Communication – Snail Trek Blog

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I tried to be invisible as I scoped out the restaurant, a future rendezvous spot with our son’s family. But, as I scanned the menu and the ambiance, the six-foot three, early-30s host spotted me, blowing my cover.

“How many, please?”

“Uh, none. I’m just checking out your restaurant.”

The host’s grin commanded his entire face. I returned an uncomfortable smile.

“So, what do you do when you’re not here?” I vainly tried to normalize my peculiar behavior.

“I work a lot. Fifty hours a week or more.”

The sunlight illuminated his sturdy face, engaging countenance, and a brown mole on his right cheek. His slight accent suggested more of his story. I worked hard to pull it out of him.

Philip of Montenegro

Two years ago, he left his home in Montenegro, a thumbnail of a country carved from the former Yugoslavia. A lead for a restaurant job landed him here, on California’s central coast.

“Philip,” my restaurant host explained, “my name is Philip.”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, concocting a vague geographic connection to his part of the world. “Like Philip of Macedonia, the father of Alexander the Great!”

“I don’t know about that,” he replied, evidently not an ardent fan of historical trivia. “I’m Philip of Montenegro, not Macedonia.”

Because Philip of Montenegro and his wife work hard to cover their nearly $3,000 monthly rent, they plan to migrate into the hotel industry and move to a less expensive area—Phoenix, perhaps. Within fifteen years, he plans to own his own home along with some investment property.

“And then I’ll retire,” he added confidently.

“Whoa!” I gasped, amazed at his tenacity and idealism. “To where?”

“Montenegro, my home!”

“And you know the language!” I gratuitously chimed in.

He grinned broadly.

What is Home?

When Philip of Montenegro eventually retreats to his homeland, he will surrender America and his green card. And leave this gorgeous place in California? I thought to myself.

Like homing pigeons, and like Philip of Montenegro, we can find our way home over vast distances. But when we return to a former home, we carry another sense—the memory of the way things used to be.

What exactly is what we call “home”?

Yes, home can be, usually is, a geographical location. But after returning, we note the growth of vegetation and the altered hues of paint. Despite those changes, is it really what it used to be? Yes, and no. What’s missing?

Forty years later, I returned to the home where I grew up. To my astonishment, the new owner recognized me staring from the street. He invited me inside, proud of the refinements he had made. Freshly installed wooden floors replaced the soft area rugs where we wrestled with Dad. A Pueblo-styled kiva fireplace replaced the cozy nook where I listened to children’s programs on the Grundig vacuum tube radio. The kitchen countertop where I kneaded Swedish rye bread with my mother had disappeared, leaving no hint of the baking bread’s aroma. Things that carried force were antiseptically cleaned away.

Why do we miss home?

What we call “home” is the people rather than the place. I don’t miss the Grundig radio, but I miss the radio stories as marinated in the aroma of Mother’s bread and the taste of her Swedish meatballs. I no longer recall the area rug’s pattern, but I miss Dad’s scratchy stubble and him pinching my belly as we brawled on that floor.

But, if home is the people rather than the place, what is left to us when those dear ones go away? What, then, will become of “home”?

We do not become homeless. Home is not a static place. We don’t return to a place on the map. Rather, our home is moveable. The players have moved on, but we now fill the roles. The same care and love that made home for us, we can now provide for others. Where we now welcome, where we now cook, where we now provide peace to a stranger—that is the place we now call home. We are the caretakers of the caring and cozy places where, years later, others will recall, “Remember who? Remember when?”

“Montenegro!” Philip declared, “is an absolutely beautiful place!”

I’m sure it is. And the comfort we give to those in our own homes also makes them beautiful places.

What We Leave Behind

My curled fingers held one drinking glass and grasped the rim of another. The other hand clenched a used Kleenex tissue and half a dozen Lego bricks. As I left the living room, I placed the drinking glasses in the kitchen sink. Down the hall in my room, I tossed the Legos into their bin and flicked the sticky Kleenex into my bedroom trashcan.

In our house, we exited a room with religious fervor. My mother’s directive was clear: Never leave a room empty-handed. Her decree had sound roots. Hands, she believed, were God’s perfect tool. Their five-fingered design could manage a vast array of objects. As we devoted our hands in unity of purpose, our family could keep the house tidy.

If Mother suspected a protocol violation, her raised voice echoed, “Your hands aren’t empty, are they?” Alerted, I would lunge for a mislaid comic book or snatch an out-of-place plastic model airplane, jam them into my fists and announce, “Oh, no! My hands are full!” Disregarding the ordinance would earn a volley to “tidy up!”—not only the offending room, but the entire house.

Mom, the original efficiency expert, is gone. Her voice now directs angelic hosts in orderly discharge of their heavenly duties. Even today, upon leaving a room, those long-ago adolescent etched-in habits send my empty hands a-twitching—why are my hands empty?

Now, the prevailing winds of age have re-directed me. I’ve grown fond of a newer, contrarian urge. Instead of my take-it-with-me instincts, I now ask myself: “What can I leave behind?” Let me explain.

A squat, thickset man, stooped, chin implanted into his chest, shuffled into the jammed outpatient surgery waiting room. Each movement declared his obvious pain. The other patients in the room monitored him, hoping he would pass them by.

Groaning and perspiring, he paused, rotated like shawarma on a rotisserie, and lowered himself into the chair next to me. The cushion blurted a flatulent protest. Overflowing the chair, his left shoulder leaned into me, his arm draped across mine. Face down, his head rested upon his hands, which rested on his cane. He panted from the exertion of walking. Both his knees bore the heavy scars of replacement surgery. I felt trapped.

Too quickly contemplating how to break the uneasy silence, I blurted, “Hi, what are you here for?” Good grief! You don’t ask that of a man, hobbled with pain, in a medical waiting room! Just shut up!

Head still lowered and resting on his hands, he groaned, “I’m John. I have, um, degenerative disk disease. Terrible pain. Runs the whole length of my back.” He regained his breath and muttered, “Every day, I’m in agony. The pain never lets me go.” He seemed as relieved as I did at the broken silence. “What about you?” he asked, forgiving of my incursion.

Me? His response set me on my heels. I explained I was not a patient, but was here with my wife. We began comparing medical notes. Gradually, we shifted into another far smoother conversational gear. His face, now off his hands and cane, carried a smile. We shared a chuckle together, and then another. We teased. We taunted. We cajoled. Ignoring unease, we pushed back against our differences, away from our discomfort. We made room for one another.

Soon enough, a nurse whisked John down the hallway in a wheelchair. His empty chair’s vinyl seat cushion re-inflated. Mother would have been proud of his departure’s tidiness; nothing left behind.

Or was there, indeed, something he left behind?

After John left, a profound stillness followed. But in the stillness, there was no emptiness. Something different and fresh lingered—the gifts that John left behind. The gift of a welcoming spirit. A gift of grace. Unexpected joy.

And he left behind a question for me to consider. Which is more important—what we take away with us, or what we leave behind for others?

The List Makers

General George “Old Blood and Guts” Patton, the foulmouthed, super-egotistical, hyper-combustible hero of the Battle of the Bulge, had a problem. Yes, he had created the plan that could turn the battle, and ultimately World War II around in the Allies favor. But success depended on getting his Air Force off the ground. Day after day the weather had his planes socked in. At that moment, they weren’t going anywhere. But Patton had a secret weapon, which we now know as Patton’s Prayer, his wish list to the Almighty:

“All I’m asking for is four days of ‘clear weather.’ Consent to give me as Your gift four days of blue sky, so that my airplanes can take off, hunt, bomb, find their goals and annihilate them. Give me four days so that this mud can harden; allow my trucks to roll along and supply provisions and ammunition for my infantry which needs it urgently.”

As we now know, Patton’s wish list was fulfilled. The Battle of the Bulge was an Allied turning point in winning the war.

We are all list makers, though perhaps of a more modest nature than Patton’s ambitious, win-the-war prayer list. Who has not scribbled homework assignments or hastily jotted phone numbers on the back side of hands or along forearms, only to have that all-important number, the path to a possible love connection, dissolve beneath sweat and grime?

My seventh grade biology teacher began each class session slowly, thoughtfully, deliberately. His Louisiana drawl was so thick he chewed his words on their way out. He squeezed his words like the last thick goo from a rolled up toothpaste tube. “Oh, baah thu waay, did y’all remember to brang yur notebooooks?” Of course we all “brang” our notebooks. Since our teacher declined issuing textbooks for the entire year of biology class, we were obliged to take notes from his daily verbal recitations. Gradually, we filled our notebooks, our de facto textbooks, with these lessons. They contained the entire year’s syllabus, the interminable listing of phylum and sub-phylum, genus and species. Headings begat subheadings and sub-subheadings, tabulated lists and sublists of my seventh grade biology.

That was when I recognized that I suffered from LMD, “List Maker Disorder,” acquired while surviving my seventh grade biology class.

My friend has a severe case of LMD. He has a Rolodex, that ancient rotating index card holder that contains the names of people we should not forget. Unusually, my friend’s Rolodex is is not made of card stock. Instead, it is deep inside his head, tucked away in his brain’s memory. My friend performs hourlong daily prayer walks, during which he draws out from his Rolodex memory the list of those he intends to pray for. I’ve accompanied him on those walks; he never runs out of names.

Quite by accident, I recently tumbled across another kindred LMD spirit. A neighbor’s father had stopped by our house for a quick visit. Upon exiting, he spun around, and, quick as a wasp sting, he pulled a folded, creased paper from the satchel slung over his shoulder and presented it to me as a “thank you” gesture. Across the top, he had hand-scrawled “Luciano Pavarotti (1935-2007)”. Below, numbered and annotated, he had listed dozens of the titles of opera singer Pavarotti’s recordings, jamming the paper’s full width. When I spied “Nessus Dorma,” it triggered my mouth to snap open, a mouse trap triggered in reverse. With our next full breath, my visiting neighbor and I struck out boldly in unison, bellowing our own unrehearsed tenor-voiced version of the song. When we ran out of words, we continued, ad libbing our “la-la-la” arrangement. What had just happened? Two list-makers had discovered one another’s orbits.

Some lists reflect the view at 30,000 feet, ordering the world in widescreen gorgeous IMAX clarity. The valued lives of people, the things and activities of life claim their places within this world view, the kind of list with impressive perspective and purpose. Other lists are born in the sediment, the grime of the mundane, each element consisting of equal, uninspiring weight. They offer neither clarity, inspiration nor purpose. They are the most forgettable sorts of lists.

The lists we make reflect the values of those who create the list. Whether Patton’s request for battle victory, obligatory notes ordering facts and knowledge, prayer lists for beloved family and friends, or the splurge of capturing beauty for pure joy, we are all list makers. If well compiled, they can help to keep our heads on straight, our hearts aligned, and our walk upright.

One Before Me, One Behind Me

“Ahead and behind wound the line of the hungry…”
—Morro Bay, California © 2023 Craig Dahlberg

My exterminator paraded the last fallen warrior of The Rat Wars through our bedroom, its limp body dangling from its long naked tail, head thoroughly flattened by the steel spring of the rat trap—a real ratastrophy. The pelt was surprisingly clean, a brown body with a white fur mask across the face. I wondered how large a garment a skilled taxidermist might have fashioned from all the deceased rats retrieved from my attic. Rat hides collected, preserved with salt and expertly sewn together—why not rat fur gloves or a rat fur scarf? A handsome pair of rat fur socks, perhaps?

When cornered or trapped, neither humans nor rats do very well. We all look for a way out. Like my unsuspecting rats, I had gradually backed into a trap of my own making. Reared in a conservative, rule-following family, I had learned well how to color between the lines. Armed with correct manners and a conformed instinct to please, by high school I was reliably prepared to enter a boys’ boarding school, far from home. Along with my eleven other classmates, we learned the standard high school subjects, but at an accelerated rate. During winter, we had but to step out of our dormitory and ski down the mountain, then take the funicular back up the mountain. We were boys then, turning into men, far away from the girls who were turning into women.

Returning stateside after attending the boarding school abroad, I enrolled in an affluent high school with a challenging and emotionally disruptive social scene. The ratio of automobile-owning teenagers to the high school teen population was nearly one-to-one. Girls draped themselves into the cockpits of Corvette convertibles piloted by their pimply-faced, steady boyfriends. Heavily modified Ford Mustangs snarled out of the student parking lot. I was an outsider. I crawled into the nearly-empty yellow school bus, staring out the window in consternation, ready to be transported to my silent home, punctuated perhaps by a family-centric TV show—Mitch Miller and his band, or Lawrence Welk’s drone to his orchestra, “And a one, and a two!” How conservative. How comfortable. How stifling.

It was a confusing, baffling time, made more so after plotting for six months to ask a girl out on my very first date. I was shot down with the most pedestrian of explanations: “I’m busy that night.” I backed so far into my rat hole that a Rat Hole Safety Inspector would have required the installation of a breathing ventilation tube.

And then—Lord have mercy—came college. With it would come the specter of more teenage wraiths mutating into young adults, with me looking on, locked away by fear, silence and envy.

Three times each day, at precise intervals, the college dormitories belched out their inhabitants, who joined the winding, rapidly-lengthening cafeteria line. I would wriggle myself uncomfortably into the line, managing my discomfort by staring at the blank tile-covered, creme-colored wall, silently calculating the total quantity of shiny ceramic tiles, as if on a divine mission.

Ahead and behind wound the line of hungry students, a serpentine row along the stairway running through me, then past me, up toward the top of the stairway. Young women with side-swept hair bobs wore pink, orange and citrus green mini-skirts. For the college-age men, it was mop-top hair, extended sideburns and wispy mustaches, paisley shirts and bell-bottom trousers. Teetering on the steps, I hugged the hand rail. Gradually, we came within sniffing range of the standard-fare shepherd’s pie as we rounded the corner to the cafeteria.

I was acrophobic, balancing on one step, fearful to look at the next person in line behind me. Nonetheless, I shot a glance toward her downward-facing head. Unexpectedly, she glanced up at me. I was galled. Good grief. What to do? It was too late to look away. “Hi,” I muttered, confounded that was all I could come up with. What was wrong with me?

That night, my churning stomach made little progress against the shepherd’s pie. I desperately needed a way out of my painful introversion and self-imposed social exile.

I concocted a Grand Scheme.

What do you do when folks within the smell of your breath smile at you, ask your name, and express genuine interest in your story? The answer is simple—probably you smile back at them, ask their name, and ask about their own story. In so doing, I would weaponize my Grand Scheme.

The next day, I again stood in the cafeteria line, one person before me, one person behind me. The same conflict burned—what to say? What to do? But this day, I had promised myself, things would be different. I again half-turned my head to the one student before me and the one student behind me. And this time, I heard myself exchanging names, and listening to their stories as we wound up the dining hall stairway.

And so the Grand Scheme began. I learned the names and stories of two students in each meal line, the one ahead and the one behind me in line, three meals each day. Like a fledgling the first time out of its nest, I discovered a bigger world, and my life gradually transformed from inward isolation to outward-focused engagement.

As with all great discoveries, I was ruined for the past; I could not go back. To this day, the Grand Scheme lives on. These many decades later, I still happily enjoy the effects of this single decision—to attend to the One Before Me, and to attend to the One Behind Me.

Mind the Gap

The street troubadour resurrected familiar songs of bygone days. He lobbed his songs to anyone who would stop long enough to lend an ear and hopefully send a tip his way. As I listened, his melodies floated across the gap of the long-abandoned trolly tracks to his audience, a solitary street person, his music bridging the gap between them.

The British have a delightful cautionary expression, “Mind the Gap!” It reminds passengers to watch out for the space between commuter train doors and the station platform. Pay attention! Put your brain into it! Not doing do so could alter—or end—your life! So, pay attention to the space around you!

Our musician friend Minded this train track Gap. His music created a bridge across the space, the Gap between him and his vagabond neighbor.

There are many “Gaps to be Minded” that appear everywhere in each of our lives. How well do we manage to “Mind the Gap”?

Fishermen Mind the Gap between the stream banks. Investors Mind the Gap between deposits and withdrawals. Students Mind the Gap between their efforts and their grades.

Here’s a bit of a strange Gap: dogs and their owners. Dog lovers must attest, at least occasionally, to cradle their faithful canine friend’s muzzle in hand, stroke her fuzzy head, peer deeply, deeply into her eyes and wonder, “I love her. Does she think about me, love me? Are our brains synchronized in some sort of Gap-Bridging brain-bond? Is she starting to think like I think? To desire what I desire? Can the two of us bridge the gap between human and animal understanding? Yes! She “gets” me! But then, suddenly, she breaks free from my eye-stare and my head-scratching grasp, yielding to baser doggy instincts, licking herself in all of “those” places, and I realize that, well—all my imagined meditations of human-to-animal societal breakthrough were just that—imagined. Minding the Gap between human and animal will wait for a more practiced Gap-Minder.

There are other more significant reasons to “Mind the Gap.” Children try to figure their parents out. Parents try to figure their children out. Cross-generations have a difficult time of it! How to cross over those blasted Gaps!

What about the friends we value so highly—yet with whom we can easily get askew? Gaps can appear even in these closest of friendships. How do we Mind these Gaps?

And now, the risky one—Minding the Gap with a spouse. There appears to be an unmistakeable “Je ne sais quoi” difference between a man and a woman—a distinct difference in perception, evaluation, activity and verbal skills. These distinctive traits are delightful and invigorating at times, confusing and frustrating at other times. Early on, with infatuation in full bloom, this Gap is small, seemingly insignificant, but if “Unminded,” the Gap can grow with the years, until the Gap is challenging to cross over. Eventually, quarreling, disrespect and indifference can find a home in this Gap, leading to who-knows-what outcomes. Counselors of various stripes may be employed to help us Mind these Gaps and Mend these Gaps.

Minding the biggest Gap of all is, in fact, the one that we might try to dance around. It’s not a Gap like the distance to the moon, or to the sun, or to a distant galaxy. Even talking into my dog’s brain is a piece of cake—or a piece of doggie treat—in comparison to this Gap.

I refer to the Mankind/God Gap. This is an oil-and-water thing. Stir them as we might, this Mankind and God Gap never really mix. We’re not God. He’s not us. What to do?

There’s a weird way forward, and it’s a big mystery at that. To bridge this Gap, it turns out that Moses had a sort of chatbox to God, like a computer creates an interface, an accessibility. Moses’ chatbox was a means of entry into God’s thoughts and language. Imagine that. Able to hear directly from the Almighty.

Moses’ chatbox wasn’t virtual; it was real, happening in real time. The Moses chatbox thing worked like this. Moses would go into the Tabernacle, a place where he would tune in to, and listen to God. We are told that in that place, in that particular space, something spectacular happened: “Between the two cherubim—the place of atonement. The Lord spoke to him there.”¹

A pretty amazing event. Truly amazing.

Sometimes when I’m at home alone, I’ll look down the driveway to be sure there’s really no one else around. Then I’ll enter the house and turn up my favorite music really, really loud, until the walls vibrate. I suppose that’s what it must have been like for Moses, Minding the Gap, listening, in that special place. In that space, the Voice between the cherubim must have really flapped the walls of that Tabernacle tent.

I would love to have heard it.

I wonder if that Voice could happen again. Perhaps turn down that volume a bit, and then a bit more, until the music fades away. And then, listen. Just listen and Mind the Gap.

¹ Numbers 7:89

Autism Speaks

There’s a catchy autism awareness bumper sticker I see around town; maybe you’ve seen it, too. It says, “Autism Speaks.”

It’s a catchy phrase because I’ve experienced that frustrating non-verbal characteristic of autism. I’ve never had a conversation with my 10-year-old grandson who has autism. The non-conversation is not because we’re never in the same room, and it’s not because we don’t love each other. It’s because of autism. As a youngster, Levi enjoyed the monosyllabic language any typical two-year old utters. In the garden, his hair scrambled and sticking out as if electrified, he would point and proudly call out, “Bird! Bird!” just like his father had at that age, many years before. Stumbling forward, eyes wide, he would seek out another bird to practice his language on. Other words emerged, appearing just as his small-person personality was beginning to bud and to bloom.

But then, gradually, like a weighted blanket drawn over part of his brain, his communication gradually quieted, then nestled into numbness. Slowly as the tide retreats, the silence gathered, and eventually, without fanfare, Levi just stopped speaking. Mysteriously, something in his brain stopped the typical synchronization with the fresh-blossoming world around him, and the silence moved in.

Autism is a strange thief, picking and choosing different skills to manipulate in different brains. The boy who lives with his mother two doors down the street suffers from a kind of autism with no “Off” switch. Their house is a museum display of a mind that cannot turn off, autistic developmental history scrawled onto ruined walls with crayons and magic markers. His is a brain possessing a limitless mania to disassemble pieces of electronics that were previously functional, and an unending requirement to express language like an open faucet with a broken valve. Or, more accurately, controlling his need to communicate is like trying to turn back Niagara Falls.

Contrast him again with our Levi, absent of the ability to generate any conversation at all. When energetically prompted, yes, he can repeat words, but they hold little meaning for him. They are learned behaviors, empty containers to comply with one-word instructions of those around him. Birds on the wing no longer speak to his soul.

Yet Levi is happy. He expresses gratefulness through body language. He has learned to hug! He rolls upon our bed, over and over, enjoying the exquisite softness of the bed covers. When he takes a shower, there is no stream too strong or too long to satisfy his love for water. And he laughs, oh, can he laugh, great belly laughs that contaminate a room with joy.

Is his autism at times discouraging? Yes. Hopeless? No.

Many years ago, when Team Jesus rolled into town, it was like nothing else anyone had ever witnessed.* A team of modern-day medical experts could not have done better. It was not really a three-ring healing circus. It was a One-Man show, with Jesus in the center ring, the other rings empty save for those needing his healing service. As the gospel song testifies, “Jesus on the mainline (—in this case, the center ring—) tell him what you want.”

The lame? Zap! Done. Walking again.

The blind? Biff! No problem. Vision restored.

Crippled folks? Boom! All those in attendance leave this meeting under their own power.

Those who couldn’t speak? Hurrah! Words given, conversation gained.

Wait a minute…”those who couldn’t speak”? That’s autism! Jesus recovered speech for the autistic? But back in the day, there was no such disease diagnosed as “autism.” Yet it happened.

No one knows exactly how autism works, where it comes from, or what triggers it. But I understand autism just a bit because I confess that I, too, have “it,” autism, that is.

I have the kind of autism that robs that part of my brain of certain kinds of speech. It’s the autism-like cloaked part of my brain that takes kindness for granted and does not show enough gratitude to the grocery clerk or the waiter or the neighbor. It’s the part of my brain that does not say, “I love you,” to those dearest to me. It’s the part of my brain that does not thank for my health, for my bank account, for this day, for the sun. And yes, it’s the part of my brain and my soul that expresses little gratitude for the song and the flight of the bird, bird, bird.

Indeed, autism is a spectrum, with great variation of effect. And a great variation of lessons to be learned.

So there’s hope for us all, wherever on the spectrum because, well, we have got to believe, we cannot forget—we must say it aloud—that all things are yet possible.

For surely, Autism Can Speak and Does Speak to us all.

*Matthew 15:29–39

Communications Revolution

There’s just one word that describes the latest communications methodology: stunning.

This new advance offers a social media platform that is transformative, without depending upon any underlying technology. Breathtaking, really.

Two blocks down from author Jen Hatmaker’s residence in Buda, Texas, the Buda Soda Fountain is not where you would expect to find this awesome technology. Yet there it is, operating from this humble business since long before the creation of Apple and Microsoft. But there is no Internet data to purchase, no setup charge, and never a need to call tech support.

Amazingly, there are no devices—of any kind—needed to get this system to work. No laptop, no smartphone, no Wi-Fi.

To give this system a thorough test, Jackie and grandson, Linus, sat down together with this amazing invisible technology at the Buda Soda Fountain. Prior to the test, the TSA searched them for any hidden technology designed to cheat this experiment.

To my consternation, the experiment worked brilliantly! Yes, you heard me correctly; I witnessed it! There they were, communicating with each other without any apparent technology!

First, using his mouth, Linus would speak directly to Jackie—in perfectly intelligible words. She would listen, and then, apparently understanding what he said, she would utter her response back to him—in real time! They continued this interaction repeatedly, over and over and over again, and—I repeat—it worked without a glitch or hiccup, using no visible electronic equipment!

In addition to communicating words, this killer technology offers amazing color rendition. It blew away Apple’s cutting edge Super Retina screen display technology. Check out the vibrant shade of bluish-green. Simply unreal! Again, no visible technology was employed! This is real-time communication using real-world rays of light!

Apparently, the eventual goal is to bring this awesome real-as-life technology to other universally-accessible soda shops, dining tables or living rooms that are available to both you and me. Amazing!

It’s a right-on-time, not-available-at-your-local-store technology that could radically change our world.

Flat Man

I recently heard it put something like this: Men would rather stand shoulder-to-shoulder, together watching the ripples formed by fishing lures cast into a lake. Or cram snacks as they watch a football game on the big screen.

Women, however, would rather be face-to-face, recounting together their experiences of the day, of the week, of the year—-events and times that men cannot even recall whether they were alive.

Many men have a remarkable ability to remain flat. Flat, when occupied with sports. Flat, when relating the events of their workday. Flat when asked to tend to the trash. Flat while silently sorting fleeting thoughts. Like a flounder on the ocean floor, they possess such flatness as to blend in with their surroundings, given away only by their unblinking eyes.

When a woman takes a selfie next to a picture of a giant, flat man, she gains an advantage. For that moment, she can imagine the man in the picture as something that he is not: that he is not flat.

Intimate Conversation

Restaurant conversation. Ojai, CA

Analog Smartphone

For many centuries before the advent of digital smartphones with their conversation-restricting this-is-my-private-world ambiance, there was another silence-inducing pastime—the analog world of card-play, where strategy is everything, and silence is to be respected. Apparently, at this breakfast table at least, the new gives way to the very old. But at least the silence is broken by an occasional, “It’s your turn,” instead of the jangle of The Lone Ranger-themed electronic ringtone. Ahhh.