February 23, 2010 Grant County Journal Whadda ya mean I’m not friendly? Written by Janet Warren Occasionally I get a comment from one of my readers that makes me smile. My favorite is from the lady who feels like she is sitting on a lounge chair at the beach catching up with an old, comfortable friend when she reads my column. I have had people tell me they feel like they know me even though they have never met me. I know my husband often jokes we have no secrets at the Warren house! I do believe if I ran for public office there would be nothing the opposing party could dig up on me—I have confessed to everything already. Well almost everything—there is something I haven’t told you and it came to the forefront this week when one of the police officers told my husband he didn’t think I was very friendly. “She never waves to us when we see her driving.” Truth be told, it kind of freaks me out that they know what kind of car I drive. But I was bound and determined to rectify my perceived unfriendliness so the next time I saw a police car, I started waving like a maniac. As it passed, however, I realized it had Sheriff written on the side and (although I may be wrong) I don’t think the deputies have a clue I’m the police chief’s wife. The Deputy politely waved back. Which brings me to the topic I have been mulling over this month. People, like me, who were raised in large communities often develop a heightened sense of emotional boundaries. I actually am a friendly person, which is why I write the way I do. You really do know me if you’ve been reading my columns. To me it is a way to connect with you without invading your space. You don’t have to look at me coldly if you don’t want to listen, just turn the page. On the other hand, Mike was raised in small towns in Oregon. He was 15 the first time he, a self-described country bumpkin, visited Portland. He remembers walking down the street, saying “hi, how are you” to everyone only to get ignored or dismissed with a stare. But Mike is a friendly guy and much of that comes from being raised in places where everybody knew his name. He fits in so well in Ephrata. He still walks down the street saying “hi, how are you” to everyone, but now the people he meets are as friendly as he is. I would say at least if he isn’t handcuffing them, but even that doesn’t seem to be the case. For those of you who don’t know, the police chief’s job is mostly administrative. Mike isn’t usually the first responder and he rarely takes someone to jail. He does, however, fill in when needed and his services were needed during the first Basin Summer Sounds he was working. He was the only one with a vehicle as the other officers were on bikes or involved elsewhere. There was a fight and one of the men was handcuffed and put in Mike’s vehicle to go to jail. As Mike started driving, he realized he had never booked anyone into the Grant County Jail and he said out loud, “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to take you.” The young man responded, “Oh no worries, I’ve been there lots of times, I’ll tell you what to do.” And sure enough, he directed him as to what door to go in, where to sign in, and greeted the officers at the jail. Another incident happened recently when two young men came into the police department to say their goodbyes to the police officers because they were going in front of the judge the next day to be sentenced. Somehow I don’t think things like that happen in larger towns. Sure enough, I read in the paper they went away to prison for a couple of years. I hope I don’t sound like I don’t want to be in Ephrata. Not so! I admit when I moved here it was a bit of a culture shock. I have had to loosen up a bit and consciously think that the person standing next to me in the grocery line would not think I was invading his privacy if I spoke to him. There are things I miss about living in a bigger city, mostly conveniences. There are things I do not miss, however, like traffic. Even when I am frustrated trying to get out of the Safeway parking lot onto Basin Street during the “rush 15-minutes” around 3 p.m. I am so grateful I live here instead of Denver or Seattle. I can even mail a package at the post office without standing in line for a half an hour. Mike and I felt like eating a pizza with a movie recently, so I called ahead to order it. I ordered a Barbeque Chicken Pizza, not realizing there was Canadian Bacon on it. When we arrived, we were told the Canadian Bacon was kept off of it because they remembered Mike is allergic to pork. When does that happen in an impersonal big city? The first week I moved to Ephrata, a bank teller wrote me a hand-written note apologizing for some slip up. My experience up until then had been that bankers don’t acknowledge mistakes, let alone apologize for them. I’m learning the small town ways so please be patient with me. If you drive a white car with a ski rack on top and a middle-age woman starts waving hysterically at you…well, it’s probably just me mistaking you for a police car.