My father’s parents, Edith and Roland Cain, who died years before I was born and about whom I knew two things: he worked for “the railroad” and they were both from the “Eastern Shore.” My dad’s only brother, Named after his father, Painted the pictu… — My father’s parents, Edith and Roland Cain, who died years before I was born and about whom I knew two things: he worked for “the railroad” and they were both from the “Eastern Shore.” My dad’s only brother, Named after his father, Painted the picture of his mother, and I believe they gave her the coat. Neither of them married until their forties, after their parents both died.

Billy, Shahzadeh, & Carmen

On my all-too-brief attempt to flee the isolation of the pandemic and get out on the open road, which lasted exactly four of the ten days I had planned, I nonetheless visited my paternal grandparents (ok, dead for seventy years but still) and a few of the places my ancestors lived as well as met some intriguing characters. There was Carmen, who worked at the cemetery, and valiantly spent an hour and a half trying to FIND the headstones of my relatives, running up and down lines of engraved granite markers, peering at his printout of the section, like a keystone cop, until he realized he’d mistaken a 4 for an 8, and drove back to the office, leaving me wandering amidst the dear departed in the hot sun, being assaulted by chiggers whose souvenir bites I’d take home with me. I saw his car pull over a few hundred feet away, and he hollered, OVER HERE! … and sure enough, there were my grandparents’ names, and, presumably, their remains. Later, I walked some trails at Assateague National Park and I met a little boy whose mother and aunts kept telling him in Spanish to hurry up, come on, we have to go. He tarried, disappointed they hadn’t seen the famous ponies. He wanted to converse with me in English though and told me his name was Lucero and I asked him what his family called him. He said, well some of them call me Shahzadeh. Wait, I thought, That’s not Spanish! Somehow, I discovered his father was from Iran, and Shahzedah meant “Prince.” He kept asking me if I lived there or worked there (because of my encyclopedic knowledge about the ponies) and we chatted all the way back to the parking lot. On my way out of the reserve, I saw several ponies right near the road, and I hoped my new friend and his adults hadn’t left too soon to see them.

I stayed 2 nights at an Airbnb at the southernmost tip of the Eastern shore peninsula. The erstwhile town is called Cape Charles. The very eccentric man whose beach cottage I stayed in fit the description (he was an “artist”) but I was somewhat alarmed when I parked my car in the late evening and saw on the back window of his truck an “Infowars” sticker. Nonetheless, I stayed, and “Billy,” who was almost too solicitous, showed me around, then went off to a back part of the house. I took off at 6AM and got back at about 9PM. I did have a lot of plans, but I was also aware that I did NOT want to have a conversation with my host. I was avoiding him! He wasn’t there when I got back (I imagined he was at a meeting of the society for conspiracy theories) but came in shortly. I was hot and frazzled. He asked me if I needed anything, then gave me the most delicious piece of cold seedless watermelon I think I’ve ever had. I did not see him again.

The living room of my Airbnb in Cape Charles. The host, Billy, was an artist and everything was painted! There was also a lot of art made from found objects.

As I reflected upon my trip, and the many people I’d met, I saw how easily I had categorized people: Male, Latina, kid, Italian, Right-wing, creepy, smart, dumb, on & on. I realized how we do this every day. What if we were more intentional about those interactions, and what if we approached conversations with the goal of making the world a better place?

So: what are impossible conversations?

Join us by Zoom on Sunday (or watch later on YouTube) and see what you think.

August 12, 2020: IMPOSSIBLE CONVERSATIONS ~ READ FOR SUNDAY!