Sometimes we just need to make small talk with other people

Here's a thing I do: Sometimes I drive over to Lorain to get some advice. I go to the meat counter at Fligner's Market, I pull my little slip of paper to let the busy staff know who's next, and then I wait my turn. While I wait for my number to be called, I check out the offerings before me and eye up my fellow shoppers. That's when I start asking questions. What cut of meat would the butcher recommend for a good pot roast? What is the best way to cook this type of beef? How about this cut of pork? Pretty soon, everybody nearby weighs in. Grandmothers and working men, all with their own little numbered slips of paper in hand, start sharing their own tips on cuts of meat, dry rubs vs. sauces, the high prices these days of wings and bacon. Here's the secret: I know how to cook a pot roast just fine. I start those conversations on purpose. I start lots of conversations on purpose, and I have reasons for that, but, at Fligner's, it's because those conversations bring up memories of sharing meals and tables with loved ones, sometimes on special occasions, and you can see a change come over the storyteller's face. The mood is light and happy and everybody is smiling and there, for just a minute, in the back of Fligner's a small handful of strangers brought together by a sale on pork chops or bulk chicken forget that outside the world seems to be hell-bent on tearing itself apart. Seems like the more we went underground to avoid each other during the pandemic, the more we forget how to act. So much of our interaction these days is online, and the anonymity is just a pass for so many to unleash the cruelty they've had to keep reigned all this time. If that many conversations can be started just to stir up turmoil, why not prompt ones that provoke better endings? Fligner's isn't my only stop. I've also been known to wander along fishing spots, making small talk with anglers who seem amenable to a chat about what they're catching, what bait is working. I don't fish. I have asked people in parks for gardening tips. I do not grow things, but they will tell me with great joy and detail about the trees they've planted for each child that was born. I ask strangers for book suggestions, knowing I have lists of books to read that I will probably never finish before I die. But people love to be asked for their advice, and my curiosity likes to be appeased, so it's a win-win. There is a time and place for this all, of course. It's not for everybody maybe, but sometimes you can hit some conversational gold. I met one of my best friends making small talk on a beach. I can't tell you the times I've seen people cry tears that needed to be shed, and laugh until they've cried — often in the same night, sometimes from the same stories. I used to find myself always adjusting for the extra time it seemed to take me to run errands or go to the park or make a phone call — because I would, inevitably, get caught up in an unforeseen conversation or happen upon someone who needed an extra minute. I would berate myself, thinking I was a terrible time manager, wondering why I couldn't stick to a schedule — until I realized perhaps something important was coming my way. Maybe I should have been conforming my schedule to those things, instead of the other way around. I don't know why and I don't know how, but this I know: The more I prioritize being open to conversations, the bug light in me seems to glow more brightly, somehow signaling "The confessional is open." It is not unheard of for my husband to walk into a gas station for an iced tea and a Snickers and come out and in that time I could say to him: See that older gentleman on pump four? Well he's a widower that goes around to nursing homes at Christmas time and plays Santa Claus. And look here, he gave me this vintage radio with a by-God twinkle in his eye. Anyone familiar with the signs of nature can track an animal but we humans leave behind our stories. Giving someone else an opening to tell theirs opens a window, even a small one, into their world. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.