I Asked a Question. I Got the Director’s Cut.

Today, while hanging out with Mom at the skilled nursing facility, I was reminded that my preferred conversation speed isn’t necessarily everyone else’s.

Especially with people older than me. I have to say “older than me” because, at this point, I’m old, too. I’m just wearing a Yankees pullover and hoping nobody checks the paperwork.

I didn’t see my friend Donna Woods today. With all the talking she does, I’m beginning to wonder whether she knows Elle Woods from Legally Blonde. I have no evidence of a connection, but I suspect Donna could keep a courtroom occupied.

In her absence, I got better acquainted with Mom’s roommate, Miss Jenny.

I remember the roommate setup from my own days in skilled nursing. A shared room gives you plenty of opportunities to get to know someone. Sometimes more opportunities than you had scheduled.

Miss Jenny asked me a question. I asked her a question.

And that’s how I received the ten-minute answer.

I had already told her I’m a native New Yorker. Just in case she forgot, I was wearing a lightweight New York Yankees quarter-zip pullover. I felt I had provided both verbal notice and supporting documentation.

My preferred answer is fewer than ten words. About five seconds. Enough information to move forward, with perhaps a little time left to blink.

Some of the Southern folks I meet have a more generous approach to conversation. My question gets an answer, a backstory, introductions to supporting characters, and enough local history to qualify for a walking tour.

Meanwhile, my New York brain is standing by the door with its keys out.

This reminded me of a former colleague. I once asked a yes-or-no question about our learning management system, SumTotal.

Before I got the answer, I received a refresher on Kirkpatrick, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and the post-training assessments. All of them.

I was waiting for “yes” or “no.” Somehow, I had enrolled in continuing education.

By the time we reached the answer, my most urgent need in Maslow’s hierarchy was for the conversation to end.

It drove me bonkers.

And today, sitting with Mom and listening to Miss Jenny, I recognized that same feeling. I had asked a small question and apparently selected the extended warranty on the response.

I now know more about Miss Jenny than I expected to learn during this visit. Sometimes, the less I know, the better off I am. My brain already has enough open tabs, and several of them are playing music I can’t locate.

Of course, I can hear the irony.

I’ve spent the last few days writing about taking time to listen, visiting people, and making room for conversation.

I still mean every word.

I’m also discovering that I can believe in all of that while occasionally wishing an answer came with a table of contents.

Some days, I have the patience to follow every detour. Other days, I’m silently trying to remember what I asked in the first place. That probably says as much about me as it does about the person talking.

Today, I got to spend time with Mom and learn a little more—okay, considerably more—about Miss Jenny.

Next visit, I’ll wear the Yankees pullover again.

Apparently, it’s a fashion statement, not a speed limit.

Southern Hello Comes with a Recipe

Yesterday, I hobbled across the parking lot into the Harris Teeter at Rivertowne, focused on getting from my car to a scooter cart.

Behind me, a gentleman older than I am said hello. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a large checkered long-sleeve shirt, which struck me as a lot of clothing for the temperature. I was already working up a sweat just watching him.

Naturally, I said hello back.

It’s the South. You say hello. What you don’t always realize is that you’ve just agreed to attend a presentation.

“I love Bojangles rice and red beans,” he announced.

No introduction. No transition. We went straight from greetings to side dishes.

Great! I hadn’t known he didn’t like them, but I was pleased we’d cleared that up.

I kept hobbling. He kept talking.

He explained that he buys the family size.

This man really loves his rice and beans, I thought. We hadn’t even reached the store, and I already knew his preferred restaurant, his preferred side, and his purchasing strategy.

Then he said he keeps them for a few days.

Then he said he doesn’t.

At this point, I wasn’t sure whether we were discussing leftovers or taking sworn testimony.

What he does, he explained, is put the rice and beans in a pan. Then he cracks an egg into it, scrambles it, and mixes the whole thing together.

And that, friends, is where he lost me.

“I don’t eat eggs,” I told him. “Eggs are gross.”

Now, I could have stopped there. A person with a functioning conversational brake pedal probably would have.

Instead, I explained that I think of eggs as chicken menstruation. An unfertilized egg. Yes, I know that’s not a technically accurate description. It is, however, the description my brain has committed to, and my brain is not accepting public comment.

He had offered me a recipe. I had responded with poultry reproductive concerns.

Neither of us had asked for any of this.

By then, we’d made it to the produce section—the whole-food portion of Harris Teeter, where a banana could simply be a banana without either of us cracking an egg over it.

We parted ways among the fruit.

“It was nice chatting with you,” I said. “Have an awesome day!”

And I meant it.

He went off to do his shopping. I hobbled off to do mine, now carrying a recipe I would never make and more information about a stranger’s rice-and-bean habits than I have about several members of my own family.

That’s the South.

Sometimes “hello” means “hello.”

Sometimes it means, “Walk with me. There’s something you need to know about Bojangles.”