Taylorsville, Mississippi: It’s a tiny place. A guy in a blue Chevrolet pick-up truck drives past me, extends one hand, 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.
This little hand-waving thing reminds me of my dad and riding in his truck.
My dad had a habit of always waving at approaching vehicles – one hand on the wheel, another 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.