Every Sunday, Freep sports columnist Mitch Albom steps away from the games to write about The More Important Things. This week he ponders slowing it down and enjoying life. Also pecans.
I took a car trip through the South last week. Driving along a two-lane Alabama road, my companion and I passed something called a Pecan Farm. We decided to stop in.
Before we delve into the fantastic world of pecans, let’s consider the vagueness of the term “companion.” Not spouse, friend, or colleague. Companion kind of sounds illicit, but who thinks Mitch has that in him? No one. Let’s just assume his traveling companion was some unpaid intern who deserved a horrible karmic punishment.
I have never been to a Pecan Farm, or, for that matter, any farm for nuts, although as kids we thought that was the “funny farm.” Upon entering, my companion (who lives and works in New York) shot me a glance.
Nut farm = funny farm…how does Mitch keep his material so fresh?
Inside was a tidy combination of candy store/curio shop/café/ice cream counter, highlighted by inspirational books, knickknacks, and things having to do with pecans, such as pralines, salted pecans, crushed pecans and pecan pies.
Mitch discovered pecans in a business that sells pecans.
We took our place in line, anxious to taste the goods. There was one woman ahead of us.
Ten minutes later, we were still in line.
Alas, we had made an assumption northern people should never make while traveling through the South (and by “South” I mean any place other than the Atlanta airport).
Pace.
Waiting ten minutes in line for pecans sounds more exciting than this column.
People from up north expect pace. They have internal timers. A bus or subway should come within 10 minutes — or we get antsy. A waitress should show up at your table within three minutes — or we get antsy. A line should move at least one person every minute — or we get antsy.
There is no antsy in the South.
And that's why Sherman went through Georgia like grease through a goose.
Ants, but no antsy.
More relevant, edgy humor.
South prefers flow
Instead of pace, the South has — as I was reminded while we stood in line at the Pecan Farm, eyeing the cinnamon-dipped delicacies, drool spilling over our lips — flow.
Sometimes, this flow involves you; often, it does not. You may be patiently waiting, but the woman behind the counter is intent on swatting that fly by the oven, or adding a column of figures, or trying to get an earring unclasped. It’s part of the flow. You don’t interrupt it. It is polite and accompanied by, “I’ll be right with you,” which translates into, “Why don’t you take a lap around town and see if we’re still open when you come back?”
Your time will come. But not until the flow comes your way.
Flow being defined as terrible customer service. At the risk of sounding “antsy,” let’s just skip past Mitch’s tedious description of the tedious “flow” at this pecan joint.
Time passed. Drool dripped. When the woman happened to pass by the cash register, she made eye contact with a regular customer, lined up behind us.
Drool dripped? Suddenly the wait seems the least objectionable part of this place. Let's skip ahead again.
Eventually, our turn came, along with our birthdays and world peace, and we ordered some pecans, which, although sitting on plates in the counter below us, had to, for some reason, be gathered from jars across the store. I noticed several Christmas trees, decorated.
“You think they’re early?” I whispered.
“Might be from last year,” my friend said.
Last year’s Christmas trees, that’s just creepy. Like dead Boy Scouts under the porch creepy.
The thing is, because we had to, we slowed our rhythm, too. After all, we weren’t falling behind. No one else was going faster. We exhaled deeply and by the time we left the Pecan Farm, we’d been taken down a notch.
The pecans, by the way, were delicious. They reflected time and effort in their roasting and seasoning. And I came home having learned an important life lesson:
Pace is a relative term.
Mitch bored us with 700-some words about a pecan-themed restaurant to get to “pace is a relative term”? A southern-fried gentleman of leisure drinking mint juleps on his front porch while wearing seersucker suits isn’t that long-winded.
Also, in addition to his full-time job writing newspaper columns, Mitch hosts a daily radio show, writes books ad plays and movies, and regularly appears on ESPN. Mitch telling the rest of us to slow down is a little like your carcinogenic uncle coughing advice in between Pall Malls: “Smoking is a filthy habit, kid. Don’t ever start.”
And the almond is being disrespected.
Say what you will about Mitch Albom, but his humor is never stale.
