The Ledger

By Becky Holland

I was raised to say please and thank you, respect my elders, mind my manners and treat people the way I wanted to be treated.

Nobody explained what to do when other people didn’t cooperate.

My parents did a good job raising me. They taught me right from wrong, kindness and common courtesy.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t guarantee everybody else received the same training.

And, bless their hearts, some folks clearly missed orientation.

Growing up Southern, you didn’t interrupt adults, smart off to your mother or embarrass your family in public.

My mother had a look that could straighten your attitude faster than a Sunday sermon.

And let me tell you something. She’s 91 years old, I’m 56, and she STILL has that look.

One raised eyebrow, and suddenly I’m 12 years old again, wondering what I’ve done wrong and whether I should apologize just to be safe.

My brother turns the big 70 in a few days. You’d think by now we’d both qualify as grown-ups.

But apparently, a mother’s authority doesn’t come with an expiration date.

Now that I’m older, I’ve discovered that maintaining good manners requires patience, prayer and occasionally keeping my mouth occupied with coffee.

Take grocery shopping.

There’s always somebody who parks their buggy sideways in the aisle while discussing everything that’s happened since the Carter administration.

I appreciate a good conversation, but could we relocate the family reunion? Some of us need bread.

Then there’s the person who walks through a door you’ve held open without acknowledging your existence.

You’re welcome.

No, really. It was my pleasure to serve as your personal doorman.

And don’t get me started on people who announce, “I’m just being honest,” immediately before saying something unnecessarily rude.

Honey, honesty isn’t a license to be hateful.

You can tell the truth without running over somebody with it.

Of course, we Southerners have developed our own language for these situations.

“Well, isn’t that something?”

Translation: I’ve got plenty to say, but my upbringing is currently winning.

“Bless your heart.”

Translation: Depends entirely on my tone and how badly you’ve tested my patience.

And my personal favorite:

“I’m going to pray for you.”

Sometimes that’s a genuine expression of Christian concern.

Other times, the Lord and I need a private conversation before I respond.

Now, I’m not claiming innocence. I’ve had moments when my mouth started moving before my better judgment arrived.

I’ve also learned that silence can be a beautiful thing.

Especially when the alternative involves explaining yourself to half the county.

Getting older has taught me that not every foolish remark deserves a response, not every disagreement requires a debate and not everybody needs access to my last nerve.

That’s called wisdom.

Or exhaustion.

I’m still deciding.

So I’ll keep trying to be kind, considerate and reasonably well-behaved.

But if you see me smiling quietly while taking a long sip of coffee, don’t assume I’m agreeing with you.

There’s a good chance my parents’ raising and my natural personality are having a heated discussion.

And for everybody’s sake, I’m letting my raising win.

Bless your heart.