Midwesterners are an impeccably polite bunch. I think that's why the national news is so befuddling to us. Especially these days. How on earth, we think, could people talk that way to each other? How is it possible that they can find no common threads between them? And how in Sam Hill could a person remain silent when another so clearly was in need?
Our coastal cousins laugh at our quaintness, as though treating each other well is so, like, yesterday. On occasion, we cave to their edgy jabs, trying on acts of snarkiness the way a teetotaler samples bourbon, our sips of sassiness so small as to register almost nothing, so great is our fear of infection.
But then, we slip back into the rightness of respect, preferring to acknowledge both strangers and neighbors, without exactly requiring long conversations of either of them.
I remember reading a piece a few years ago about a group of Hasidic Jews who left New York for the upper plains of Minnesota. When asked how the transition was going, every one of them talked about how hard it was to get used to strangers saying "hi" to them.
I just heard about a student new to East, and to the Midwest, who can relate to this discomfort. Having, at one point, lived on the streets of L.A., he made his way to our school, via stops in other states and institutions. I haven't met him yet, but his 6'5 frame and good looks have caught the eyes of the student body. Especially the female student body. Apparently, he's struggling a bit at school. Not because he doesn't feel welcomed. Rather, because he's not used to being welcomed. Or greeted by strangers.
This morning, as I walked around Holmes Lake, I was taken aback only once, by a group of serious runners who, stretched across the width of the trail, neither altered their paths nor acknowledged me as they ran by. Otherwise, the walk was pleasant and peaceful, broken up by polite "hellos" and one longer conversation with a stranger, whose dog, Foxy, I recognized from a photo in this morning's paper.
Foxy's owner, an older woman whose name I did not get, was as friendly as the day is long. And the dog--a good-looking Shiba Inu with alert eyes and soft, soft fur--lured me to stop and have myself a chat. Here's what I learned from our two-minute conversation:
•Foxy is a rescue dog who, in his first few months of life, already had had two owners
•Foxy's current (and, I'm sure, last) owners are a retired couple who have the time to spend with him each day
•Foxy's friendliness and calm nature are unusual for a Shiba Inu
•Foxy can catch a kibble, mid air. And roll over. And lay patiently in wait, despite that kibble just sitting there, inches from his nose.
As the conversation wrapped up, another couple, walking by us, stopped and asked questions about Foxy. And then, Foxy's owner and I reached out and squeezed each other's arms. This woman, a stranger five minutes earlier, was now imprinted on my impeccably polite Midwestern brain. And I was glad to have her there.
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