How Refreshing!

I witnessed something delightful today at the Krogerville.

I was in line at a check-out counter behind a young mother who was unloading her basket while her elementary age children were snooping around the candy and gum displays. The daughter, probably 10 or so, wore her down until the mother gave in to her pleas for mints.  "But," the mother insisted, only get a small box, not that big one."  So the little girl bounced over to the next aisle in search of a small box.

"Molly!" the mother called. "There's a small box over here." But the little girl didn't understand what her mother had said.

This is where it gets good.

Instead of yelling "What?!" to her mother, the girl said. "Ma'am?"

The mother repeated, and again the girl replied, "Ma'am?"  She finally understood the third time around and returned to our aisle. I smiled a big ol' smile to myself.

How many children these days do you know who address their parents (and other adults) as Sir and Ma'am? Not too darn many, I'm here to tell you.

After she paid and was heading out I pulled the young mother aside and told her that I just had to compliment her on her daughter's manners, and that witnessing how well-behaved she is simply made my day.

She smiled a big ol' smile, too, thanked me, and said,"It's still going to be a long summer!"

I think I made her day, too.

Oops! Correction!! Where Have You Gone, Emily Post? Our Nation Turns Its Lonely Eyes To You. . .

Buck advises me that the article referenced below came from the New York Times rather than the WSJ.  Oops -- my bad!!

Blog Buddy, Buck, emailed me a link today to an article in the Wall Street Journal entitled, "A Last Bastion of Civility, the South, Sees Manners Decline."  In addition to me, apparently several scholars of southern tradition and culture have documented a definite erosion in what was once the headquarters of politeness, deference, and making one's guests feel at home.

I believe that erosion has reached a critical stage, where, if we don't build a retaining wall pretty soon, etiquette, common courtesy, and table manners may just crash right onto the highway to hell. 

We are living through the Jerry Springer-ization of America.  There is not much evidence around these days suggesting that people of different opinions can engage in a reasonable debate without yelling over one another, and/or slinging furniture.

The article explores many possible causes for the death of Manners: parents too busy to teach their children; hyper-sensitive political correctness; feminism.  Damn Yankees.  I'd like to add the absence of military service as a common practice -- there's a culture of respectful behavior if ever there was one in which one must adhere to The Code to survive, not even mentioning to thrive. 

Back in the '90s, when I was teaching in the College of Business Administration at UALR, a male colleague and I wrote a Grant Proposal to fund a team-taught class in Business Etiquette to be presented from both a man's and a woman's perspective.  We included not only such obvious things as Interview Protocol, Phone Etiquette, and Correspondence Do's and Don'ts, we also included Table Manners, Cocktail Party Etiquette, and Varieties of Attire.  We didn't get the grant, and the idea pretty soon faded.  It's a shame that we were ahead of our time (and that the Dean at the time did not have Southern roots!).

At least the article ends on a hopeful note -- it seems that 70-year old Mrs. Dorothy McLeod, who teaches ballroom dance and etiquette to children, has no room in her classes; they're filled to the brim.  Let's just hope someone comes along to keep her mission alive.

As an aside -- contemplating a time when good manners were de rigeur -- I'd like to share a little piece of the tour I took last week of the Houmas House Plantation on River Road.  The house and grounds have been meticulously and lovingly restored to a period when gentlemen retired to the Drawing Room after dinner for cigars and bourbon while the ladies made do with brandied fruit and embroidery -- and the servants did the dishes.  (I think I could get into that "servants doing the dishes" thing!)  The Docent, Judy, was among the best I've ever seen -- she was spirited away from another plantation when the current owner of Houmas House (who actually lives there!) saw her perform.  She's been with him since 2003 and is raising three children on what she earns there.  She's funny and very knowledgeable, being a student of history, the Arts, and human nature. And talk about talented!  She not only described the 1813 Steinway grand piano in the front parlor, she played it!



She chose to do "Desperado" instead of a period piece because she really likes The Eagles.  And, she thought our group was fun.  And, of course, we were.

So, let's all just slow down a little bit and try to engage in a little bit more Golden Rule action.  Remember, as I pointed out yesterday, Karma can be a bitch.O

Hummingbirds are SOOO Cool!

I saw this on Facebook.  I've only watched it about ninety-eleven times so far, and it mesmerizes me every single time and freezes my face in a smile.  Can you imagine?  The happy followup story is in the comments here.



Just.  Simply.  Wow.

Southern Roots Run Deep

The photo is from the National Cemetery in Vicksburg, but it calls to mind my weekend sojourn into family.

I just got back from a quick turn-around trip (7 hours behind the wheel on both Friday and Saturday -- one forgets how very long Mississippi is!) to northern Mississippi for a family funeral. There are so few left from my father's split-age generation that I daren't miss any opportunity to see my cousins who live in far-off places.

Rush, the younger son of my grandmother's twin sister, passed away in March, and since his immediate family is scattered all across the globe -- literally -- they decided to wait until mid-summer to hold the commitment and memorial service in a quaint Episcopalian country church founded by Rush's grandfather in the 1800s. Each of his three daughters did a reading of scripture during the service, one son-in-law played hauntingly beautiful Irish pipes that echoed around the nave, and Rush's foster son from Togo served as pallbearer for the cherrywood box of ashes that Rush's wife had carried with her aboard the plane from their home in D.C., fearing all the time that TSA would give her enough trouble that she would be forced to cause a scene.

(Having lived with Rush in countless countries during his career in the Diplomatic Corps -- on at least three continents, in both hemispheres -- Joanna is gracious, but also very world-wise, and I wouldn't want to get crossways with her about something that touches her heart. Fortunately for them, the TSA chose this occasion to act with restraint and respect.)

At the cemetery, all of Rush's grandchildren bade him farewell with a single rosebud, barely opened, to symbolize his new journey taken without them.

After the ceremony, as is typical, everyone had to search out the headstones of departed loved ones and share memories of good times long ago. One of the daughters -- the one who lives in the Netherlands, I believe -- seemed a bit uncomfortable, and wondered aloud whether it would seem inappropriate for her to take a few photographs of the gravesite and headstones. I overheard her and assured her that, not only was it appropriate, it was practically expected, seeing as how she was in the south, and that's simply what we do.

And that opened a floodgate.

Several family members, in multi-national and geographically diverse accents, expressed astonishment about some of our southern traditions, such as "bootlegging" into "dry counties," like the one in which the gathering took place. (In which our family, being ever prepared, had engaged to take care of that small impediment!) The cousin who grew up in Arkansas but settled in Minneapolis chuckled every time he went outdoors from the air conditioning and got a first-hand reminder of the humidity when his sunglasses fogged up. Listening to them recount their observations, I just had to smile.

My favorite of those observations had to do with deeply-ingrained southern "manners;" the practice of treating mourners, even those we don't know, with respect and dignity.

For all their sophistication and exposure to many cultures, they were genuinely amazed that, as the funeral procession slowly made its way from the church to the cemetery, cars going the opposite direction not only slowed, but pulled over and stopped in respect until the last car passed. Another cousin, who grew up in Arkansas but made his home in Boston, just laughed and noted that, "back east," the other cars would pass the funeral procession and maybe honk a few times just for good measure.

It made me proud for them to acknowledge and appreciate this very important facet of just who "the southerner" is.

Perhaps that's why Rush and Joanna chose to return to his southern roots to join those of southern dust. Southern roots and a southern send-off make for a dignified first step into the next adventure.

And a pleasant memory for those left behind.