Meetin' Friendly Folks

The great thing about the South is that you get to meet people and get to know their personalities. Maybe it's because you don't get to see many people during the day -- like in New York where you see thousands of people before the day is done -- that they are willing to take the time to connect and talk and share.

Down here, people stop to talk and they expect the same from you. If you don't take the time, you are considered rude, rushed and recalcitrant. There is a benefit to taking the time -- you kinda get to know folks and their story, and sharing stories creates a sense of personal connection. Take yesterday for example.

Yesterday I was working in the house and the doorbell rang. It was a lawn service guy who wanted me to put the dogs up so that he could treat our lawn. I guess I could have gone back into the house after I put the dogs in the pen, but instead, because of the culture here, I felt impelled to go over to talk to him.

Bobby was his name. And, before we were done, I knew more than I wanted to about fireants (see other post), mole crickets, moles and armadillos. But I also learned about him -- about how he and his wife just adopted two children this year, a one year old and a sixteen month old, both girls; about how he crashed his SUV gas guzzler and was happy that he could buy a more fuel efficient car; a little about his travels north to Atlantic City, some about my neighbors here on the sporting plantation, and about the weather. Interestingly, we didn't talk about the political or economic situation. These conversations are not intellectual repasts, they are simply conversations. Between folks.

Down here, people aren't afraid to let you get to know them. They are very friendly and open to me, despite my Northern, Yankee sensibilities.Yesterday, I also met Tony the painter. Why before he left, I knew about his brother who bought him a ticket to Las Vegas and his hesitancy about going because of his gambling tendencies ( kind of like sending an alcoholic to a cocktail party I think); his relationship to Laurie the decorator and how he disagreed with some of her decorating concepts; his knowledge of paint and his suggestions for finding the right color.

I guess people are people, but in the South, the pace is such that people can be people and still take the time to connect with one another. It's nice. I like it. (Except having to wave at people who drive by while I'm walking. Why should I wave to a total stranger?)

In the north, I also felt connected to my neighborhood, but the connection manifested itself differently. I knew my drycleaner, my deli owner, the manager of Gristedes, the guy who sold fruit on the sidewalk, Bibi, the woman who cleaned the women's dressing room in the New York Sports Club. I "knew" them, but I didn't know their names. I knew their faces, I saw them every day and they became woven into the fabric of my life in the city. If they didn't see me for a week, they would ask how I'd been, if everything was all right because then hadn't see me. And, I knew nothing of their stories. I knew them -- but never really "knew" them at all.