Herbie made a friend this morning while we were out walking.

Dobby (of course) wanted nothing to do with the smiling woman a few blocks away who approached us as we passed her house.

She introduced herself, offered us a book she had finished reading that was on its way to the donation center, offered us an anecdote or two as we stood shooing bugs away. Offered pats on the head to one dog while trying to offer reassurance to the other.

She asked where we lived. Seemed confused by my description. Brightened and said “Oh….you mean the Hick’s house.”

And of course I did.

You see the Hicks are the family who owned our house for the past 35 years.

And that is how it goes here in the South.

The line of succession is handed down, but the past is not forgotten. The present is given a grace period in which to prove itself, while the memory of those who came before lingers in the background providing a measure that must be met.

I was sure we had failed the test.

Dobby was too barky.
My husband was too quiet. I was too scattered and flighty.

Opening the front door this afternoon to check the mail, I saw a ziplock bag laying on the welcome mat. Two milk bones lay inside, addressed to “Herbie and Friend.”

Seems one of us had passed the test.

Years from now, when someone describes their house which was once our house, perhaps there will be a pause, a brightening of the eye, a sly smile before the clarification “Oh….you mean Herbie’s house….”

And of course, they do.