I’ve known quiet people in my life, but one stands out as
unique. Most quiet people have a voice,
and when they speak, they really have something to say. Small talk is worthless to them, but they
are not without a sense of humor and will occasionally participate in a joke or
good story. However…
Late in the spring one year I was in the town of Rutland,
Vermont to meet with the manager of the small store my company had there. I never quite figured out the culture of the
area, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Some years later someone told me the harder I tried to figure it out,
the worse the divide would become. The
best way to function was to keep one’s mouth shut and just watch. Meanwhile, I was working hard at having a
conversation with Josiah.
I arrived at the store and asked to see the manager. The employee raised an eyebrow, looked me up
and down, and then pointed toward a corner of the store. I walked over to the corner where two men
were looking at a few sheets of paper. I asked if one of them was the store manager. Both nodded ‘yes.’ I introduced myself to both of them, and one motioned me to
follow him.
Walking through the store to the manager’s office, I
realized no one was talking. There were
sales personnel waiting on customers, but not a word was being uttered. The store was so quiet it felt almost
strange. Once in the office Josiah sat
down behind his desk and looked over at me until I began to squirm. Finally I sat down, reached into my
briefcase for some papers, and handed them to him. He looked them over, signed them, and handed them back to
me. Then he got up and walked out of
the office. Not a word had been spoken.
I sat there for a few moments wondering what I should do
next before he walked back in with two fishing rods and a tackle box. He reached into his wallet, pulled out his
fishing license and pointed at it with his eyebrows raised. I reached into my wallet, shuffled through
about thirty fishing licenses from various states until I found the one for
Vermont. I lifted it up, pointed at it,
and raised my eyebrows. Josiah
smiled. We walked out to his truck,
climbed in and drove a few miles to the east to a place called Kent Pond.
We were both still dressed in suits as we fished along the
dam and from along the shore of this small impoundment, but we weren’t
alone. I saw four or five other
fishermen wearing suits or at least upscale casual during our four or five
hours at the water’s edge. The fish we
caught were pumpkin seed and largemouth bass, and after we cleaned them, Josiah
wrapped them in newspaper and placed them in an empty cooler. From there we drove to a nearby house where
he disappeared inside with the cooler for a few minutes. Soon he was back in the truck and we were
driving back to the store. Silence
reigned supreme. There was not a word
about the fish, the fishing, the weather, business—anything. I wondered if this man could even speak at
all.
Back in Josiah’s office, he picked up a few papers from his
desk and handed them to me to look at.
On top was a newspaper comic strip of ‘Barney Google’ and below it was
one of ‘Li’l Abner.’ Underneath that
was a stack of blank typing paper. I
looked at these for a while, and then handed them back. He nodded in approval, and then got up and
showed me the door.
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