Talking to Strangers
Joe: At the end of September Fern and I drove up to Lake Okoboji for the Writers’ retreat that’s held there annually.
Fern: The retreat was a huge success. Thanks to the indefatigable Julie Gammack. She asked me to join the Iowa Writers Collaborative Substack about two years ago. I was leery. Hey, I’ve written enough. But Julie never lets anyone say no to her.
Joe: And you asked me to join you in writing – thinking what . . . you wanted my voice?
Fern: I thought it would be fun. You’re busier than I in retirement. You could have said no.
Joe: When do I ever say no to you?
Fern: I’ll think of something by the end of the column.
Anyway being at Iowa’s Lake Okoboji was a fun gig. We led discussions about story and humor. And about how it is to write together.
Joe: Seeing as we’re retired creative writing professors, we’ve been doing this so long we can finish each other’s sentences. Well, truth be told – you’ve been finishing my sentences since we met.
Fern: You’re a slow talker.
Joe: I like to think before I speak.
Fern: The drive to the lake was beautiful in late September. End of summer but everything was still so green and golden. My scientist friend says that Iowa is a great place to be when the shit hits the fan. This month really proved that. I’m thankful we didn’t retire to Florida.
Joe: The beauty of the land is deceptive, of course. We tend to forget that Iowa is pretty much a monoculture; those fields of corn are for making ethanol. You look at such bounteous land and forget there are food banks in Iowa. And Dollar Stores. And decaying main streets.
Fern: But I think we saw only two Trump signs?
Joe: Three counting the one flag. But nothing like what we saw driving around Iowa just a few years ago.
Fern: The sun was still warm and the water sparkled, but Lake Okoboji changes in off-season. The wealthy lake people with the big homes and boat docks had left. Roads were empty. Restaurants were closed. A lot the cleanup crew, the construction workers and those staffing the fast-food places were immigrants.
Joe: Like those three boys you were talking to when we stopped at McDonalds for ice cream?
Fern: A white kid, a brown kid with an accent and a very tall, skinny boy who was as black as could be. Sudanese? Haitian? Probably from a place he was lucky to have left.
Joe: Three teenaged boys, minding their own business and you start a conversation. You’ll talk to anyone.
Fern: That’s funny. This month, it was my turn to make the pick for book club. I chose Talking to Strangers, by Malcolm Gladwell. The book jacket says that “ . . . because we don’t know how to talk to strangers, we are inviting conflict and misunderstanding in ways that have a profound effect on our lives and our world.”
Joe: Right up your alley.
Fern: I like to talk to strangers.
Joe: Your mom did, too. I remember when we stayed with your parents in Florida that she knew that the washing machine repairman was in AA and that his wife had left him.
Fern: My mom once told me that the kid who carried her groceries to the car was getting married rather than going to college because his girlfriend was pregnant. When I asked how she knew that, she said that the parking lot at Publix was crowded that day. Her car was far away, so they had time to talk.
Joe: How did you begin talking to those kids in McDonalds? Did you ask them what was good there?
Fern: First I asked them if they live at Okoboji all year round. And if they liked it when the town emptied out. I asked if they were in school. The white kid told me, almost apologetically, that he wasn’t any longer. He had dropped out and now was in the National Guard and would get his GED. I said, ”Well, good for you,” reminding him that Tim Walz who was running for Vice-president was in the National Guard. Then I asked if he was registered to vote.
Joe: You’re shameless.
Fern: Every vote counts. Especially in Iowa.
The tall, Black kid did something unusual. I mean unusual for a teenager talking to a seventy-eight year-old woman in McDonalds. He extended his hand for me to shake and said quite formally, “Hello, my name is Sam. It is very good to meet you. ”
Joe: I was sitting off to the side, but he walked over and shook hands with me, too. I couldn’t help feeling he was making a point. “Haitians eating dogs” was still fresh in the headlines that week. And his handshake, speaking his name, was a way of telling a stranger, “Do you see how I have been lied about? I am a person, like you.”
Fern: I told Sam that I had trouble selecting an ice cream sundae on the customer order screen because I wanted both caramel and chocolate fudge.
He said: “I can help you. My grandma. She has trouble with these machines as well.”
Joe: I just realized something about talking to strangers. It’s easy for you because you assume strangers would want to talk to you.
Fern: Of course. There’s that and the belief that everyone has a story. I used to like talking to people on planes. Just to hear their stories.
Joe: Not everyone can tell theirs.
Fern: True. We both know from years of teaching that some very fine writers have not yet found their thing to write. Others have powerful stories, but not the skills to tell them.
This was back when I was travelling a lot and before people had ear-buds and phones that cut them off from human contact. Often someone would begin. Ask me a question. Like: Why was I going to Cleveland?
And I’d say I was going to a writer’s conference or I was on a book tour.
My seatmate would be interested. “Oh, so you’re a writer?”
And after a couple of minutes of chit-chat, my seatmate – who was a math teacher or an optometrist or a funeral director would confess that they had a story to tell: “You know when I retire, I’d like to write a book, ” they’d say.
I’d nod encouragingly. Like sure, anyone could write a book. Sometimes I felt like saying, “And when I retire, I think I’ll do a little brain surgery.”
Joe: I never talk to anyone on a plane. Good grief.
Fern: Hey, I just thought of when you said no to me. Actually, it was yesterday morning when I was bringing up our winter clothes from the basement. And your vests. Why do you have so many vests? I was making give-away piles. You know, there are a lot of poor men who would like a comfy winter vest. But you said no. You were not giving away any of your vests. So here’s a picture of the evidence. Ridiculous.
You 2 are a hoot! Great stories.
I can almost hear you talking. You make me smile!