I Just Can’t

 

Apparently, Americans are speaking less.  According to two researchers we are talking approximately 28% less than we did fifteen years ago.  We are using less words . . . 330 fewer words are spoken per day, roughly 120,000 less words spoken per year.  The researchers state, “It’s a substantial loss.”  This lack of speaking is a concern especially because the trend seems to be continuing annually. 

It seems that this lack of intercourse between folks is a determent to psychological and social well-being.  Talking contributes to our well-being and sense of belonging.  It eases anxiety.  Helps us to trust others.  Bottom that speaking or talking is a benefit and that this dwindling of intercourse is destroying society.  Logically the means of bucking this trend is to talk more to one another.  So, I am assuming we should all talk more.

 

I can’t . . . I just can’t.  There is no way I can talk more.  I just can’t.

 

It is not difficult to see how this decline in conversation has evolved over the years.  Technology has played a major role.  Smart phones with all their innovative means of connecting people have seen major movement towards texting and messaging apps especially among the young.  Texting seems the way to go for a lot of people.  There’s no real interaction.  I see this with my children.  They would rather text or message than have a real conversation.

 

Also, smart phones are a major distraction.  The average American spends four to five hours a day looking at their phone.  This is about 70 full days per year.  I’m fairly certain that little of that time is spend talking to other people.  Here is how it breaks down:

•      Gen Z averages 6.5 hours a day. 
•      Millennials roughly 4.5 hours a day.
•      Baby Boomers average 3 to 4 hours a day.
•     Teens, at least 20%, average 5 to 8 hours a day.

All are well over the recommended screen time of under two hours per day.  Research shows that people check their phones 58 times a day.  It is hard to converse when one’s nose and attention is focused on a cell phone screen.

Thanks to the Covid pandemic, there is the issue of social isolation.  Americans increasingly spend more time alone and are not as socially engaged.  This follows the trend of more people working remotely.  If you aren’t around people, you are not going to say much.  Technology has contributed by doing lots of tasks once done in person now done online.  Paying bills can be set up online. Retailers struggle as more shopping is done online.  Everything can be done online—who needs people?  That, which has made life more efficient has resulted in less verbal action.  Shoot!  With artificial intelligence (AI) there is no need for people at all. Your best friend can be AI.

 

This all adds up to less human-to-human interaction.  An average person has gone from 16,600 words per day to a measly 12,000 words per day.

 

Honestly, I do not see a problem.  Of course, I am an introvert.  I can do with fewer people and less verbal interaction.  I appreciate the peace and quiet.  Besides, people talk too much.  It was pointed out to me long ago that we should listen twice as much as we speak.  That is why God created humans with two ears and one mouth.  Where the researchers see a problem, I see a blessing.  For that reason, it is frustrating to be urged to take up the mantle and talk more.  I can’t do it.  It’s not in me.  I’m not built for it.

 

Now don’t get me wrong . . . I talk.  When I worked full-time, I spoke as necessitated and required by my employer.  I did my part though I doubt it was anywhere close to 12,000 to 16,600 words a day.  Same as the duties I performed for over 40 years as a pastor.  I spoke when the need came up or it was a part of the duties of ministry.  I can tell you that these verbal bouts wore me out by the end of the day.  By the time I got home in the evening I wanted peace and quiet. Which was okay.  In our marriage the wife is the verbal one.  She is an extrovert and never missed a conversation.  I estimate that she speaks 75% of the time we are together.  I just shake my head a lot.  Because I have two ears, I listen.  It works for us.

 

Socially I talk I greet people with “hello”, but never with “how you doing?”  “How you doing” opens a flood gate for an all-out dissertation.  I don’t have time for that.  I will speak when others speak to me.  That’s respect.  Because of that I tend not to be social.  I have been known to get “talkative” after a couple of beers.  Alcohol lowers inhibitions and makes people chatty.  I’m not inclined to be chatty, and I always regret it the next day when I am.  For the most part to be talkative you need people.  I prefer my own company.  At least I know how the conversation is going to go.  My sister gave me a sweatshirt years ago that said, “Ewww . . . people!”  It is one of my favorite sweatshirts, but it rarely gets worn outside of the house.  People don’t always appreciate humor or sarcasm.  I know, truth hurts.

 

When researchers discover and complain that people don’t talk enough . . . that people are talking to each other less . . . I don’t see the problem.  As far as I am concerned, it is a nice problem to have.  It is quieter.  An introvert’s dream.  When those researchers suggest that people need to talk more . . . well, I get anxious.  Talk more?  That’s a big request.  I’d love to help, but I can’t.  That’s a big ask.  It would mean I would have to get out of my comfort zone.  I would have to actually be around people . . . that I would have to converse . . . to speak.  An introvert’s worse nightmare.  I will let others do the talking.  I am certain that there are plenty of folks out there who can pick up the mantle and speak up a storm.  It is an election year with plenty of talking to go around.  I am sure that these people can do it and make America great once again as “talkers”.  It just won’t be me . . . I just can’t.

 

(Blog based on article by Markham Heid, What We’re Losing by Talking Less, Time magazine, May 25, 2026.)

Body Talk

As I have gotten older, I have noticed the increase in the willingness of my body to speak up.  I have also noticed that it has gotten quite persistent and noisy in its insistence to be heard.  At times it is boisterous . . . rambunctious . . . rowdy . . . and at times, downright blatant in its demands to be heard.  All the noise is making it difficult to ignore all this body talk.

It all started with the thumbs.  First the left, then the right.  In the beginning it was a gentle, lingering ache announcing its presence . . . like a long-lost friend showing up out of the blue.  The sort of long-lost friend you never liked and didn’t mind being lost.  Because it was sporadic in its appearance, such communication was easy to ignore.

 

That was my mistake.  There is no greater wrath than that of a jilted appendage.  The thumbs were not happy in having their conversation ignored.  They cranked it up a few notches.  From gentle, lingering pain they added sharp stabs of sheering pain.  It expanded its irritation and invited the rest of the hand to join in a litany of complaints.  Then it invited the wrists to join the party.  That was the worst.

 

The wrists didn’t just pipe in with pain.  No, the wrists threw in sharp, piercing—knife-like—stabbing pain.  They locked up and any time I attempted to bend them . . . well, it produced an intense pain that brought tears to my eyes and swear words to my lips.  It practically had me on my knees.  It hurt.  It really, really hurt.

 

The thumbs, hands, and wrists were playing hard ball.  They wanted their presence acknowledged.  I’ll admit, they were hard to ignore.  But . . . HEY!  I’m male and we men know how to ignore a lot when it comes to our bodies.

 

The wife tells me that it is osteoarthritis.  I can’t even pronounce it.  Arthritis.  A common companion to many over the safe of sixty. It’s been camping out in the thumbs, hands, and wrists for quite awhile now.  Thankfully it has not moved its show on the road to other parts of the body—yet.  But I am certain it is plotting a migration down the road.

 

My feet joined the chorus a few years ago.  They have been using the three-prong approach.  It started one night—my feet got hot.  Not warm—HOT!  I had to kick the covers off to cool them off.  It was a hot flash of the feet.  I noticed, but I learned that if I could fall asleep quickly, I could avoid the discomforting message.  Apparently, this miffed the feet.  Pushing the envelope to get my attention they added tingling and pin pricks to the toes.  Not satisfied they also threw in sore heels—much like a stone bruise.  The feet weren’t playing around.  They were banging on the door to be heard.

 

Neuropathy is what the wife tells me it is—nerve damage.  I’m told that it could be because of diabetes.  It could be caused by thyroid dysfunction.  I’m certain that it is not diabetes as I get tested periodically for it since it runs in the family.  I’m good there.  The thyroid . . . maybe.  I have been on thyroid medication for years when it decided to under-function one day.  Like testing for diabetes, I get that tested too on a regular basis.  It is good.  None the less, the feet are demanding to be heard.  I hear them as I gingerly tip toe around.  The more I move, the better they feel.

 

Occasionally the legs jump in the fray.  They are sporadic.  They make surprise announcements of their presence every-so-often by throwing a cramp or Charlie horse.  These sneak attacks remind me of their presence.

 

The eyes have piped in too.  With age my eyesight has started to go AWOL from time to time.  I’m up to trifocals now.  In the morning, they take longer to warm up and focus.  I have some fairly large floaters swimming around.  Cataracts are developing too.  At least that is what my eye doctor tells me.  I’m also told that my brain will adjust to the floaters, and they will disappear from my sight.  Basically, that my brain will ignore them.  I’m still waiting.

 

Speaking of the brain . . . it is still sharp, but not as sharp as it used to be.  It doesn’t multi-function like it used to.  One or two tasks maximum seems to be its limit.  More than that . . . well, it gets forgetful.  It gets distracted.  It enjoys exploring rabbit holes.  Sometimes it goes on vacation.  Most of the time it is one step behind.  It doesn’t bother me a whole bunch as I have plenty of people willing to speak and think for me.  No shortage there.  I guess I should be concerned, but for the most part it is functioning.  I know my name, address, and wife’s name and phone number.  I’m doing okay.

Hearing likes to complain from time to time—especially in crowds.  I’ll admit that I do not hear as well as I once did.  Building grain bins tempered my ability to hear.  Crowds and noisy situations make it hard to hear.  Yes, the television is cranked up.  So, yes, I’m certain I have hearing loss, but I like the sound of silence.  Despite organic hearing loss, the wife tells me I also have selective hearing loss.  True, it is another male trait, while at the same time a common practice.  Especially around politicians during election years.

 

There are other parts of my body crying to be heard.  The top of my head whines from time to time about it being cold due to the lack of hair.  Been that way since my young adult days,  Major defection.  My hair has been flying from the coop for years migrating to other parts of my body--the back, ears, and nose.  I guess I could let the hair on my ears grow and create a comb over for my head.  If God knows the number of hairs on my head, then God should thank me for making the number easier to remember each year.

 

The belly Throws in its pound—actually pounds—worth of lament.  It seems to have moved south as time flies.  It has settled quite well in the mid-section of my body where it is has set up camp.  More than once I have mistaken for the poppin’ fresh dough boy from Pillsbury.

 

Occasionally the back throws in a kink to deal with.  The lungs can huff and puff.  The ol’ bladder demands more frequent attention.  The plumbing flares up from time to time.  The nose likes to run more often.  My stomach is pickier. 

 

It is quite a conversation that the body is waging and engaging in.  One I should probably listen to.

 

Years ago, there was a Peanuts cartoon where Snoopy is jogging.  It is a nice, peaceful jog until the feet shout out, “Without us there could be no jogging!”  The legs disagreed and said so.  Well, soon other parts of the body were arguing as to who was the most important part of the body.  Louder and louder the argument got.  It was getting to be too much.  Then suddenly a voice shattered the noise: “Without me, you’re all gone!”  It was the heart.  The arguing stopped.  The noise dissipated.  Snoopy jogged on in peaceful quietness.

 

From time to time, I need to remind myself and my body that my heart is what makes it all function and work.  That it is in control.  That it is good.  It is strong.  It is filled with love.  That it is happy.  That it is functioning.  That it I good to be alive.  In those moments of silence and acknowledgement the body remembers . . . it is “all for one and one for all!”  Despite it all . . .despite the noise . . . all the commotion . . . life is good and we all still here despite all the aches and pains.  And that is good.

 

Two Voices

 

There are two voices . . . two sides.

Years ago, my father suggested that I read the book Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War (1998) by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Tony Horwitz.  So, I read and enjoyed it.  I read it for several reasons: (1) I like history and was fascinated with the military leaders on both sides of the Civil War—especially Robert E. Lee, as a kid; (2) it was rare that my father suggest a book for me to read, so this must have been important to him; and (3) I didn’t want to disappoint my father.  Motivation comes from many sources in one’s life.

 

My father grew up in the heart of the South—Alabama.  He spoke with what I thought was a Don Meredith drawl—it was there, but not overwhelming.  He used words and phrases that were of Southern colloquialism which still pop up from time to time in my speech.  He was born and raised in the South, but never claimed to be Southern.  He left the South and Alabama as a young adult never to really return.  I once asked him what made a person a Southerner.  He responded, “A state of mind.”  It was all between the ears as far as he was concerned.

 

Horwitz’s book explores his deep interest in the Civil War and the attitudes about the war from both sides.  He travels across the South exploring battlefields, landmarks, joining in re-enactments, interviewing people, to discover the lasting impact and its continuing split within our nation’s history and psyche.  It is worth the effort to read, especially if you are a Civil Wart buff.

 

One of the things that Horwitz reminds his readers of is that not all histories are written equally.  To the victors go the spoils . . . to the winners, the history.  The winners write the history . . . at least the predominant histories that are espoused and taught.  Because of this the story and history of the Civil War are taught from the Northern—the victors—point of view.  That doesn’t meant that there aren’t equal amounts of volumes produced by the South—there are.  It just means that the victors are in control of the narrative for the most part.

 

Basically, what we get is one side of the story.  One point of view.  There is always more than one side to any story.  In fact, there are often many sides to the stories we are taught.  What we learn is not always the whole story.  The beloved radio broadcaster Paul Harvey made a pretty good living with one of his radio shows called Now for the Rest of the Story.  On this show he would share historical events as they were popularly known and then thrown in a wrench to share another side of the story that was less known.  Thus, “the rest of the story.”  I loved the show.

 

Being a bookworm as a kid (still am today), I read whatever the library had about the Civil War.  From the popular to the obscure.  In my reading I was often confused about the battles.  As a kid it seemed like there were lots of battles everywhere—tons of them.  Little did I realize that battles often had two names.  The authors used the name of the battle from the side from which they were writing.  For example, Antietam—bloodiest day in American history with 22,727 dead in battle.  The North tabbed it the Battle of Antietam, while the South called it the Battle of Sharpsburg.  Was it Manassas or Bull Run?  It all comes down to who is telling the story.  If you ever visit Civil War battlefields you will discover that they often have two names displayed even though they are advertised by the names chosen by the victors.

 

So . . . there are two (actually multiple) sides to every story.  There are two voices (probably more) telling the story.  To truly understand, all sides of the story . . . all sides of history . . . need to be heard.  We need to listen . . . to listen to the stories from all points of view . . . from all the participants . . . to get the whole story.  It is not always as simple as we would like it to be.

 

Do you know about the Battle of Greasy Grass from your school studies of our nation’s western movement across the country?  It was the major battle in the Great Souix War of 1876.  It was a turning point in the nation’s dealings with the Native Americans they sought to remove from the territory they wanted.  So, do you know the Battle of Greasy Grass?  Maybe you know it as Custer’s Last Stand.  The battlefield had that name for over a hundred years before the National Park Service changed it to the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument in 1991.  It was one of the few, if not the only battlefield, named after the losers.  The victors didn’t even get the glory of naming the battlefield . . . nor did they get to tell the story from their side.

 

Another point, those with power . . . those who are in control also get to write the narrative, get to tell the story.  They are not always the victors telling the story.  Remember there are more sides to a story than presented and accepted by the masses.  Check out the Battle of Greasy Grass.

 

This blog is not about history.  It is about stories, how they are told, and how they are heard.  Is the whole story being told?  Or are the stories just one-sided affairs?  Without the rest of the story there can be no truth . . . no understanding.  It takes all the pieces of the puzzle to see the picture.

 

We live our lives through stories.  All parts of our lives have stories . . . religion, politics, economics, education, gender, culture, society . . . even our relationships.  It is not wrong to ask questions and to seek answers whenever we are told a story.  In fact, we should always wonder if there is more to the stories we are being told.  And we must listen.  In listening we learn . . . we understand . . . we grow.

 

There are always two voices . . . two sides to every story.  Yours.  Mine, Ours.  They all deserve to be heard.