and Joe, one of my fathers, carried me into the ER.

A wailing-child accompanied version of "Who's on first?" ensued.

"What is your name?"
"Beth Harwell."
"Beth Harwell...What is the child's name?"
"Wilson Hardcastle"
"Wilson Harwell...okay. What is the nature of the...'
"Hardcastle"
"Hardcastle?"
"Hardcastle."
"Okay, Mrs. Hardcastle, what is..."
"Mrs. Harwell. Beth Harwell."
"I thought you said Hardcastle..."

After enough confusion he turned to Joe.
"So, Mr. Harwell. Or Hardcastle?"
"McAlliser."
"I don't understand."
"I'm just the driver."
"Let's start this again."

This went on for far too long and in hindsight I am glad this wasn't the guy stiching me up.

The examined me, took me to the ER, and gave me a local and four stiches. I am told I never stoped wailing. I believe it.

Emily and Mac flew out to SF and hosted a big ta do for me on my 30th birthday. It kills me I won't be back home for Mac's 40th. Emily has planned a big party for Mac at their house on Saturday. Mac is a showman, and often with a microphone, so she has planned a large kareoke party. Or as I am calling it "Mac-eoke and Cheese."

Hopefully, his 40th will end in less bloodshed.

My gift is my song, and this one's for you...