I first met Charlie, the owner and barkeep of that wonderful roadside tavern in the Adirondack mountains of New York State when he was in his fifties. I saw him for the last time in the Autumn when he was in his seventies, about to close the tavern up for the year for the last time ever.
I liked Charlie. By today’s standards, he would most likely be judged as coarse, because his voice was gravelly and a rather unmemorable mid-range, and because he used words like “sompin” or “anyways” or “mighta” or–well, you get the idea. Actually, that unassuming trait was one of the reasons I liked him. That, and the fact that what he said had meaning. You did not have frivolous conversations with Charlie. You had conversations that left you feeling substantial, relevant. You walked away from them feeling good.
I miss this man. I might be alone, but these days I am searching harder and harder to reestablish this kind of conversation.
How about you?