Sweetie, just wave

Before my mother left California, I promised to keep several things about me the same:  my passion for others, my love of God, and the southern wave (typically followed by a smile and a nod).  Having grown up in a community where most people knew what you were doing before even you knew yourself, I've always been surrounded by familiar faces.  (Of course, as a teacher, this made it difficult to shop for groceries on a Saturday morning having just rolled out of bed.)  We wave as we drive down our neighborhood streets, speak as we pass each other on walks, and open doors for the elderly, woman, and children.  To put it simply, we communicate.  For me, the wave is the simplest and kindest gesture, letting someone know you acknowledge their presence.  And in our town, you wave back (even if you haven't talked to the person since high school, wish they hadn't moved in beside you, or hate how loud their dog barks come 5am.) It's called being polite.

In my first few months of living here, I have thrown my arm up more times then I can count.  And no, I'm not extending the middle finger when I do.  I've tossed the wave around like it's money on payday, greeting the families walking to school in the morning, saying "hello" to the postman as he stuffs our boxes, and a generous "thanks" to the men who maintain our property.  Surprisingly, very few wave back.  Even fewer acknowledge my attempt to say hello.  And quite frankly, I know they see my wave.  It's obnoxious- my wave, not the people.  Plus, my teacher flab arm is flopping in the wind- you do not miss something like that!  You just can't.

I haven't given up on the people here.  I keep waving, smiling, and nodding.  Eventually, it'll catch on.  And if not, at least I'll give them something to talk about!