Posted in listening

The art of interrupting

Posted on by William Douthwaite

We all need to work on being better listeners. There are many resources to help you become a better listener. I’ve read them, practiced and strive to be a better listener.

But I’ve also had to work on being a good interrupter.

I spend time visiting older men and women who don’t get out much, who don’t have many people to talk to, who we classify as “homebound.” We no longer call them “shut-ins.” No one likes that descriptor.

Anyway, when I stop by to visit, it’s a chance for them to talk. Many homebound folks have mastered the art of talking with no periods. That is, every statement, every thought, every story is followed by a comma or semicolon, leading to the next story, thought or statement.

Let me give you an example.

“When my brother came to visit me last week…he’s from Ohio, the town where we grew up…it wasn’t a big town…my mom and dad met there at the church my grandfather built…the church only had five members when they started…my grandfather used to live out in the country but moved into town when the new factory opened…a factory that fabricated sheet metal…it was a real good job…most of my brothers worked there…my one brother met his wife there…she worked in the office, handling orders…the orders would come in from all over…she worked the switchboard, too…until they changed phone companies…I don’t get many phone calls now…my son said we get too many sales calls…I don’t really buy much any more…I remember when my aunt would take me into the city to go shopping…I don’t know if that trolley is running any more…”

You have to listen. Nod and smile. An occasional “oh?” And sometimes, “Really?” They have all the time in the world. You have a few other folks to visit.

What do you do? What will you do?

First, just be patient. Just listen. Someday you will relish those moments when someone comes to visit you. Pay it forward.

Second, be present. Just listen. You’ve gained entrance into a live well-lived. Learn from their experience and narration. You’ll be better for it.

Third, catch a word. “Factory.” “Brother.” “Trolley.” Catch a word and make it part of your own sentence. Step into the conversation. Hop on board.

Their words are the wave you want to catch. You’re listening but also riding the wave. You direct the conversation to the moment, the present and that place.

“I remember my mom taking me to ride the trolley…I’ll bet you miss getting out and around…”

“Tell me about your brother…”

You can ask questions that subtly take control of the conversation and bring a visit to an end. Yes, everything has a beginning and an end. That’s OK.

There is an art to interrupting. Listen carefully. Listen carefully for an opening. Listen carefully for that opening that will fill the emptiness in their lives. Be blessed by the conversations that fill your soul, too.

Posted in memories

Bench-clearing brawl

Posted on by William Douthwaite

As I walked into the chapel, the gloves came off and fists started flying before the funeral began.

I must have been feeling unusually compassionate when the funeral home called and asked if I could do a service in their chapel for a local family. I don’t often do this for folks I don’t know, but this time I did.

I visited the family to learn something about their suddenly deceased father. His had been a blended marriage. But the adult children on each side didn’t get along at all.

No kidding. Snarky remarks began as soon as each side found seats in the front row on opposite sides of the room. Each comment was just a little louder and a little more abrasive than the last. One, then another stood up to make an accusation. If one pointed a finger, another pointed more vigorously. The shouting parties inched closer to each other. A hand gesture brushed an arm. The hand was angrily pushed away. A shoulder was shoved. A slap was attempted. A closed fist was raised. Yelled insults became screamed expletives.

As I watched from the back of the room, all the sons and daughters and a few spouses were on their feet, mobbed together in front of the open casket, pushing, shoving, punching and shouting. A few of the larger funeral directors finally stepped in and restored order, but not before one whole side of the family stormed out the door.

When the room had quieted, the head director looked at me and said, “OK, they’re all yours!”

Posted in memories, Stories

The other side of Gabriel

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Don Agnello on Unsplash

A low gutteral growl. A show of teeth and a lunge. A cry of terror. Gabriel had him pinned up against the wall!

I never knew he had it in him.

I’ve written about Gabriel before. When Lisa and I moved to Baltimore for my vicarage, we stopped in Ridley Park to pick up my Labrador retriever Gabriel who had been living with my dad for two years. I couldn’t have a dog in the seminary dorm, so we let him chase squirrels around the yard with my dad’s dog Barney.

Gabriel was solid, mild mannered, a great swimmer and a champion ball retriever. I never imagined him to be much of a guard dog. Although when anyone sees you walking or running with a large dog, they do tend to give you some extra room.

I’m pretty sure it was our first day in Baltimore. We pulled up to our house at the end of the row next door to the church. After a quick stop in the yard, we brought Gabe in. We didn’t think much of the man repairing the lock on the side door. Neither did Gabe, and he let the guy know it. He rushed him with fierce barking, angry teeth and his best “you better get your butt out of here” growl. The poor guy backed up to the wall with a look of terror on his face as I pulled Gabe away. I had never seen this side of him before!

But it was a blessing. Word got around about the big dog in the house and no one ever really bothered us. Except all the neighborhood kids who wanted to run around the yard with him. Once, when my wife had gone grocery shopping, she had him sit in the doorway as she carried in the bags. A stranger offered to help her, but took one look at Gabe and changed his mind.

Good dog!

Posted in flash fiction, Stories

Scavenger

Posted on by William Douthwaite

She would never forget.

She would never forget how life had stripped away every song, every feather and every freedom.

She would never forget how she became a scavenger. Just like him.

The restaurant closed. Unemployment ran out. The stimulus was spent.

The lights were on. The water ran. The rent was paid. But that’s it.

It’s amazing what you can find if you look. A discarded Visa gift card with $2.71 left on it. A mattress, bookshelf, chair, lamp, coffee maker and carpet remnant by the side of the road. A neighbor’s Wi-Fi without a password. A bag of clothes outside an overstuffed donation bin. A gel pen by the side of the road. Half-used spiral notebooks, half-full shampoo bottles, half-read books and half of a pizza out by the road in front of a cleaned-out house. The Gideon gave her a bible. The pastor gave her a few bags of food. Lightly-used toys by the curb became gifts for the nieces and nephews. Free samples at Costco, even if you don’t buy anything. A free Krispy Kreme donut because she got the vaccine.

That was a rough year. Until the restaurant reopened. The customers came back. The hours were long. The tips were especially generous. They remembered her. They understood.

Her car wasn’t fancy, but it got her there. She sang along to the radio. The lights were on. The water ran. The rent was paid. She brought a bag of food for the food pantry. She donated some extra clothes. She bought a few things at Costco. She bought a coffee to go with her free donut.

But she would never forget. Every time she glanced in the rearview mirror, she would see his bones.

And she would remember.

Posted in Stories

Notes from the lawn guy

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I’ve had the same lawn service for over ten years. They spray stuff on my yard once a month to keep it green and free of bugs and weeds. For the most part they do a pretty good job. The lawn guy always leaves me an amusing report about his visit. Here are a few of their comments:

“I noticed some broadleaf weeds in your yard today.” Good. That’s what I pay you guys for.

“Don’t overwater your lawn.” Dude, we just had a hurricane blow through and dump twenty inches of rain. You’re talking to the wrong guy.

“I noticed your lawn needs water.” Trust me, I know. It hasn’t rained for about six weeks. And I am not about to pay the city for the amount of water it would take to keep the lawn green.

“I knocked on your door today.” Yeah, thanks. You woke up Cujo (our brown dog) who woke up our sleeping grandchild and wanted to break through the window and have you for lunch and dinner.

“I moved the toys off the lawn before treating.” How nice! I appreciate that!

“I made sure to close the gate.” You rock!

Seriously, they do a pretty good job. I am rarely home when they come. For the most part my lawn is green and weed free. Thanks!

Posted in Stories

Protection

Posted on by William Douthwaite

So we leashed up the dogs, put on sunglasses, grabbed a couple of blue poop bags, and headed out to take the dogs for a long walk on a hot afternoon. Within minutes, we met our neighbors from a few houses up pushing a stroller containing a precious great-grandchild.

One neighbor was carrying a well-made, tapered, three-foot long rod. “What’s that?” I asked.

She replied, “I use it to beat off the animals who come at me.”

Oh. That’s interesting. A little disturbing, too. I’ve lived on this block for twenty-five years. I don’t think I’ve ever been threatened by any kind of animal. But she’s lived here longer than me. What has she encountered?

A stray dog? Could happen. Once in a while one gets out. I usually call them over, pet them, check their collar, put a leash on them, and walk them home.

A cat? They’re around. Usually sleeping under someone’s car. My dog is always interested. They never attack but run away when I yell, “Kittykittykittykittykitty.”

A rat? My neighbor says they live down by the drainage ditch. I’ve never seen one.

A bobcat? We all have stories about the time we saw a bobcat. They are rare, stealthy and usually run away.

A diving hawk? They perch on the telephone poles, watching for snakes in the grass. They’ve dived towards me.

Oh, a snake? Maybe. I see more dead ones than alive. Or a snake skin on the road.

A black bear? Some Florida neighborhoods have them. None around here that I know of.

Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I’m brave! Maybe I can run fast. Maybe the neighborhood wildlife fear me and my brown dog.

I do not own a protective stick.

Posted in Stories

Never too old, I guess.

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“There’s one. Grab it.”

My two year old granddaughter bend down to pick up a small twig, adding it to a fistful she would add to the fire pit at our campsite.

As we wandered down the path, past trailers, fifth-wheels, RVs, and a few tents, we happened by a guy sitting on a stump, playing a banjo. Nothing recognizable, but his notes that made us stop and watch and listen for a moment.

He nodded, smiled, and asked, “Is that your daughter or granddaughter?”

I chuckled. “Granddaughter.”

“You never know. My brother’s sixty-three; he and his girl just had a baby.”

I chuckled again. (I’m sixty-three.) I wondered out loud, “Can you imagine starting out at that age?”

This time, he shook his head, smiled and said, “Y’all enjoy.”

“There’s one.” She grabbed it and we headed back to our campsite. Almost time to kindle our fire.

Posted in Stories

Dead or alive?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

“If you ever see a dead possum on your front doorstep…”

Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I see them in the road, just a step too slow to avoid traffic. I’ve seen their eyes aglow on the side of the road, staring down my headlights. According to some, it’s a good omen. Others say it’s a threat.

There is no way this possum had a heart attack or succumbed to COVID-19 or cashed in his chips right here outside my office door. Is this some kind of joke? Is someone trying to send me a message?

A dead fish on your doorstep means you will be killed. In the Godfather, a dead horse’s head in the bed was an offer you couldn’t refuse. A dead squirrel means you need more balance in your life. A dead bird is a sign of change and renewal. If you dream about a dead mouse, supposedly someone close to you is experiencing difficulty.

Or maybe he’s “playing possum.” He should be good at it. Pretending to be dead. A defense strategy to deter a predator. He saw me coming. He panicked. Instinct kicked in. He keeled over. Dead.

I grabbed a broom and swept him into the yard. Never saw him again.

Dead. Or alive?

Posted in senses, Stories

Silence was here.

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash

For a brief moment this morning, I felt her presence. Silence was in the room.

The sky just beginning to lighten. The air conditioner is off. No one else is awake yet. No ice is falling in the freezer. The birds have not yet begun their song. The air is still. No cars pass by.

She rarely stops by. She never stays long.

Caffeine rings in my ear. My neck crunches when I move my head. My stomach rumbles. Is it time for breakfast? My pen scratches the paper. I reach for my coffee mug; my shoulder pops.

The dog breathes. A bird sings. A car drives by. The thermostat clicks. The air conditioner blows.

Silence was here. Now she’s gone.