For those of us who relocated to the south, there is a saying:
I wasn’t born in the south, but I got here as fast as I could.
Living in the south means taking life a little less seriously, moving at a slower pace, being a bit more flexible, and blessing everyone’s heart.
For those new to the south, it often means a refresher in basic manners and consideration. For those born and raised here, manners are drilled in from birth as mothers all but demand their charges to kindly offer thanks after each diaper change.
I don’t think it’s a secret that basic manners have gone a bit cattywampus. Thoughtfulness. Consideration. Paying attention to those outside our bubble. These are all such easy habits, and yet they seem to be as lost as a ball in high weeds.
As I mentioned last week, we are coming off one of the most magical weekends of our lives. Happy as a pig in shit? Not even close. So much happier!
When we started planning our vow renewal, my husband coerced me into letting Jesus take the wheel. Well, not Jesus, but a lovely young lady named Alli. Never in my life have I handed over the planning of anything to someone else. After all, I love to save money as much as I love to be in control and taking a turnkey approach to this celebration canceled out both of those things.
Still, considering all the things that had been dumped on our plates in the months prior to planning this epic party, I agreed.
Instead of a long list of tasks staring me down just before the finish line, I exchanged a few emails with Alli at Richmond’s Boathouse at Rocketts Landing and let her do the heavy lifting. Beyond picking our menu and providing a headcount, my responsibilities were to show up.
It was bliss! Bliss!
Well, except for one little thing that has been nagging me like a rabid mosquito.
In order to provide sweet Alli with an accurate headcount, we needed an accurate list of attendees.
That sounds easy and, mostly, it was…except for those invitees who had forgotten the importance of minding their P’s and Q’s.
This epic shindig was not a backyard cookout. This was a shindig that involved prepared dishes, drinks, space allotment, tables, and a timeline of events. Headcount was important.
I was thrilled with the majority of invited guests who were able to navigate the challenge of responding. For those who couldn’t manage to click a button, drop a line, or dial my number, well, bless your heart.
As that final headcount due date approached, we still had several seats in limbo having no idea if there would be butts in them. It wasn’t for lack of trying–we’d sent out both electronic invites (for the youngsters) and paper invites (for the rest of us). I even sent out a few Hail Mary texts in the days leading up to our deadline (sorry, dear, I know you said not to, but…my pearls).
How does one handle invitees that simply do not respond?
Do you assume they are not coming and risk a gaggle of surprise guests wandering aimlessly while the venue scrambles to set up extra tables, while encouraging guests to have a bite to eat, while also adding water to the soup back in the kitchen?
Or, do you assume those non-responders are coming and risk the awkward sight of empty tables before ending the party by packing up way too many boxes of leftovers?
We did the latter.
Apologies to my family for the ninety-three ways I’m about to serve filets, salmon, and chicken. I’ve had our nineteen-year-old on a three-cupcakes-a-day program for the last week. I appreciate his willingness, but he’s starting to look a bit haggard.
I used to scoff at stories of bridezillas charging guests who didn’t show, bless their hearts. Bless my heart, too, as that very thought did cross my mind as we settled our final payment. I would love to blame the inability to RSVP on a specific age group, but alas, I cannot. I would love to say this failure to use the good sense that god gave us is new, but again, I cannot.
I’m about worn slap out from the wait on a thank-you for a wedding gift send two years ago. This is how I know that the waning of basic manners has been developing for some time. The gift, sent to my nephew in 2023, remain a mystery. Did they get it? Did they like it? Did their wedding planner forget to mention how to acknowledge gifts? I promise, standing by the mailbox and waiting for that note doesn’t crank my tractor, but the disappointment buzzes like a hornet’s nest.
I’m grateful to have been raised by a woman who insisted on responses, whether for an invite or a gift or a borrowed Tupperware. In our home, those responses were hand-written, and those Tupperwares were returned filled with cookies. According to today’s trends, I should expect silence and feel elated if I get a misspelled text reading “thx.”
Bless your heart, it must have been taxing to click out those three letters. Why don’t you go sit a spell? Can I bring you a sweet tea?
I don’t get it. I hope I never do.
For those of us who live in the south, there is a saying:
An empty wagon makes a lot of noise.
Turns out an empty seat does as well.