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Nobody doth protest enough, methinks

Now that I’m long in the tooth and also long in retirement, I have to admit that I miss conversations -even the ones that were tiring because of the defence netting I had to throw around words that sometimes tried to escape from my mouth. Not all words weigh the same; some require vetting, and others just extra postage stamps; but try to bounce even invectives off the kitchen walls, or throw them at an uncaring TV screen and you can understand the loneliness of unrequited sounds.

I live alone now; it’s my own fault I suppose, but it’s a reality that confronts me each morning as I drink my coffee in front of the radio, pretending I’m actually listening to the morning CBC news. I talk to the newsreader, naturally; I comment on any unexpected stories that have happened while I slept, but my observations go unnoticed in the still-chilly kitchen. Of course they do; I’m really just talking to myself in a voice now hoarse with disuse.

Unlike the old days, when some of what I said really mattered; when innovative words to describe an unfolding situation were actually attended to -sometimes even acted upon- I am now just a wind-up squeaky toy.

I feel a bit like the Duke of Norfolk, a character from Shakespeare’s Richard ll who, when he is banished from England, laments: ‘The language I have learn’d these forty years, my native English, now I must forego; and now my tongue’s use is to me no more than an unstringèd viol or a harp’. I have been similarly banished, I think, but from daily conversations, regular discussions with someone who can answer back; someone who can hear me and respond in kind.

It’s not the noise of words I require, but their intent, their meaning, their acknowledgement of my presence, and their expectation of reply… Interesting that, don’t you think? The words I type on the screen don’t hear me, and expect nothing in return for their sudden birth. If I am conversing at all with my ideas, it is for now at least, only with myself. It is not a dialogue, except perhaps with my unvoiced thoughts. Does that count as an exchange? A discussion…?

Still, ideas emerge that sometimes encourage me to change -or, perhaps, to experiment. For example, the other day I was listening to the appositely named CBC program Ideas -one of my favourite podcasts on my phone. It was from a 2024 Massey Lecture entitled ‘What makes a great conversation’ delivered by the author and poet Ian Williams in the fifth talk in his series ‘What I Mean to Say’. It was a long discussion -too long to summarize- about how he wanted to document the number and relative value of actual conversations he had each day. It made me wonder the same thing.

First of all, like him, I had to decide what to call a conversation. Did texting, with all its abbreviations and emojis, count? My adult kids seldom phone -I’m not sure why that is, but for lack of much other fodder to use, I’ve been forced to count their texts as discussions: information is conveyed, my replies or queries answered (albethey separated by minutes, hours, or even days, depending on factors they seldom explain). But texts, apart from the sketchy information they contain, are seldom more useful than the advertisement pamphlets that are stuffed in my post-box from time to time.

I don’t tend to answer any actual voice calls on my phone if the sender isn’t on my contact list; maybe I should reconsider that -even scams or polls might offer some entertainment- but I don’t think I’m that desperate… or am I?

The closest to face-to-face conversations where I can read the body language -and hence the risk- is on a city bus. The good thing about them is when I elicit even the slightest indication that the person next to me wants to speak; I never know what will come of the dialogue.

I was talking to a man of the cloth the other day. He had one of those white collars around his neck, but other than that he was basically incognito; perhaps that gave him a better opportunity to gauge the opinions of those outside his flock, but his eyes actually twinkled when he turned his head at my words.

I had only remarked on how I enjoyed the laughter of the youngsters in the seat ahead of us. They weren’t even on their phones, I added.

He quickly put his phone in his pocket and smiled the smile of a man of God (I’m only guessing). “Laughter makes us feel so much better, don’t you think?” he replied, unable to suppress a chuckle at the thought.

Interesting. “I wonder why that is.” I was curious about his opinion, of course, but more about his reaction. Like me, he seemed quite elderly -well acquainted with Life’s foibles.

His smile broadened and his face seemed to light up. “Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast…”

“Shakespeare’s Pericles, Prince of Tyre,” I said, delighted that someone else had read some abstruse Shakespeare plays.

His eyebrows immediately shot skyward, and a wide grin suddenly invaded his face. “I didn’t know where that came from… Thank you.”

I shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to summarize the play, because I hadn’t read it since I was in high school -and didn’t understand it even then; I suspect that only some of us had been assigned it as punishment for fooling around in English Lit class. “It was a guess,” I answered. “I don’t think it was one of his best plays…”

“Sounds like a topic I might have used for a sermon in the old days,” he said with a wink and a mischievous grin. “The congregation was always fidgety and distracted during the sermons. Sometimes I’d try to wake them up with an impenetrable quotation, or a clever philosophical puzzle just to test them; I’d look at the expressions of the front-rowers to see if they’d even been listening…”

I had to chuckle at that. I haven’t been to church in years, but I suspect I might have chanced his had I known. “I take it you’ve retired…”

He nodded with a faraway look in his eyes. “Soon after my wife died, I thought it was probably time; she was one of the few people who understood my sense of humour; my attempts at poking fun at the dullards in the congregation who only came to church for something to do when most of the stores were closed.”

“Dullards? Pretty strong language for a cleric, don’t you think?”

His eyes twinkled once again as he looked at me. “The dullards are the ones I wanted to come to church; sometimes I suspect they’re the ones who really mattered. They’re the ones who actually looked forward to the occasional mystery in the sermon; I think it’s why they attended… In fact, they may be the most hopeful prospects in the pews: they actually hear the puzzles I sneak into my sermons for them; they probably wonder about them long after they leave; and come back again for more the next Sunday…”

I had to think about that for a moment. “Is that teaching them about God, though? Teaching them about anything?”

I could hear him sigh, even in the noisy bus. “Teaching? Probably not. Making them curious about a religion full of mysteries and a few laughs…? I hope so.”

He suddenly glanced out of the bus window and pulled the cord. “Almost missed my stop,” he explained, but before he squeezed past me, he proffered a hand. My name is Ralph, by the way. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our conversation; it reminds me of standing at the door to the church to greet the congregation as they left; the only ones whose eyes were… well, twinkling, were those I’d seen smiling at my interjections in the sermon. Fond memories…”

“My name is G,” I answered, shaking his hand and smiling. “I wish I’d known about your sermons when you were still an active cleric; I think I’d have attended the services.”

“I wish you had, too,” he added as he finally managed to squeeze past me. “I suspect I’d have looked forward to seeing you in the back row smiling at me.” Then he grinned from ear and headed for the door.

At last, I thought, a real conversation. But was he hinting that I was a dullard…?

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1 thought on “Nobody doth protest enough, methinks”

  1. barryh's avatar
    barryh October 13, 2025 — 4:27 pm

    Thank you. That twinkling eye tells us to never take ourselves too seriously!

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