Her voice was soft and low and thick with all the charm of a South Carolina accent as she whispered the words in my ear:  “It just doesn’t pay to act ugly in Aiken.”  And I was glad it was being said to me and not about me.  

It was back within the first few months after I had moved to Aiken – more than 20 years ago now.  Back when Aiken was more small town culture and close-knit living.  Back when its manners were carefully groomed and dutifully passed from one generation to the next and kept its feet wiped on every front door mat.

“Not acting ugly in Aiken” meant not honking our car horns – except to say “hey” as we drove past a friend; it meant not raising our voices in anger – except maybe during a football game.  It meant holding open doors and giving up places in line, and asking after the welfare of “your mama and them” at home, and saying ma’am and sir regardless of age or social standing.

“It just doesn’t pay to act ugly in Aiken” also meant that if you did so, it was surely going to come back to haunt you at some point in time, and you would get your comeuppance in some form or manner – most likely sitting next to you in church or wherever you got your hair cut or perhaps in the checkout line at the grocery store.

This particular whispered observation that day had to do with a misstep that had been made by some folks in a rather prominent relationship, and it had all come out in public in a particularly “ugly” way.  And my confidante was pointing out the folly of it all in this most colorful expression – perhaps meant to be a cautionary tale to newly transplanted northerners.  I believed her.

But I wish I had remembered those wise words just a few weeks ago.  I had perceived myself to be kinder than that.  I thought I had incorporated the best of southern good manners into my own daily practices and precepts.  I didn’t think of myself or my behavior as being “ugly.”  Until it was.

It was the day the tree trimmers were working on my street.  Their assignment was to trim all the tree limbs that threatened the overhead power lines – in preparation for future weather and winds that might disrupt service.  We had been told the workers were coming.  I understood the need.  I even warmly greeted the two men who were to do the trimming as they arrived at my property.

Although we faced a bit of a language barrier between us, we were able to communicate with waving arms and pointing gestures about which limbs needed to go and which tree (my very favorite) was not to be touched.  (I’ve planted them all, but this beauty speaks especially to my heart.)  We nodded and smiled and I went inside.

But when I returned, just a few minutes later, it was apparent we had not communicated well at all.  They were all smiles and proud of themselves, and I broke down into wild anger and tears and shouting – with a different kind of waving of arms and pointing like a crazy person.

“No, no, no!” And their smiles disappeared.  “Shame on you, shame on you!” And they backed away in confusion.  “What did you do?  Get away, get away – just leave!”  And so they did.

I picked up the way-too-many slaughtered tree branches from my crushed flower bed and flung them across the broken fence.  And my mood just grew and grew in its ugliness.  For days I fumed at the desecration of my beautiful trees and beloved yard.  And then I saw the desecration of my soul, my self-image.  I saw my ugliness.  And the words came back:  “It just doesn’t pay to act ugly in Aiken.”

I’ve searched for days to find the men and apologize. I’ve looked for the truck, called the company to track them down.  But I haven’t found them, I probably won’t.  I suspect this is my payback, my comeuppance.  I will remember their fading smiles, their stepping away from me, their confusion, the shift in the energy between us on that otherwise beautiful day.  That day when I traded away my kindness for property, and let my manners slide down into loud, unnecessary rudeness.  I probably will never be able to take it back or make it up or even say I’m sorry.  And so, I suspect I am destined to live with that day – with embarrassment and regret and no excuses.  

And as I look and listen around me, and with infinitely greater significance, with exceedingly deeper sadness, I suspect this entire global generation will one day be forced to live with that same sort of tragic regret.  And I wonder what might happen if we could all just whisper into the world’s ears:  Remember … in the end … “it just doesn’t pay to act ugly.”