Sealed into a can by the external presence of a novel coronavirus, my conversations have been limited to mostly, bandying with a two-year-old girl. As someone used to living alone, I also have the occasional audible exclamations of rebuttal to my inward thoughts. I’ve found that this behavior is likely to bring about a parroting response from my granddaughter and that I must be careful about which words I allow to escape from my thoughts. Gone are the days when I would walk to Coal Yard Coffee for a “Witches Brew” and listen to (and occasionally contribute to) the flow of conversation about me; I cannot sit at the counter at Ash & Elm Cider Company and trade amusements with the cideristoes (I made up that word). As interesting and exciting as it is to oversee the development of my granddaughter’s verbal development, I miss being able to sit at a table and talk to someone.
Years ago, when I lived in St. Louis Missouri, I would get a phone call every weekday at 6 a.m.; the call was from one of my best friends, who was driving to work at 7 a.m., Eastern time. It would be some years before I told her that I was on Central time, one hour earlier than her 7 a.m.; I was just glad to hear from her, to listen to her, to talk to her. In whatever way the need to speak to me each morning had developed, it soon passed, and our conversations became more sporadic, and less individualistic. Conversations with my friend became a part of her multiple tasks, accomplished while she swept, dusted and cleaned sinks and toilets.
In May of this pandemic year, I wrote “Make The Call,” a column dedicated to those of us penned inside by Covid-19. I encouraged people to maintain contact with each other through technological sources, using applications like Skype, Zoom and Facetime. But there is nothing better than a warm and intimate conversation shared across the table with a friend; barring that, there is the phone call to – and from – that same friend.
In the last few months I’ve been contacted by people with whom I had worked while performing my duties as an assistant advertising creative director for a department store in St. Louis Missouri. The conversations were refreshing and invigorating. When your usual daily conversant is two years old, a conversation with an adult, even when about nothing more challenging than the location of recycling bins, can be exciting. I am a graduate of the days of home phones, and can remember lounging on pillows on my floor, a tan “princess” phone pressed to my ear, talking for hours to someone, sometime. My most recent conversation with an old friend lasted one hour and 32 minutes, and neither the caller nor I wanted to end it.
A man I met through his readership of my columns is someone whose company I miss. We used to meet on occasion at my favorite cidery and sit across from each other at a table to discuss a variety of things. His daughter lives near me, and recently called out to me as I walked down the street. I told her that I missed her father, and that night, e-mailed him to repeat the complaint. One of the impediments to our future conversations is the fact that he is hearing impaired, and wrote that he cannot communicate through masks. His daughter has a big porch though, and perhaps we can maintain the proper distance and still have a conversation.
I miss having someone to talk to.