Nice Day

Not so many years on vacation in Aspen, my parents changed hotel rooms. I forget why although I do remember that this was in the days before cell phones. Connected inadvertently to the room where my folks no longer were, I spoke at length to a Mrs. Stone about her grandchildren, Alabama football, the weather in the mountains, and other gentle concerns of the day. Sensing that we might not agree about politics or religion, we both graciously skirted those potentially disagreeable topics in favor of more congenial connections. We talked about the Rocky Mountain Trail near her hotel, we chatted about the big western sky, we schmoozed about animals wild and domesticated. If I remember correctly, she may have shared with me a recipe for corn muffins. Twenty minutes in to our communication, it occurred to me that I still hadn’t spoken to my parents and that I might be intruding on her vacation. I said, “Mrs. Stone, I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m enjoying our conversation, but you have to admit that this is basically just a wrong number.”

“Honey,” she answered with impeccable Southern cadence. “We’re the Stones from Tuscaloosa.” She paused as if that explained everything then continued: ”We can talk to a stump.”

***

In my part of Miami, I frequently feel like I would have a better time of it if I did indeed try to communicate with dead trees rather than attempt to engage my neighbors. When I reach out to a neighbor, as I frequently do, it seems they are as likely to scramble inside, bar the door, and reach for a shotgun as they are to engage in a short chat. My agenda is a brief dialogue: “How ‘bout them Dolphins?” “Isn’t this the hottest summer you can remember?” “How’s the family?” But I get the feeling that my neighbors are waiting for the hit: “Let me try to convert you to my cultish religion.” “I want to put my hand on your behind.” “Would you like to buy an overpriced and worthless product or service, a Ronco ‘Bass-o-Matic,’perhaps?

Having no agenda other than, “It’s a nice day for a chat,” I am frequently surprised by the running and hiding behaviors of my neighbors, but I don’t fault them. In the big city there are any number of telemarketers and other unwelcome intrusions into family time. I could be anybody; how can they tell that I’m a chatty middle aged man walking a dog rather than the next psycho headline?

With folks with whom you already have a relationship a great gift can be the “no agenda” phone call. If every time you called a friend, you tried to sell him something it wouldn’t be long before you got the answering machine with each call. Everybody prefers the “just thinking of you” to the “three easy payments of $26.95” call.

It’s the same with the kids. If your children are expecting to hear, “Do your homework” and “Clean your room” because all you ever say to them is “Do your homework” and “Clean your room” it won’t be long before you’re getting blank stares no matter what you say.

Schedule some “no agenda” time with your kids. And don’t tell me that you asked your child to have a catch and you got turned you down in favor of “Blood, Blood, Blood, Shoot, Shoot, Shoot, Kill, Kill, Kill.” “The past is close behind” as Dylan sang in “Tangled Up in Blue.” If the last time you threw a ball with your kid, you managed to communicate “Keep your eye on the ball, damn it, if you don’t make it to the major leagues we’re all going to starve and die!” your kid picked up on that message, take it to the bank.

Even a stray dog knows if it’s been tripped over or kicked.

A better message—which can certainly go unspoken—is that we enjoy being together. The sun is shining; we have our health; and the ball make such a nice “thwump” sound when it hits the glove.

Yes, the future is uncertain; sure, you might not make the varsity team never mind the major league; and, there is no doubt but that tomorrow we might all get run over by a bus. But for right now, we’re just parent and child, no conversation, no agenda, no hurry. Just tossing a ball back and forth. What could be better than that?

I don’t know—remember we only spoke for 20 minutes—but I like to believe that Mrs. Stone from Tuscaloosa would agree.