Time to Talk

A Time to Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Robert Frost

Today I delivered our local Christmas cards and some newsletters too; a simple enough task. Shouldn't take all day... My route was planned and I laid them out in neat piles on the passenger seat of the car - a plan which failed at the first bend of our narrow lane when an 'emergency stop' sent my filing into the footwell and complete disorder. No matter - we'll busk it.

'Easy-peasy,' I thought as I slipped the first few cards through letterboxes - nobody's home. I was sniffed at by muddy farm dogs - which proceeded to pee nonchalantly but with purposeful dog-reason against the car wheels to spread their dog-messages the breadth of the parish. I was snorted at by beasts in barns, their heavy breath hanging in misty clouds before their kind faces - but I met no one. Marton could well have been the Marie Celeste of villages. Easy-peasy indeed.

Nope. Not far up the road it appears this is not going to be the case. Up the road everybody was at home and everybody was going to be sociable:

'Coffee? Or tea perhaps? Go on - have a small sherry.....'

I can barely push open a garden gate or negotiate the pot holes on a lane before I am offered refreshment. I chat. I drink coffee - most welcome. I chat some more. I avoid tea. No, I won't come in thank you. More coffee? Sherry? - no thanks - later perhaps. Chatter. Lunch - No, no, I'll let you get on. Tea? Another time thank you. Finally I sit with the ancient Mrs T, who opens the door with hands floured from the pastry bowl and we talk for a while of this and that, her hands getting less and less floury as she winds them in her lap. It is very peaceable in her kitchen; a kitchen clock ticks and there's a vague electrical hum which might be the cooker or a fridge. I sense mince pies. I could sit here for quite a while. I could probably go to sleep. I am all talked out.

Talk - that's what I have mainly done today. Talked of nothing of any real consequence but made the chit chat that binds a community together - a bit like that farm dog peeing on the car tyre.

It doesn't matter, does it, that there are a hundred and one pressing tasks to do before dusk? Cliche or not, it's good to talk.