The difficulty of face-to-face communicatin’

—“NO ONE WILL TALK TO YOU!” That was my neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child.
Her name was “Hilda Q. Walton.” The “Q” stood for “Quincy,” her maiden-name.
I won’t need to explain Faire Hilda to constant-readers. For those unknowing, there’s a footnote below.
What, pray tell, does that have to do with my difficulty face-to-face communicatin’?
For 60-plus years, per Hilda, I pretty much avoided talking to anyone. Now since my wife died I find it pleasant.
My wife liked me from the get-go. That allowed me to keep to myself.
Hilda triumphant! She made me antisocial.
Now with my wife gone, and 70 years late, I became more sociable.
I’m striking up conversations with everyone, even complete strangers.
“No one will talk to you” was bunk. Faire Hilda, plus my parents, who heartily agreed, were WRONG.
“Yer funny,” a lady-friend says.
Most people love talking to me. A few don’t, plus I hafta be careful. I’m used to talking to someone who understood big words and figures-of-speech.
That of course was my beloved wife. She became used to how I talked, and liked it.
She always scheduled to be in my college classes. (She was the same class as me.)
“I like the way that Hughes-guy thinks. He’ll make a completely off-the-wall observation that has credence. Like why didn’t I think of that?
He also skewers conventional wisdom, yet isn’t haughty about it.”
She was incredibly shy, but always lined up to be next to me. She got herself on the college dishwashing staff because I was on it.
I didn’t know she was interested until my final year in college. She’d say hello to me 10 yards after passing. She was extremely embarrassed when someone clued me in.
But now her enjoyment of my talking is gone.
I find myself saying things similar to what I’d say to my wife. She understood me, but most don’t. I usually hafta explain.
Examples:
“What’s yer dog’s name?”
“Killian, just like on his collar.”
“Kelly? Killer?”
I changed to “Killian, as in Killian Irish Red.”
He’s an Irish-Setter, plus I’ve said his name twice, and rendered a handle.
I walk Killian into woods on Lehigh Valley Rail-trail, and we get mauled by mosquitos.
On exit a stranger on mountain-bike pedals toward the woods. 10 years ago I wouldna said anything, but things changed after my wife died.
“You keep goin’ that way, and yer headed into mosquito-city.”
“HUH? City? What?”
I shoulda said “You keep goin’ that way, and you’ll get mauled by mosquitos.”
I gave up referring to Walter Cronkite as “Crankcase.” My wife would figger it out, but others get exasperated = “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“We took the deer-flies for a walk.” I told that to my wife after walking our dog in a nearby park. Our dog attracted deer-flies, and they followed us all around.
I say that to others, but so far only my wife got it.
“I have wonderful news,” I said to my wife one day after passing the American Legion up the street.
“Of all the places on this vast planet Santa could visit, he’s coming to tiny West Bloomfield.”
“This is why I married you,” she cried.
Another no-no is big words. My wife, who already had an extensive vocabulary, usually got ‘em.
“Excoriated,” I said to a person once.
“I’ll hafta look that up.”
I try to keep big words outta these blogs, since Joe SixPak isn’t gonna drag out his Funk & Wagnalls.
But I’m too used to using obscure language. And face-to-face is so pleasant I feel I should cut back.
“Yelled at! Badmouthed! Whatever.” —My listener isn’t stupid. “Excoriate” isn’t a word he commonly uses.
So now after 44&1/2 years married to one who made sense of my obscurities, I gotta learn face-to-face communicatin’.

• Hilda Q. Walton was my immediate neighbor and Sunday-School Superintendent when I was a child. Like my parents she was hyper-religious. My parents agreed with her that all males, including me at age-5, were disgusting.