Waiving: Probably a Southern Thing
Taylorsville, Mississippi: It’s a tiny place in South Mississippi. A guy in a blue Chevrolet pick-up truck drives past me, raises his hand on the steering wheel, and waves as if he knows me.
I don’t know him, but I wave back.
I’m pretty sure that if I tried that in New York City I’d be assaulted and or arrested.
My dad had a habit of always waving at approaching vehicles, one hand on the wheel and the other hand holding a Pall Mall cigarette (ashes on the seat and floorboard).
If a hand was empty, it’d be holding a cup of sugar and milk, with a touch of coffee.
My dad grew up in a little town in southwest Alabama. I’m guessing they wave a lot there.
I grew up with the smell of these aromatic cigarettes and, although I don’t mind the smell of some pipe tobacco and most cigars, cigarettes just kill me.
My dad was a real-life red-headed step-child. At the age of 17, he lied to join the Army. He made it just in time for the end of World War II. This gave him a chance to see some more of the world other than Choctaw County.
Once he told me, during commercial breaks of Black Sheep Squadron, that he’d been, in no particular order, a driver for an Army general, a mechanic, and a drill instructor. At Camp Campbell…
