When I was a child growing up in Des Plaines, Illinois, we would often drive east toward Lake Michigan, to visit our cousins who lived in Wilmette, a suburb on the lake. On the way, we would pass by the beautiful Baha’i temple, a sparkling white jewel perched on a hill overlooking the clear blue waters of Lake Michigan. And afterwards, on the drive home, we kids would spot or favorite destination, a children’s amusement park unimaginatively named KiddieLand.
And not just on that trip home, but throughout the summer, we would constantly be pestering my father to take us to KiddieLand. An appropriately small collection of rides, we were fascinated by it. There was a train of child-size cars pulled by a real diminutive steam engine; a Ferris wheel with enclosed cars that I was talked into riding — once; and pony rides, where you got to control your own pony and where my brother’s pony bit my pony’s rump and I got a wild, galloping ride until the keeper ran out and stopped the steed, after which I was forever disinterested in things equestrian.
There was also a tiny miniature golf course, and the fact that you got a bunch of tickets that you could use for any ride you wanted, not to mention the cotton candy and the syrupy sweet ice cones.
So we pestered Dad to take us to KiddieLand, all the time, until he’d finally say okay, he’d take us.
“When, Daddy, when?”
“Some Tuesday.”
Some Tuesday.
Of course that Tuesday never came.
“It’s Tuesday, Dad, you said you’d take us on Tuesday!”
“I said some Tuesday, not this Tuesday.”
Kind of like how you say, “Let’s do lunch some time.” Nothing definite, just “some time.” Which time never comes.
Sort of like the promise held out by the famous Southern Hospitality. Oh, so jovial, so friendly when meeting you, and always quick with the good word a “godbless,” and that’s about that.
When Avis and I moved to South Carolina, we were looking forward to making new friends, and time after time we’d invite people to our house for drinks or for dinner, and people were happy enough to come and enjoy our hospitality, but they never invited us back.
Had we somehow insulted them? Perhaps we were simply of the wrong church (meaning not of our guest’s church). In the North we’d had no problem finding friends, but in South Carolina, I guess, people just didn’t reciprocate, not something that Carolinians do, for some reason.
I don’t know, maybe they’re waiting for just the right moment to invite us for dinner, drinks or just a chat.
Some Tuesday, perhaps.