by Jesse Murray
Staff Writer
& Luke Lillard
Guest Writer
Imagine a scene set on a front porch in rural Georgia, Tennessee or Alabama. You know, an old, rustic southern farm from days gone by that makes you think, “Gone with the Wind” or “Fried Green Tomatoes.” It just leaves the sensation of “welcome home” burned into your soul. Handsome silhouettes fall upon a whitewashed front porch as sweat drips down the glasses of sweet tea leaving rings that look like smiling faces on the porch railing. One could even picture the high societies of Atlanta and Charleston. You can see it… even the richest families welcome you in for tea and cookies. In the South, tradition is everything and the tradition is hospitality. Below the Mason-Dixon Line, all signs say, “Welcome.”
Now picture all of this once again… happening in Boston, Mass. Take everything you’ve heard about northeasterners being discourteous and throw it out the window. With very few exceptions, a recent fall-break voyage to the uppermost limits of this great country yielded three surprising truths:
1) The vast majority of northerners aren’t “jackasses” at all;
2) Getting flipped off is actually a sign of affection;
3) and sweet tea is everywhere these days.
Over fall break, one senior, two juniors, one sophomore and one freshman, all from Bryan College, left The Hill and ventured far into the barren wilderness of the American northeast. Actually, we stayed mainly to interstates and highways, but we flattered ourselves with the idea that we were journeymen. We left The Hill with a very limited budget relying heavily on the good graces of God and his people, but knowing that we were doomed. We went anyway.
Our first destination was Berlin, Conn., where we were to drop off our freshman at his home. After 20-something odd hours in a four-person tin can with five men, we reached our desired location. Expecting a harsh New England welcome consisting of maybe a muffin or two, some coffee and a kick out the door, we instead were offered lasagna, salad, fresh bread, warm beds and an invitation to come and stay again on our way home.
This wasn’t the infamous, icy New England charm we had grown up hearing stories of; it felt too much like coming home. So, we spent the night in a state of chronic “welcomeness” (as was related by a particularly bold border collie) and were sent off the next morning with a hearty breakfast, muffins and sandwiches to go, and a fond farewell.
We all figured that the further north we drove, the “really real” New England would make herself evident through the neglectful spirits of her people and their pets. Keeping this harsh reality in mind, we drove toward Boston. Upon arriving, the four men left were split into pairs. Two of us would go sightseeing and the other duo would attempt to make money illegally by busking (playing music with hopes of receiving money) on the streets of downtown Boston. Though we didn’t know that it was against the law at the time, the locals did. It didn’t stop them from giving.
In a matter of several hours, we had earned $30, or in college terms, “almost a whole tank of gas.” All throughout the night, we were confronted by local students, families, businesspeople and even the homeless with encouraging messages and what money they could spare. We were greeted with “welcome to Boston,” “keep it up, guys” and “you guys are ‘expletive’ awesome.” Even the cops drove by and seemed to ignore the illegal activity. We felt completely and utterly welcome.
Between our atlas and our GPS (affectionately named “Freddie”), we located the town of Methuen, Mass., about half an hour north of Boston. Our friend and classmate, junior Daniel Grayton, lives there with his family, and fortunately, one of us had his phone number. So as we pulled out of Boston around 10 p.m., we called him to see if they would house us for the night. They graciously, and without much ado, affirmed our request.
When we arrived, expecting again to be accepted with a stern handshake and perhaps a mat under the kitchen table, we were greeted by a warm, hospitable family and a father who couldn’t wait to fire up his grill to prepare some Bubba burgers, which oddly resembled the shape of the state of Texas. Instead of hinting that we should arise and be gone with the crack of dawn, Mr. Grayton lamented that we would not be around long enough to sample his famous scrambled eggs at breakfast. We slept in.
The Graytons sent us off the next day after having partaken of the aforementioned eggs, toast and juice. We were referred to a local lobster shack where the hostess (possessing among the heaviest accents we encountered) was gracious enough to let us pet a lobster that had not long to live. We thanked the hostess, purchased a New England cream soda and were off to Maine.
Later that day we arrived in Portland, Maine. We had reached the northernmost state on the eastern seaboard, and still we had little trust in the hospitality of God’s northern people. We fully expected to be greeted with salty salutations and by people who were less than interested in guests. We were once again proven to be of little faith. Portland was good to us. After once again splitting into our dynamic duos, we got to work. Half of us went sightseeing, and the other two attempted to earn a few bucks by singing on the street corners of the city’s art district.
Due to the quite legal nature of busking in Portland, we struggled to find a street corner that was unoccupied by local street performers. However, after some time, we did procure a corner and began to play our songs. After all was said and done, we were rewarded with countless smiles, several standing ovations, a business card from a local music producer, $50 total (more than a whole tank of gas) and three dollars from a woman who looked as though she needed it much more that we. This particular act of generosity left us bewildered and confused. We were oddly reminded of the widow in the temple who gave everything she had, all of two cents, in expectation of nothing in return.
After a night spent camping, two spent in the car and a day in New York City, we arrived at sophomore Meagan McIntyre’s house in eastern Pennsylvania on extremely short notice at 11 p.m. They gave us an entire floor of their home, complete with a wood stove that kept us very warm, an air mattress and a large pullout sofa. They also tendered much sympathy for an ear infection, offering alcohol and cotton swabs as a short-term remedy. And let us be struck dumb if we fail to mention the chocolate cake!
We left the McIntyres’ home the next morning, having yet again been given breakfast and a sack lunch, and headed for Philadelphia. We spent part of the day there and then drove to the home of an acquaintance, a former Marine and his family, in southeast Maryland. This was to be our final resting place before making the 12-hour trek back to Tennessee.
They had grilled steak, shrimp and chicken. They had toasted garlic bread. They had steamed fresh broccoli. It was a meal fit for a dozen kings, and the four of us ate heartily. Afterwards, our musicians serenaded the family, including the three daughters under the age of 10, until well after midnight, at which time they had all either gone to bed of their own accord or fallen asleep on the floor. We were shown to various bedrooms, replete with billowy mattresses and comforters.
We arose the next morning to find the house empty; however, we remembered the invitation of the night before to make ourselves at home, and so we helped ourselves to too much cereal and Saturday morning cartoons. This is just another example of hospitality’s extra mile.
What is hospitality’s extra mile? It’s simple. By going this extra mile, you are not confined to mere hospitality. Rather, you take the initiative to completely involve yourself with another human being, using your God-given resources for however long your lives intertwine. Like Lawrence of Arabia with his nomadic hosts, there is something powerfully binding about the breaking of bread.
In the more familiar South we might have expected a warm bed, several meals and friendly conversation at every stop–this is simply the cultural norm. Our stereotypes tell us, however, that once you venture north of the nation’s capital, what awaits you is a nightmare of unfriendly places and frowning faces. Our expectations were blown away, teaching us that this stereotype could not be further from the truth.