Only the Lonely

I recently read an article by Dave Barry who recently made a life altering decision: to emulate his dog. Not so much to do things like drink toilet water, but to fearlessly connect with others as our canine friends so easily do. I gave the article specifically to my husband and my father. They share a common quality with Dave Barry: they're all a bit skeptical of people. Now that my dad is retired, he spends much of his time with his motorcycles and dogs. And my husband, as a farmer, spends much of his time with his tractors and cows. I worry about the amount of time they spend alone.

I also worry about my daughter. She's fiercely independent and lives three hours away, often strapped to her studies and work. I keep asking her if she's getting enough hugs – of the maternal type. She assures me she's fine, especially after visits to the pet store to hold puppies.

It just occurred to me that I never worry about my son being lonely. I actually worry more about his overactive social life. But that's a story for another blog.

It can be difficult to reach out – especially for the introverted. I worry so much about loneliness. Not for me. (Or Cole.) I'm rarely lonely, even when I'm alone. (This, could be a result of my only-childness, having spent much of my youth reading Nancy Drew, writing screenplays suspiciously similar to Grease, and playing games like Monopoly by myself.) But I obviously worry about it for others – even beyond my family. Whenever I see someone at a restaurant eating by themselves, my heart breaks a little. I say a prayer and do my best to catch their eyes just to say hello. It's probably not enough.

During our last book club, we discussed a novel called The Story of Arthur Truluv by Elizabeth Berg about an unlikely friendship between a teenage girl, a widower, and a spinster-ish teacher. It was a joy to read as these three lonely souls found each other. But what has been lingering with me in regard to this book isn't anything about the story itself. It's a comment made by one of my book club friends. "I really get this. It's like how Sundays get so long for me."

Growing up, I watched my mother talk to just about anyone in her path. Sometimes, I'd get annoyed by this. I didn't want to stand there listening to stupid adult stuff. Sometimes I'd even be embarrassed when she'd realize she wasn't talking to who she thought she was. ("Why do you keep calling me Bob?" We still get a good laugh over that.) But now I have a great respect for this ability to connect. Mom opened a shop as a retirement gig. And countless people tell me how they love stopping in to visit with her. I even catch Dad in there! Who knew he liked to visit with my mother!

I think there's lots of remedies for loneliness. Dogs and cattle are an obvious solution. But there's another one that doesn't involve animals. Heed the advice of AT&T's 80's slogan: "Reach Out and Touch Someone." Not literally obviously. But say hi to the lady next to you in the produce section. Tell her how good the mangos are. Take your book club friends to lunch. Hug your daughter every day when she's home on break even if it annoys the crap out of her. Or simply smile and say hi to the elderly gentlemen eating pizza by himself at the next table. As Mother Teresa said, "The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved."

Loneliness is a terrible poverty. But the good news? It can be cured without spending a single penny. Especially if you happen befriend a dog running the ditches. That's worked for us quite well.

Percy, former ditch runner.