Regular readers may have noticed the frequency with which I write about Mayberry, mostly because I love the pace and the wholesomeness of The Andy Griffith Show and I always wanted to live there. Having recently moved to a very small town, and getting to know it just a little bit, I feel confident that I was right about the slow pace and the wholesomeness.
Of course, the wholesomeness didn’t start until I was done unpacking and saying bad words about how much my back hurt and I’m too old for this [stuff] and the 100th time I asked myself, “Why do we have so much [stuff]?” Suffice to say, being around kind and friendly people nearly all the time has made me eager to show kindness all the time and I find it wonderfully comfortable.
On one of my lunch stops en route to the new house, I found myself jumping out of my seat to help a gentleman get to the door because he was barely moving and was clearly in pain. Previously, I would have been afraid of getting yelled at for touching a stranger without permission.
On my first visit to the local charity shop, I told the cashier I was new in town and she asked where I live. When I told her, she ran to the back to tell two ladies I was their neighbor. They were lovely and I think waited 30 seconds to ask if I’d found a church yet. Then immediately and simultaneously set about recruiting for the Catholics and the Baptists.
Yet another country kindness—many of you probably already know this one—but I guess I still have a lot to learn. I was driving at night and oncoming cars started flashing their lights like mad. I was momentarily annoyed that they weren’t being supportive of Andy and Barney trying to catch speeders, and I didn’t change my speed because I was under the limit. Turns out my driving neighbors were just looking out for a family of deer crossing the road and, fortunately, mama and fawns were already safely on the other side. I will henceforth know when to be kind to the wildlife here too.
With so few people in town, it seems like everyone is really a neighbor. Another day I was enjoying my quarter pounder and reading a book when a youngish man shuffled slowly into the restaurant, looking kind of sloppy and sleepy. He ordered a bunch of food that came to $12 and change then handed the cashier a card. The cashier said he didn’t have enough on his card and he didn’t seem to understand. He looked like someone who was just hungry so I got up from my seat, handed the cashier $5 and asked if that would cover it. The cashier said no, then took out his own wallet to pay the difference.
By this time the manager was there, trying to explain to the sleepy-eyed customer that he didn’t have enough. Finally, between me and the cashier, the bill was paid. The cashier even brought me some change while the customer just stared straight ahead, not really acknowledging anything going on around him. I sat back down, feeling like I had done a good deed for humanity and tried not to sulk that humanity didn’t seem to even know I was there.
But, in true Sheriff Taylor fashion, a minute later, the sleepy-eyed customer was shuffled to my table by the manager (an African American Betty White if ever there was one) prodding him from behind saying, “Now tell that lady, ‘Thank you!'” He did, and she tugged him over to the cashier to thank him too. Then, in my favorite moment of the decade, she sent him back to his table saying,”And pull up your pants!”
Needless to say, moments like that might not happen in a big place, with lots of people, and all the ambient noise that comes with them. Big places aren’t bad, but I can’t help but think I wouldn’t have noticed Sleepy if there were a lot of people in line, or the restaurant was crowded and noisy, and I would have missed a chance to be part of a nice thing.
It’s good to be in the quiet.