First. Rejoice with me. My poem for the newsletter of the Denver Gem and Mineral Guild (Tips and Chips), “Dog Days of Summer 2024,” was selected to be included in the Rocky Mountain Federation newsletter. It’s a rock club thing.
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Talking With Strangers
How we live our lives is, I think, dependent somewhat on whether or not we are afraid to talk with strangers. Albeit, there are some strangers that I think I might not – should not – be approaching with conversation.
Sister Clara thinks that, probably, I shouldn’t be talking with everyone that I do. And, yes, it takes time. Keeps me in a place a little longer. But, talk with strangers, I do.
At the grocery store I prefer to patronize, I needed help from a butcher who was arranging product in the meat cases. He helped me find the shrimp that I couldn’t seem to locate. I really like shrimp.
After thanking him for his help, I asked him if he liked working at the store. He emphatically said that he did. Since he seemed open to conversation, I asked if he was a member of a union. And, he is. When I said that I believed that today’s workers have the benefits of “yesterday’s unions,” he agreed. More structured work week. Higher wages. Safer working conditions. To name a few benefits.
We talked about the attempted merger of his company with another large grocery company. We both agreed that it would be tantamount to a monopoly, making all of the major grocers in our area one huge company. We also agreed that we were pleased that the deciding judge was correct to disallow the merger.
Our conversation continued for a short while. He didn’t seem to mind taking the time from what I think is a very busy day. And, when our conversation ended, he thanked me for talking with him.
That got me to wondering. Don’t people talk with butchers except when they need help? Or bakers? Or postal workers. Or sanitation workers. You may remember that Isaac takes care of my trash. Each week, he empties my barrel into his truck. Sometimes two barrels. Sometimes, large bags of refuse that have to be lifted into the truck, as well. Then, he returns my barrels to their place by the garage. I drive the streets in my neighborhood and see the same green barrels that have been emptied that remain at the curb.
Isaac and I talk. I thank him for his work. Rain. Shine. Heat. Freezing cold and snow. He is at my house every week with that big green truck. And, every week, my barrels are back by the garage when he is finished.
Isaac is from Ghana. His mom still lives there. I know this because we talk. This past week, I was returning from the grocers when I saw him in his truck about to turn a corner – not my corner. He’d already been to my house. We waved. I drove home and into my garage. In the house, I heard the sound of a huge truck. In front of my house was the big green truck, stopped, with Isaac approaching my house.
I had not seen him for some time and, actually, had just returned from Seattle the day before. He stopped to see if I was okay because it had been a while since we’d talked. That is kindness. So, we talked. It was good to see him.
Weeks ago, in that same grocery store, I saw a young woman with tattoos on her arm. I asked her to tell me about them, and she did. We talked for a few minutes about tattoos and opinions held by older people. She shared that she believed that people who are older than she – especially, those of my age – think poorly of younger people with tattoos. She said that she appreciated being asked about her tattoos by someone who seemed to care about them and her.
While in Seattle, I needed to find a place near Pike Place to sit. I’d walked for some time and was tired. An older woman and young man were sitting at a table with an umbrella. There was space for other persons to sit. The umbrella was an extra get in the bright sunshine. I asked if it would be okay for me to join them. They graciously invited me to rest there.
Turns out that the woman had emigrated from Venezuela. Her nephew (born in the U.S.) was with her; he had traveled from Florida to Seattle to vacation with her. Our conversation was enjoyable centering on families, travel, U.S. locations, and Pike Place. While we talked, my two daughters joined us and the conversation continued.
Daughter #1 had realized one of her hopes for going to Seattle. During an earlier sojourn to the city, she had visited the very first Starbucks location in the United States. (Both of my daughters are coffee geeks.) This trip, the plan was to revisit that Starbucks, which is located immediately across the street from Pike Place. They accomplished their goal, and I had an enjoyable afternoon in the shade.
I think I will continue to talk with people, strangers and folks that I may see on an occasional basis. I often learn new things about the world from these conversations. It seems to me to be a good thing to do.
Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.
2 replies on “Talking With Strangers”
It amazes me how you know so many people that provide you services. Every time I strike up a conversation with strangers in stores, etc., they look at me as if I’m nuts!
If you want to talk with people, say at the grocers or pharmacy, etc., just keep trying. The more open that they perceive you, the more willing they will be to have a short conversation. For example, today at my grocery store, I drew a buggy that was clip-clopping noisy. People could hear me coming! Down one aisle, a man approached with a quiet buggy. I simply said, “Could you hear me coming?” To which he pleasantly replied, “Yes. And, have you noticed how many of the buggies are noisy? Etc…” It was short but enjoyable conversation. M.