The Death of “Good Mornin'”

It’s a given that if you’re taking a walk or a run on a Saturday morning in Alabama (or just about anyday anywhere in the South for that matter) and you meet up with one of your neighbors, that you’ll exchange a greeting of some sort. A head nod, a lift of the hand, a “hey,” or the classic “good mornin'” are all socially acceptable salutations. To acknowledge and greet a fellow passerby is as much a Southern staple as barbeque, sweet tea, high school football and Wednesday night church.

Or so I thought.

This past Saturday I was nearing the half way mark of my morning run when I spotted a speed-walking, fifty-something woman clad in colorful, cheerful spandex coming around a corner directly into my path. Her Nikes were fairly smoking, and she seemed to be carrying on a conversation with an invisible companion.

Fine, I thought, either she’s engaging in a a little motivational self-pep talk or perhaps she’s a tad schizophrenic. If the latter, no problem–I usually have a least one schizophrenic in my exam chair daily, and as long as they’re taking their medications, they’re usually among the most lucid and pleasant conversationalists that I know. I moved over slightly to let her pass and went for eye contact. “Good mornin,'” I called out.

She stared straight ahead and carried right on with her conversation. “And then I said to her, you’re going to have start telling her exactly what…”

Now I should also tell you that failure to return a greeting in the South is considered to be worse form than passing gas during the closing prayer or naming your first born William Tecumseh. You just don’t do that sort of thing. Harumph! I thought, she’s probably from New York.

But as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the problem, although at first I thought she might belong to some aboriginal caucasion tribe for she seemed to have a most unusually long ear lobe. In this case, though, the peculiar appendage buzzed and crackled with the voice of her invisible friend, for it was that ever-increasing, almost pandemic piece of wireless gadgetry known as a Blue Tooth headset.

You’ve no doubt seen them in your neck of the woods as well, and if you’re like me, whenever you do you’re nearly overcome with the urge to rip it out and stomp it to pieces or otherwise toss it in the nearest large body of water. I mean, really, are Average Joes and Janes so important that they have to be at the constant beck and call of the entire wired universe? Probably not, but hey, why not look the part of “mover and shaker” if you can afford it?

I’ve never been one to “wear a wire” while running. I prefer instead to be in touch with my surroundings enough that I would hear the screeching tires of that car I don’t see coming before it hits me. I know the new Nike + iPod promises to shave minutes off my time with the right inspirational mix, but I would prefer to be alone with my own thoughts, slow as they may be. Besides, if God ever does whisper into my ear, then I sure don’t won’t to be so distracted that I miss it.

Who would have thought in our lifetime that we would actually have Star Trek communicators that really work, much less Lt. Uhura’s earpiece? I’m no reactionary, technophobic Luddite or anything, but this latest incident confirms what I’ve been saying for a long time–the Enlightenment was a very mixed bag. I’m all for progress, but at what cost?

If it means the death of “good mornin’,” then I’m not sure it’s worth it.