Erma Bombeck once said..
Erma Bombeck:
There were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off ... time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander. A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
Stone-faced, I answered, "It's likely."
"I haven't been to Chicago in nearly three years," she persisted. "My son lives there."
"That's nice," I said, my eyes intent on the printed page of the book.
"My husband's body is on the plane. We've been married for fifty-three years. I don't drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me from the hospital. We aren't even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him."
I don't think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow.
All she needed was a listener ... no advice, wisdom, experience, money, assistance, expertise or even compassion ... but just a minute or two to listen.
It seemed rather incongruous that in a society of supersophisticated communication, we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.
She talked numbly and steadily until we boarded the plane, and found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her plaintive voice say to her seat companion, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
I prayed, "Please God, let her listen."
Why am I telling you this? To make me feel better. It won't help, though.
There were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off ... time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander. A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
Stone-faced, I answered, "It's likely."
"I haven't been to Chicago in nearly three years," she persisted. "My son lives there."
"That's nice," I said, my eyes intent on the printed page of the book.
"My husband's body is on the plane. We've been married for fifty-three years. I don't drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me from the hospital. We aren't even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him."
I don't think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than the real-life drama at her elbow.
All she needed was a listener ... no advice, wisdom, experience, money, assistance, expertise or even compassion ... but just a minute or two to listen.
It seemed rather incongruous that in a society of supersophisticated communication, we often suffer from a shortage of listeners.
She talked numbly and steadily until we boarded the plane, and found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her plaintive voice say to her seat companion, "I'll bet it's cold in Chicago."
I prayed, "Please God, let her listen."
Why am I telling you this? To make me feel better. It won't help, though.