Lynn's Comments: I have met many interesting folks on my travels. When I'm travelling alone on a plane, I wonder if I can guess what the person next to me does. If my seatmate and I are both keen to engage in conversation, I discover I am always wrong; I can never guess by looking at another passenger what they are like and what they do for a living. This intrigues me.
Lynn's Comments: My brother-in-law, Ralph, was a textile designer. One of the things he would do was to feel the fabric you were wearing and announce what it was made of. He also played the organ and wrote music for the United Church. We called him "a man of the cloth."
Lynn's Comments: Because they are, in essence, public speakers, I find ministers and priests to be engaging conversationalists--and unless I broach the subject, they rarely talk about religion.
Lynn's Comments: I once met a young Asian doctor on a long flight once. We hit it off well and found ourselves discussing all kinds of personal subjects. One was our parents and how we got along with them. With the promise that we would not exchange last names or contact info, we candidly opened up to each other about everything from inheritance issues to lingering resentments. It was intense. The time went by fast, and by the end of the flight, we had advised, commiserated with, and consoled each other. It was one of the most intimate and compelling discussions I have ever had--and I will never know or meet that amazing young man again!
Lynn's Comments: This is something that didn't happen but should have. Brought up in the Anglican Church, I endured countless hours sitting through painfully dull sermons and kneeling as the litany droned on. I would have given anything to see a kid launch a toy down the aisle--and I'm sure the adults would have appreciated it, too!
Lynn's Comments: When I was a kid, my mother was the staunch churchgoer. Dad, my brother and I could hardly stay awake during the services. In order to keep us from fooling around in our seats, Dad would bring big, round, white peppermints, which came in a squeaky plastic wrapper. Try as he might, he could not keep the peppermints a secret; everyone from the folks in the rows around us to the minister himself could hear the telltale sound of the wrapper. Mom would be furious. Dad would be shrugging with feigned embarrassment, and we, with a bulge in our cheek, would simply smile. To this day, when I hear the squeak of a particular kind of plastic wrapper, I am rocketed back in time to the hard pews, the cedar smell, and the sleep-inducing drone of a sermon at St. John's Anglican Church. Thanks, Dad, for the peppermints!