Of Waves and Pens by Nancy L. Eady

Waves: 

One of the fascinating aspects of living in a small town is learning the language, both spoken and non-spoken. For example, when a person honks their horn at your car in a small Southern town, odds are they are just saying hello. I learned this lesson over twenty years ago, when Mark and I traveled to a small town in South Carolina.

On the main road through the center of town, with a posted speed limit of forty-five miles per hour, we got behind an elderly couple going twenty-five miles per hour at best. We were from Charlotte at the time. Mark honked his horn, hoping to encourage them to drive a little faster. The driver, the man, looked in his rear-view mirror to see who we were and turned to his wife. Even though we couldn’t hear him, we’re positive he asked her, “Do you know them?” The wife looked in the rear-view mirror at us and, shaking her head, indicated, “No.” They both took one more look to be sure, and then, on cue, not wanting to be rude, both of them waved at us on the off-chance we might indeed be someone they knew. Resigning ourselves to the twenty-five miles per hour pace, we waved back. They turned left after another ten miles, still periodically checking us out in their rear-view mirror, trying to figure out who we were. 

Pens: 

I have a junk drawer in the kitchen, and a black end table in the den. In theory, both the junk drawer and the top drawer of the end table are the designated spots for pens and pencils. That way, I always know where I can get a writing utensil. I have decided that these drawers are magic—the pens disappear from the drawers, never to be found again. Ever. I buy ten pack after ten pack of pens, with a few good pens thrown in from time to time, but there never is a pen in either drawer when I need one. The pencils, however, hang around indefinitely. I suspect the pencils are the culprits. How else can you explain a drawer with the same twenty pencils I put in there at the beginning, and not a single one of the 100 to 200 odd pens remaining? Someday, I am going to find the closet to which the pencils have exiled the pens. When I open it, and the flood of pens that has been accumulating since 1987 pours out on me, I will suffer serious injury, proving yet again that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. 

Have a great weekend.