The South’s Great Philosopher
If there is something the South gets right, it is (or was) the philosophical Band-Aids from sweet old men.
If I heard them once, I heard them 1000 times, but even then, it was never enough.
My father was born in 1938 in Wynne, Arkansas, a tiny agrarian community. He was a feral child to say the least; the youngest of six children. While they were not poor, they were definitely upper- lower class, like everyone else in town.
He had many country, colloquial proverbs, but my favorite one has come to be my mantra that I share often: “If this is the worst thing that will ever happen to you, you’re doin’ ok.”
If I had taken this to heart when I was a 20-year old, I would have left a lot of trivial garbage by the side of the road for the vermin to chew on, which is exactly where it belonged. I say this out loud to anyone who will listen, and I say it to myself over and over again.
I can think of trillions of meaningless, existential crises where, if I had applied this advice, I would have avoided countless hours of mental and physical aggravation (that most likely led to another 12-pack of Milwaukee’s Best Light or Zima).
Didn’t get invited to the party? Mantra. Got a poor grade on a final: Mantra. Stephanie stole my pack of Virginia Slims: Mantra. My white Payless pump-heel broke: Mantra. My Espirit sweater only has one shoulder pad: Mantra.
To a 20-year-old college gal, trivial was monumental.
On a more serious note, I take that saying to heart and know that he was absolutely right; I am doin’ ok. I will always do ok as long as I have a smart perspective.
That Arkansas papa always had the smartest perspective.
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