I'm officially a grownup now -- I've been summoned for jury duty!
I don't have to appear until next month, so I don't yet know what it involves. Perhaps some input would help?
What little I know of jury duty was gleaned as a child from a Flintstones episode. For those not cultured enough to be familiar either with the artistry that was the show, or the episode in question, I'll elaborate. Fred ends up on a jury, and the foreman at that, for a murder trial. They find the defendant guilty, who later escapes from prison and vows his revenge on Fred.
Before the reader begins to worry that your humble doulos has lost touch with reality, please let me reassure you. Not living in the Stone Age, as did Fred, my home is more secure (and better armed) than was his, and our dog is more loyal than was his sabretooth tiger, not to mention that I'm smarter than Fred. And I'll tell him that in person if I ever meet him.
Seriously though, we are talking about Pender County, North Carolina. With few exceptions, the biggest crime in these here parts just may be when Gus gets drunk and hunts deer out of season with his 4X4. I'm not saying Pender County residents are yokels (cuz I are one), just not as sophisticated (read that uptight) as our neighbors to the south in New Hanover and Brunswick counties.
So, how bad can it be? I guess we'll discover that when the time comes.

Along the lines of pride in residency, I had a unique experience in a convenience store last week.
Has anyone else noticed that convenience stores have become the great melting pot of society? If time permits, spend more than five minutes in one during any given day; you'll see every strata of Western civilization, from the "dregs" who are there for their daily quota of Bud and pork rinds to the "hoity-toitys" who have been forced by necessity to rub elbows with the {sniff}commoners for the sake of a bit of petrol.
I was at the counter to pay for my daily Pepsi quota when the clerk called me "sir". Even though I am perpetually 17 years old (as evidenced by the opening of this post), I am accustomed to being called "sir" from time to time. Even so, something about the way she said it caught me off guard; perhaps it was the fact that it was actually sincere.
I couldn't help but react, so she remarked, "You must be one of those people that doesn't like to be called 'sir'." "No," I countered (pardon the expression!), "I'm just not used to it."
"Must be a Yankee", I heard from behind me in line. I turned to see some "good ole boy", who was all of twenty-something, who was playing with a lighter display at the counter. Now, I don't normally label people, particularly based upon scant first impressions, but allow me to paint a picture and draw your own conclusions. Cut-off Harley shirt, dirty blue jeans, a two-dollar bait-store-variety ballcap...getting an image? Two boys in the same family named "Junior", perhaps?
Never mind the fact that I've been here since he was in diapers, I think I've assimilated quite nicely, thank you.
The part of the encounter that incensed me was the implication that manners are somehow indigenous to the South exclusively. Yes, they have always seemed more prevalent here, but it may have shocked Mister "never been anywhere but southeastern North Carolina, but will persist in stubbornly holding preconceived notions, the veracity of which I have no earthly clue" that I have found manners to be a matter of personal choice and upbringing in every part of the world that I have frequented.

Yes, I realize the irony: I stereotyped someone who stereotyped me. Bad manners never constitutes the right to be indignant (life is too short).
However, it's a powerful reminder. We think, as a society, that we've progressed so far, and we are so wrong. As Malcolm Muggeridge said, "All news is old news happening to new people". Human nature is, was, will remain, exactly that -- human nature.

Is there a lesson?