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A failure to communicate

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A failure to communicate

I heard what you said, but I don’t know what you meant

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A failure to communicate

Everyone around here has heard of The Colonel’s chicken, Eischen’s chicken, Rooster’s chicken, Golden Chick’s chicken, and I served up Easy Stop’s chicken for dinner back in the ‘80s. There’s still some who remember The Chicken Shack west of Hennessey where the golf course now stands, but I bet you’ve never heard of Jesus Chicken.

Yes, Jesus Chicken.

I heard about it at Taggart’s. No, they don’t serve fried chicken. It’s still the best garden center, but Mauricia said her husband had picked up Jesus Chicken.

“What?”

“Jesus Chicken,” she said again as if everyone in the Free World knew what she meant.

“What?”

“Chick-fil-A,” she finally said.

The lightbulb finally went off: it’s closed Sundays.

Then the other day at the doctor’s office I told the nurse that she’d lost weight, looked great, and I loved her hair.

She said she’d changed her hair because of her “wisdom highlights.”

“Your what?”

“Wisdom highlights,” she said again, and could tell I was not wise to what she meant.

“Gray hair!” she said.

After she gave me two breathing tests and asked if I was OK I said, “Sure.”

“If you aren’t, you need to know that floor isn’t very forgiving,” she said.

That one I understood. I had firsthand (or right hand and shoulder) experience with the concrete on my front porch last summer.

There are lots of times when many of us just don’t get it.

Picture it: a long time ago when a friend roped me into her writing class, another writing group, and their state convention. On the first night of

On the first night of the convention I remembered she’d told her high school English students to listen to what she said “because every word I utter is a pearl of wisdom.”

There was an open bar reception that night, and when it was her turn she ordered, “Scotch.”

“Neat,” said the bartender.

“Yes,” Marj said, and smiled.

Then she was handed a large glass of straight (neat) Scotch.

No ice.

No soda.

No laughter.

No pearls of wisdom.

Just an audible gasp!

Which may be her reaction when she reads this. At least I didn’t tell the story about her taking her senior English class to see “The Silence of the Lambs” when she thought it was about baby sheep.