Although I really enjoy living in the metroplex, sometimes when we visit my in-laws who live in a small north Texas town, I realize there are certain aspects to small town living that I really appreciate. Like banking.

Awhile back, when we were visiting Tuna I decided that I needed to cash a check to facilitate my Main Street antique shopping. I parked right in front of the building and walked right up to the teller whose name was Floydine. As I was fumbling around in my purse for three kinds of ID, I informed Floydine that I would like to cash a check. She asked me if I had an account there and I said, no, but George is my father-in-law. And she then said — and get this – she said “OK”. And she cashed the check without blinking or even writing anything down. She didn’t even ask to see my ID. She just said OK. Because I knew George. And she knew George. When in Greater Tuna, it’s good to know George.

My bank in the metroplex, where I’ve had an account for 25 years, won’t even cash my check before photocopying my drivers license, taking a blood sample and finger prints, even though my check has their name on it. Even though they have had my money for 25 years – they knoweth me not. They have lots of college grads running around in khaki pants and polo shirts to prove how casual and friendly and “all about people” they are, but they don’t actually do anything helpful, like banking.

I thought of Floydine and her quaint little Main Street bank the other day as I stood in line behind a velvet rope awaiting the privilege of giving the 1st National Bank of Khaki Pants my money. As I waited, I made use of my time by filling out their little customer satisfaction survey. And since they asked for suggestions as to how they might improve their customer service, I wrote:

1) How about adding banking services?
2) Hire Floydine.

I love my father-in-law George. I don’t think I could love him more if he were my own daddy.

George has the heart of a servant. He loves to cook and feed people and he loves to take care of people. I can’t remember a Thanksgiving meal where I didn’t look up half way through to see George loading up his car with “leftovers” – if you consider half a ham and an entire pie left over – to take to a friend who wasn’t feeling well, or an elderly shut-in or just someone he came across who was short on worldly wealth. Nearly everyone along the Red River has been on the receiving end of George’s hospitality at one time or another.

I say this in advance of what I’m about to tell you because I don’t want you to think I’m making fun of George. I adore him and he makes me laugh. Although not always intentionally. He will sometimes misappropriate a key word in a story in such a way that it gives it a lot more flavor.

For example, awhile back, I called to talk with my mother-in-law and George answered the phone. When I asked him where she was, he reported that she had gone out to the hospital to have her breasts monogrammed. Oh really? Her initials or His and Hers?

And I thought mammograms were uncomfortable.