Saying Thanks In The South

“Go get me the paper stretcher.”

- My Dad, getting rid of me at age 15

My LOL Cat

Well, I thought I'd try something a little different this week. My bio and profile on other sites always talks about my cat and how awesome he is (but whiny)…
Warm Milk and Oatmeal Creme Pies

I was talking with a friend the other day and he suddenly turned to me and said, "Do you smell that?" My instinctive reaction was to say, "It wasn't me,"…
The End of Baseball Rain

The Impervious Baseball RainNovember is finally kicking into full swing and the cold is upon us. After a month of teasing us with relatively mild temperatures, Autumn has turned the…
Cross-Pollinating with Sarah The Crazy Baby Mama

Cross-Pollinating with Sarah The Crazy Baby Mama ... See my post "The Agent Who Laughed Himself To Death" at her blog today! Desperate Times<...
I Blame the Gremlins

Cute and Cuddly Gismo. Wus.When I was younger, much younger, the movie "Gremlins " was released. I was twelve when we went to see it in the theatre…
My Dad Wears Mandals

My Dad Wears Mandals I remember when the Mandals craze began. At least I remember when it crept upon my family and took my dad hostage in its thorny little…
To Be or Not To Be ... Bald

What is it with this going bald thing? Aren't you supposed to get your bald pattern from your mother's father? Until a few years ago, I used to feel good…
What 37 Means To Me

I had a birthday this past Thursday. I turned 37. Getting older means different things to different people. Thirty-seven isn't a magic number by any means, to most people, but…
Looking Forward To Mondays

Among the many number of things I did wrong with my two wives, I did a great many correct. It takes a lot to make a marriage work and outside…
A Cheesedog Like No Other

About twenty years ago, I went to an old soda shop style restaurant in downtown Burlington named Zack's. Their main fare was hot dogs and Cokes in ten ounce glass…

Saying Thanks In The South

Written by Ross Cavins

Wednesday, 12 September 2007 01:34

In the American South, we are raised with manners as a matter of breeding. We are taught to hold open doors for complete strangers, help those in need and say thanks to everyone for everything. And I do mean everyone for everything.

A few years ago, I was driving about 74 in a 55 during a rainstorm in Marlboro County, South Carolina, on my way back from Myrtle Beach. A cop stopped me and asked me the most original question, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Thank you.

I answered truthfully, "About seventy-five."

He looked at me without blinking, saying, "And why was that?"

I shrugged, "Cause I didn't see you." Have I mentioned I'm sometimes honest to a fault?

The cop didn't appreciate my sense of humor, he promptly wrote me a ticket for 69 in a 55, 1 mph shy of losing my driver's license. He ripped the ticket off and handed it to me, still unsmiling, and do you know what I said?

"Thank you."

I actually said thank you to a cop giving me a speeding ticket. Can you believe that? Saying thanks is so ingrained into my psyche that it never occurred to me to say anything differently.

Thank you. Two simple words that carry the weight of appreciation. When someone brings you a cake to welcome you to the neighborhood, you thank them. When a friend picks up the tab to celebrate your birthday, you thank them. When you buy a new car, you shake hands with the salesman, then thank them. It's what we do.

But I must say, though, it troubles me that I willfully thanked a cop for giving me a ticket. Southerner or not, I have to figure out what the acceptable thing to say in this situation is. Something that won't get me another ticket. Help?

< Prev		Next >

America's Next Ripoff

EBookMall.com has put on a contest called, "America's Next Author." A long-time friend of mine sent it my way as something I might be interested in. I thought, why not? So I looked into it. But th [ ... ]

An American in Germany: Day Three (Grafenroda)

Day Three was filled with travel, lots of it. And by travel, I mean sitting on our asses in a car. That’s because we drove 4 hours to the birthplace of Gnomes: Grafenroda. But first, we stopped [ ... ]