Mayberry

This is what I want. To wake up in the morning, put on a pink robe, and with a kiss, send my husband off to work, dressed in the new blue suit I bought him from Marshall Fields. I want to leisurely read Breakfast at Tiffany's over coffee, and two pieces of toast. I want to get dressed for a day of grocery shopping, bridge playing, house decorating, and dinner making. My hat and gloves are a must. And I want to be surrounded by friendly neighbors, who just happen to drop by for tea, and a piece of cake, and a bit of gossip.  

Before we officially changed our address, a friend of mine told me that I was moving to Mayberry. And despite all the present day negative press that an idyllic imaginary location like Mayberry might get, I've got to say that I was quite excited about the prospect. I envisioned that I was going to a place where a cup of confectioners sugar was just a neighbor away, where Oberweiss delivered fresh milk to my doorstep once a week, where Dick and Jane played with Spot in their neatly manicured back yards, but always using their inside voices, where students skipped to school with apples, and where the grass was equally green on everyone's lawn. 

Although, I'm in love with my new neighborhood, Mayberry isn't exactly what I thought it would be. Some of the neighbors have had to beg, borrow, and steal from banks so they could lay claim to the greenest grass in the community. Spot isn't a cute little Cockerspaniel, he's a genetically modified hybrid dog that doesn't shed, bark, poop or smell. The few kids that I've spotted playing outside, don't know what an inside voice is. And the women who are sending their husbands off to work everyday aren't getting dressed in their Sunday best, they are sporting the latest Lululemon looks, judging whose thighs do or do not touch.

While the present day vision of Mayberry can be as disappointing as the kids that I have spotted smoking pot on the way to school three out of five days this week, there are still many old fashioned elements that make this community very special. Oberweiss does deliver. And I'm about to sign up. The neighborhood butchers already know me by name. The welcome wagon just came to our door. There are more parks and little leaguers per capita that any place else in Illinois. And our neighbors are this close to asking for samples from the grill.  

And as someone who was most likely born six decades too late, I believe that it is my duty to do my part to make Mayberry, as picture perfect as possible.

I'll only turn on the television for major events.

Cocktail hour shakes up about thirty minutes after the Mini and Monster Truck are lined up and put to bed for the day.

There will be fluffy pink cupcakes and the like at my house even though they don't look nearly as pretty as Sweetapolita's.  

 

There will be a Casey's bacon loving brewer in the backyard. And his apron clad bee finishing dinner inside.

There will be records playing, and land lines ringing, and people dressed to receive company.

And until I stumble upon the all access admission ticket of a kid or two or ten, I'll just grab Peter's fishing pole and go whistling down to Salt Creek on the kind of lazy Saturday morning that I'm looking forward to tomorrow. 

Lo.