Friends and neighbors who walk right into the kitchen with a short announcing knock and a wha'cha'doin' are the ones with the title back-door company.
No doorbells ring. Familiar voices blend with others in the home and become conversations that left off midsentence yesterday.
Folks who ring the front doorbell or knock on the front door are on official business. While the people at the door may be acquaintances, they are not back-door company.
The word "company" in its truest Southern vernacular means "welcome guests." These guests are the ones who will enjoy the Sara Lee pound cake kept at the ready, the ones who will feast on that chicken casserole whipped out of the freezer, popped into the oven at a moment's notice. "Y'all stay for supper. No problem whatsoever."
People who are now of a certain age remember what it was like when Mother announced, "We're having company." When a knock sounded at either door, everyone became excited, even the dog.
"Yippee! Oh-boy! We've got company!"
Southern lifestyle and hospitality are synonymous with treating guests as our favored company. It's part of the South's graciousness, part of culture.
Several co-workers once made arrangements to attend a convention. They mailed in the convention registration material and made a phone call to the hotel's reservation desk. Lea, who grew up in L.A. (Lower Alabama), answered all the questions about full names, purpose of travel, and number of beds needed in the room. The procedure was coming to a successful close with one last question, "... and your company's name?"
"My company?" Lea said.
"Yes," said the reservation specialist.
"Cindy Cawthon." Lea responded.
"OK, that's Cindy Cawthon High School?"
"No! No, you asked about my company. Cindy Cawthon is my company. She's the one staying in my room with me. Cindy is my company."
Silence.
Gales of laughter erupted on Lea's side of the phone call, even more as the story was shared.
It's the current culture that when an unexpected someone knocks at the front door, he or she is automatically suspect, not favored company. Even in smaller communities where everyone is either a friend, a relative, or a neighbor, the dreaded vacuum cleaner salesmen, proselytizers, and solicitors are often left in the lurch on the front porch like trick-or-treaters who show up after all the candy has been distributed and the porch light turned out.
Girl Scouts peddling Thin Mints and Do-Si-Dos are an exception to the modern-day rule.
Today, multiple locks and security doors keep the people on the porch.
Several years ago, daughter-in-law Kathy was alerted to expect company, but son Todd was kept in the dark. The surprise visit came with an elaborate plan, including parking the truck a block away from their home. The company placed a makeup bag on the front porch to serve as a hint, rang the bell, and hid.
Todd peered through the windows but would not open the door and told the kids to "get back." Kathy began to snicker, but he refused to cave to her encouragement to "open the door."
Finally, his company came out of the shadows and the door flew open in welcome and laughter, the children saying, "I knew it was y'all!"
Todd had worried the makeup bag was a homemade explosive device. That's the world now, especially since the tragedy at Boston Marathon. In this case, the outcome was laughter and a story for the ages.
No Sara Lee pound cake, though, and no chicken casserole. Instead, dinner was at their favorite restaurant; company paid.
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Jane Gatewood writes regularly for the Clay County Times-Democrat and has contributed to Delta Crossroads regional magazine. She has recently published a family history, The House on Harrison Street.
Editorial on 05/02/2016