I am really liking the Southern hospitality which, trust me, extends to North Carolina. People here are more openly friendly than I am used to, but I am starting to like the women calling me “honey” or “sweetie” and the men calling me “sir.”
A great example of the hospitality came yesterday when I saw a state trooper parked by the side of the road. I parked behind him, then warily made my way to his car to ask for directions (for the 96th time on this trip, for those of you keeping track at home). The trooper had me sit in the front seat next to him, apologized for the mess, and got out his map to show me where to go — all the while calling me “sir.”
He was a great guy, but it was still a bit uncomfortable. Maybe because my visions of sitting in a state trooper’s car never went like this.
It is the great hospitality that made me think people were just being nice when they were pulling alongside me this morning during my commute to the course, honking and waving. It didn’t occur to me that my gas cap was hanging out of my car.
But alas, I am getting a bit homesick. It’s my 6-year-old daughter’s fault. When I arrived, I noticed that she had put in my suitcase eight small presents in little envelopes with numbers on them, one for each day I am gone. The staple of the first few days was a couple of pieces of stale candy. But envelope No. 4, which I opened this morning, had her school picture in it.
I miss you, Elizabeth. See you soon. Love, Dad.
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