When Company Just Showed Up

By Mark Morgan

Special to The Waldron News

Nowadays, folks usually call or text before they come by.

"Y'all home?"

"Is this a good time?"

Back when I was growing up, nobody asked.

They just showed up.

The first sign wasn't a notification on your phone. It was the sound of gravel popping under a set of tires. Before the car ever stopped, Clyde, our old hound dog, was already headed for the driveway. He'd give every visitor a good sniff, making sure they belonged there. Clyde wasn't working for free, though. If he did his job, he expected a scratch behind the ears or a bite of somebody's biscuit before they left. He believed every visitor ought to pay the dog tax.

About the time Clyde finished his inspection, those wild guineas would get to yakking like the whole county was under attack. They didn't care if it was family, the preacher, or the fellow reading the electric meter. If somebody came into our yard, everybody was going to hear about it.

We didn't need cameras, motion lights, or fancy doorbells.

Our security system had four legs, a bunch of feathers, and folks inside the house who never seemed to miss a thing.

Nowadays they'll sell you a camera that'll see in the dark, but I've never seen one that could beat an old hound dog that opened one eye and decided, "Not on my watch."

The funny thing is, nobody ever complained that company hadn't called first.

They were simply glad somebody had come.

There was always a jar of instant coffee in the cabinet. Nobody worried about brewing a fresh pot. Someone would stir a spoonful into a cup of hot water, and somehow it always tasted better because there was somebody sitting across the table to drink it with.

If you happened to stop by during strawberry season, you were in luck. There'd be warm biscuits split open with fresh strawberries piled on top and a spoonful of homemade whipped cream. I'll tell you what, that would satisfy a neighbor from here to California.

And if it wasn't breakfast, there was a good chance homemade yeast rolls were baking for supper. I can still remember that smell drifting through the house. I don't care how many years have passed—that smell still feels like home.

Looking back, I don't really miss living without cameras.

They've got their place.

They help protect our homes, and that's a good thing.

What I miss is that nobody needed an invitation.

If your tires turned into our driveway, there was always another chair at the kitchen table, another biscuit in the oven, another cup of coffee waiting, and somebody genuinely glad you came.

Maybe the best security system we ever had wasn't hanging beside the front door.

Maybe it was a faithful old dog named Clyde, a flock of noisy guineas, the smell of warm biscuits, and a family that believed company wasn't an interruption.

It was home.