The man had a weathered, Prairie gruffness about him. The lines on his face were carved into a permanent frown and the coals of his eyes blazed out from under a wiry tangle of iron-gray, bushy brow.
He looked … formidable. But he possessed a gift that endeared him to almost everyone he met.
He remembered you.
Not just you, but your spouse’s name, how many kids you had, where you lived and how much land you owned.
“Jake Winters, how are you?” he would say, with a handshake and a searchlight glare that swept the dark corners of your soul. “How’s Eunice? Did she have that knee fixed? Got your crop in?
A chap could parlay a talent like that into a profitable career in sales, the ministry, the media. Or politics.
This particular chap chose the latter. His name was John George Diefenbaker.
No matter how you felt about his politics, you had to admire the man who became our 13th Prime Minister. He had mastered the fundamental rule of civilized behaviour: really, really care about your neighbours. Your neighbours will get it; and they will never forget you.
Other cultures get it. The Japanese bow to strangers; the Hawaiians welcome you ashore with a sultry song and dance. On Salt Spring Island, the natives greet you with a bear hug, doesn’t matter if you’re Matt Damon or the local dog catcher.
We could all use a hug — or at the very least, we could acknowledge each other with more smiles than with studied indifference. As a country mouse kind of guy, I’m always struck when I venture to the big city by the lack of eye contact. Urban types usually look away if you try to catch their eye, and I understand that, I guess. Where I live, I’m lucky to run into 20 people a day. If I took the Toronto subway to just one Maple Leaf hockey game I’d see thousands and thousands of faces in a single evening.
And that’s for a Leaf game — just imagine if Toronto had an actual hockey team.
Dolly Parton, I am told, frequently has to deal with male fans who become utterly tongue-tied and speechless when confronted by Dolly’s twin icebreakers. She’s found a way to ‘break the ice’ as it were. Dolly smiles, puts her arms around the flustered fan’s neck and mashes his bashful mug deep into her cleavage.
Not such a good tactic for me, of course. If I mashed somebody into my cleavage I’d probably break their nose.
What’s a guy to do? I’d like to make my encounters more memorable, but it’s not as if I look like Ryan Gosling, dress like Don Cherry, sing like Michael Buble or write like Leonard Cohen.
The Diefenbaker option is out. My memory’s too porous to remember the names of the people I meet, much less their families, their acreage and their medical history — at least that’s what my Life Partner, old what’s-her-name, says.
But I am finally doing something about it. I’ve signed up for a correspondences course on how to remember names and faces. In fact, it’s Number Two on my Bucket List.
Number One is getting invited to meet Dolly Parton.
