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“I didn’t like it a little bit,” Harold Helton of H&H Sports on Valley River Avenue in downtown Murphy told me when I stopped by his store to apologize. He was referring to a mistake I made when I jabbered to a bunch of people that his shop was closing. His shop was not closing, so it was kind of a big mistake.
He remained understandably stoic when I offered my hand in contrition.
“I came to right a wrong,” I told him cheerfully. It’s not like I expected gushing or anything, but I was surprised by his chilly handshake.
Helton sat behind his counter like a king. He has owned the shop since the mid-1980s, and at one time owned the entire building.
“I can assure you that I don’t like it,” he added for emphasis during the handshake. He told me he has no intention of closing and was surprised when one of his customers came in asking about his closing date. “He said, ‘I heard you was closing.’ Well, that’s the first I’d heard of it.”
Helton dropped my hand, and I felt slighted. I was so repentant; I thought he’d let me off the hook. The origin of the mistake, after all, dated before my involvement. Others carried the baton before me, I just rushed it across the finish line.
Helton warmed up nearly a full degree during my visit, but mostly I just stood there waiting for my pat on the head. He is not a patting on the head kind of guy. I apologized again, almost bowing in penitence and walked to the door feeling frustrated that he didn’t recognize my effort.
Back in my former life, I taught English at the University of North Carolina in Asheville. One semester, I taught a particularly challenging class.
The stars aligned just so that nearly the entire roster was filled with discontented geniuses. They knew everything, and my goodness weren’t they disappointed at being saddled with me, a first-class dumdum.
When the midterm grades came back, the classroom felt frosty. I took roll call and got out my material to begin, when one of the geniuses raised his hand.
“I don’t like the grade you gave me on my midterm,” he said, and that did it. The entire class turned into snarling attack dogs, complete with froth and very likely rabies. I attempted to calm them, offering the old adage that, “Grades aren’t given; they are earned.”
They shifted tactics. Growls turned to yaps.
“Hey, I spent over eight hours on my midterm paper,” one student snapped. “I deserve an “A.’ ”
I was gobsmacked.
“Scholars,” I said, gritting my teeth when I said it. “I see your misunderstanding here. You guys think that because you toiled for hours your grade should reflect your effort.”
“Yeah!” one student said. “Damn right,” shouted another.
“OK,” I said, inhaling slowly because I knew I was about to light up neurons on paths never before taken. “Effort doesn’t equate to excellence,” I told them. “One student can work for 12 hours and still produce a ‘C’ paper. Another may work for just two hours and earn an ‘A.’ ”
The amount of sweat dripped means very little if the house doesn’t stand. They wanted their “atta boys” for their sacrifice in the name of the work, rather than the work itself.
When I left Helton’s shop, I realized that’s exactly what I wanted. I produced subpar work and felt my apology, offered with great flair and braggadocio, earned me an “atta boy” from him.
I had it all upside down. He owed me nothing. My efforts of driving down there and shaking his hand and making a big dealio about how sorry I was, that was “C-” behavior. That was about me.
I am a dumdum. Helton had it right. He didn’t like what I did even a little bit. Well, I don’t either, sir. I will continue to strive for excellence and am truly sorry.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her with story ideas at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.