In the movie “Crocodile Dundee,” one scene involved the Australian hunter’s visit to New York City. In keeping with his outback, mannerly ways, he greeted passersby on a crowded sidewalk, tipped his hat and said, “goo-day, Mate.”
Eventually, the reporter who invited him to America explained that it’s not customary among city folk to speak when passing others. Dundee seemed confused and disappointed.
Having spent all but a few year of my life in the far outback of northeast Washington County, Mississippi, where hospitality is de rigueur, I consider it proper to greet everyone I encounter — acquaintances and strangers alike. And, like Dundee, I am often confused and disappointed when folks look askance at me when I do so, as if I am, in politically correct terminology, mentally challenged … “tetched,” as country folks say.
Reflecting on these spurned greetings, I pondered whether I should abandon my adherence to what I consider courteous, old-fashioned, Southern, gentlemanly ways, and emulate uncongenial, urbane modernists by greeting others with little more than a quasi-cold shoulder.
Seeking an answer, I conducted an experiment. Because my church is near three others, finding Sunday morning parking places within walking distance is often difficult — impossible for those arriving shortly before services begin. So, I always park in the same corner spot at least forty-five minutes ahead of time, sit in Loretta, my beloved pickup, and catch up on my diary keeping.
The experiment involved waving. As each car turned into the parking entrance beside me, I gazed benevolently at its occupants, smiled, and waved.
After continuing this research and noting reactions for several months, I found that less than half of the churchgoers wave back. In an atypical Southern way, some responded with a pre-worship scowl or pretended they didn’t see me as they scurried to a find parking spot and enter the Lord’s House to ask the Creator of wavers and wave recipients to bless all His children.
During my tenure as a magazine editor, my writing assignments required traveling to just about every state in the Union, and I realized how fortunate I am to be a Southerner, especially when my journalistic gallivanting required northern sojourns, where hospitality in some parts is almost criminal. Crossing the Mason-Dixon Line and heading home always brought a sigh of relief.
Like me, my favorite singer, Johnny Cash, cherished his Southern heritage and often expressed his love and reverence for this unique, wonderful part of the world in his songs. I especially like the closing lyrics of one of his hits, “Hey, Porter”:
“Hey, Porter, please open up the door. When they stop the train I'm gonna get off first ’cause I can't wait no more. Tell that engineer I said thanks a lot, and I didn't mind the fare. I'm gonna set my feet on Southern soil and breathe that Southern air.”
Whether or not folks return my greetings, as long as I set my feet on Southern soil and breathe Southern air, I will keep on waving.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
