The Lights of Their Eyes

Billy and I walk in the mornings.  Sometimes with dogs in tow, sometimes alone.

We try to be friendly; speak to everyone.  Some speak back.  A smile and a wave.  Others ignore you.  Some will grunt at you but never look up from their phone.

Billy is not always the most social of beings.  Once he quite playing softball, which took him away from home five or six nights a week, he was content to not leave ever again.  That was about 25 years ago. 

And he is no fan of small talk or chit chat, which is typically the bulk of the social networking things I attend here in town.

So, it actually takes some effort for him to put himself out there and speak.  It is out of his comfort zone somewhat.  I, on the other hand, talk to everyone.  I don't even care if they return the favor.  He gets annoyed at grocery shopping with me (or, should I say, me going with him) because I talk to people in line, in the aisles, wherever.

Some mornings we have the whole downtown Natchez to ourselves, others it is packed.  Minutes getting out of the house in the morning can absolutely make all the difference in the world.  One morning was particularly busy and we passed a lot of folks, a disproportionate amount we had to force to say hi and acknowledge us.

Billy turned and said "I want to be someplace where people still get a light in their eyes when they see you."

How true. 

Before 24 hour a day television and electronic everything, your neighbors were your entertainment.  You socialized.  You knew everyone.  In the early advent of television not everyone owned one so even watching the nightly news could be a social event.  People would gather outside the big picture window of the appliance store and see the marvels going on places other than where they were.

You cared about your fellow man.  And you cared because you were invested in them.  In your neighborhood.  Your community.

Not only your eyes, but your whole face would light up when you saw someone you knew.  When you asked how have you been?, you meant it.  And your face would light up if you saw a stranger because it could be an opportunity to help someone in need, or share the place you loved living.  Getting to meet someone new.

Now, if it isn't communicated via text, email, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or a news scroll along the bottom of the television screen, we don't know about it.  We can't leave the house for fear we'll miss something.  We might be behind on the "latest".  When we do leave, it is with phone in hand.  And we carry around portable chargers and charging cables for both car and indoors.  Someone might need to get in touch with us and we must be available!  People can't even eat a meal at a restaurant, or, God forbid, use a public restroom, without their phone being RIGHT THERE! 

We've built electronic fences around ourselves.  You can't see them, but we are fenced in, nonetheless.

Remember the days when you could leave the house and not worry about a phone call?  If they needed you, they called the house.  If you were out living your life, they would try again later.  Eventually they left a message.  On an answering machine.  That you picked up when you got home. 

Strangers are no longer a friend that we haven't met yet, they are an inconvenience.  Someone we have to nod to, someone we worry is going to delay us along our path, interrupt our day.  Someone who is forcing us to look away from our phone.

Some days I feel like really pulling the plug on all these gadgets.  I wouldn't be the first to know if the world was ending, but at least I could enjoy myself while I waited. 

You know, read a book.  (A real book that you hold, not an eBook or an audible book.)  Sit on the porch and watch the world go by. Feed the birds.  Listen to the sounds of the river flowing south. 

And talk to people as they passed.  Give them a smile.  Look them in the eye.

Eyes with light.