Although my hearing isn’t perfect, I’m a good listener.
Of course that doesn’t mean I always pay attention. I admit sometimes I daydream a little.
My dad was quite a raconteur. Most of his stories were spellbinding. But sometimes he’d explain at length why he bought a 50 cent clamp instead of the cheaper model. My mom and brother would scurry for the exits. But I’d sit through the whole story. It’s not often a boy gets 20 uninterrupted minutes to think about scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup final.
My brother is a lot like my dad. He tells great stories and is smart as a whip. But, truth be known, when he’s delineating the finer points of particle physics and string theory, I’m busy singing the Captain Crunch song in my head.
Sorry Jay.
Mind you, occasionally people who appear not to be listening have a legitimate excuse. Take my mom for instance. She’s a bit hard of hearing. A while back, I was visiting her at the seniors home.
“Ray, could you go to the dining room and find out what we’re having for supper?”
I returned a few minutes later, “You’re having orchard chicken.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible! I’ve never heard for anything so mean in my life. Tortured chicken!”
“Um, no mom, that’s ORCHARD chicken.”
“Oh. But what on Earth is the difference between orchard and regular chicken. Is it how the chickens are dressed?
“Yes, ma’am. Orchard chickens wear formal ball gowns and tiaras and their rooster husbands wear tuxedos and top hats.”
I’ve had a few embarrassing moments of my own. I especially remember going to see the rock opera Tommy with my girlfriend. When Tina Turner started her number, I sang along. But I didn’t quite know the words:
“I’m a dipstick. An asset queen.”
“A dipstick?” she laughed. “You mean gypsy! And what on Earth is an asset queen?”
“I don’t know. A bookkeeper?”
“Tina Turner! An accountant?”
She continued mocking me for quite some time. But I didn’t mind. I was too busy hitting a grand slam homer and winning the World Series for the Expos.
About a year ago I decided to try my hand at painting. As a fan of native art, I thought I’d try the West Coast style. A few days later I showed my tentative efforts to mom.
“What kind of art is that?”
“It’s Haida”
“Yes, I’d hide it too if I were you.”
“Mom, are you teasing me?”
“Honey, Haida art takes an enormous amount of talent. Maybe you should start with something a little easier.”
“Such as?”
“How about paint by numbers?”
A few days later, I was watering Mom’s plants and asked, “How about letting me arrange the flowers so they have more symmetry.”
“But I don’t want it to look like a cemetery,” she responded plaintively.
I stopped for a moment to consider what had been on mom’s mind lately. Then I popped into her bathroom to put the flowers in a vase. Unfortunately, I clumsily knocked off some of the petals.
“Oh my, wrecked ‘em!”
“Oh dear, are you having a problem, Ray? Would you like some Kaopectate?”
Sometimes a failure to communicate is a matter of hearing and sometimes it’s a matter of listening.
So next time I don’t get what you’re saying, please don’t be judgmental. After all it’s not everyday I get elected prime minister, date Jennifer Anniston and win the Nobel Prize for literature to boot.
Now what was it you were you saying?
— Ray Smit is a regular humour columnist for The News.
