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Opinion August 2013

Puttin' on the Gritz

Village Vibrations

By Cappy Hall Rearick

 My village people don't join Facebook and they don't Tweet, either. They use the telephone to ask about a friend's son serving in Afghanistan or if they just want to say, "Hey. How's your mama and them?" My village people make a difference because they are givers, not takers. 

When I hear the word village I imagine a country hamlet in summertime Ireland, or a Swiss chalet snuggled inside a valley and framed by snowcapped mountains. I love villages.

America boasts a plethora of big cities and good-sized towns. Louisiana has parishes; Pennsylvania has townships; New York may still have a few touristy type villages, but authentic villages are dwindling. That makes me sad.

I discovered the St. Simons village in 1961. Legend dictates that if you get St. Simons sand in your shoes, you will always return. For years my young sons and I returned to frolic on the beach and eat shellfish until our skin was the color of shrimp. We walked the shoreline in search of non-existent shark's teeth and, after filling our shoes with sand, hit the village to fill our tummies with homemade ice cream.

My little boys were grown men before I found my way back again. It took 17 years, but like Resurrection Fern, St. Simons quickly bathed and transformed my wilted spirit. The village welcomed me home like a mother.

It took a good while, but hot flashes eventually took leave of my body and were replaced by global warming. Fresh cool summer air became the daily mantra compelling us to find a summer cottage in the mountains. We searched tirelessly until one fine day a little village blipped on our personal radar.

Saluda, North Carolina, lays claim to a main street not much longer than a football field with shops on one side and a playground on the other. It's a place where children still play outdoors on swing sets and monkey bars and you can hear their squeals of laughter. I love that sound.

Saluda has been named, "The town that time forgot." It is a haven for those who reminiscence or too often wish they were "back in the day." For me, finding a small community to share my overloaded nostalgic sentiments could not have been more ideal.

Cyber co-existence has become more typical today than many of us ever dreamed possible. Is there one soul in this country today without a cell phone? Women pony up big bucks for an attractive purse if it has pockets for her iPhone. Men pocket theirs or keep them otherwise handy for quick retrieval. I see diners texting their tablemates or reverently grasping an iPhone as if it were the Holy Grail. Conversing eye-to-eye? Not so much. If it's true that children learn by example, we're in big trouble.

You don't see people texting in my village restaurants. Friendly folks chat with each other while eating hamburgers, hot dogs and milk shakes served in metal shakers. A familiar face will always invite you to sit at his table where you'll hear news of the twin grandbabies born the week before, or an update on the Historical Society project. You'll hear all about the produce now available at the Friday tailgate market.

"The veggies are terrific this year," he'll say. "Especially the tomatoes."

He'll report that the Dog Society's fundraiser garnered enough money to build a new facility, or that the local thespians will perform "It's a Wonderful Life" in December. With pride in his voice and a tear in his eye, he'll say, "It's official. Taps at Twilight will be held annually on Memorial Day from now on. Not only that, there's a barbeque planned after the 4th of July parade with proceeds donated to the local chapter of Wounded Warriors."

You see, my village people don't want fiber optics to run their lives, inhibit their conversations or steal their humanity.

My village people don't want to text each other; they want real conversations. They speak and spell the language they learned in grammar school, and they don't even want to know about Apple's latest electronic gizmo.

My village people don't join Facebook and they don't Tweet, either. They use the telephone to ask about a friend's son serving in Afghanistan or if they just want to say, "Hey. How's your mama and them?"

My village people make a difference because they are givers, not takers.

They support the lonely veteran who's struggling to adjust to a life without legs. They sit in church with the recent widow who feels abandoned without the love of her life. They attend town meetings, donate blood to the Red Cross, and they always vote.

My village people know that a community of individuals who really care can create a better world for everyone.

 

Meet Cappy