FoxCraft

Something Fishy

For someone from the prairie, an aquarium is a fascinating place. Where I grew up, people talked about going to “the river” without needing to name it as the Missouri, because it was the only river within 100 miles. In my experience, “fish” meant bluegills, perch, bass, northern pike, walleye, bullheads, carp, and breaded fish sticks at the school cafeteria every other Friday.

So what were the first kinds of fish we saw when we walked into the Denver Aquarium? Bluegills, perch, bass, and walleye.

Fortunately, that was only the beginning. There were sharks, relatively small but still inspiring respect. (We declined the opportunity, available to those 10 and older, to swim with them.) There were moray eels, in an off-putting lime green, with surprising teeth and cold, predatory eyes. The joke based on the Dean Martin song about “that’s a moray” will never be the same. There was the giant octopus stuck to the side of its tank in a tangled blob of tentacles. There were gnarled rockfish and spiny sea urchins and pulsating jellyfish. There were delightful rainbows of busy small fish in dazzling yellows, electric blues, and dapper white and orange stripes.

There were the otters. Two of them—perhaps it was their turn on duty—were swimming laps, showing off for visitors. They slid into the water, shot to the bottom of the pool, zipped past the glass where we stood and kicked off against it with the white pads of their broad hind feet, added a back flip or a couple of rolls for dramatic effect, rippled up onto the bank, and started all over again. Their short front legs stayed tucked against their sleek, muscular bodies, with propulsion and steering coming from their back legs and powerful tails.

They dived and rolled and spun in the water with casual skill, as cool as skateboarders grabbing air. There was no eye contact, no demonstration of delight at their own abilities, no apparent awareness of their audience—just that competence that is so far beyond arrogance it is the ultimate in cool. We moved on, reluctantly, only because a family came up behind us and we didn’t want to get caught shoving small children out of the way so we could keep watching the otters.

Almost as fascinating as the otters, though, were the seahorses. When I was about seven or eight, one of my Christmas gifts was a starter collection of seashells, about 20 of them mounted in a box. Among them was a seahorse. It was perhaps an inch long, a dried-up beige thing frozen in place with its little horse face and its curled-up tail.

These seahorses came in soft colors—pinks, blues, oranges, and greens—so perfectly camouflaged among the plants and rocks that we had trouble finding them all and watching them became a game of “Where’s Waldo.” Clutching the plants with their tails, they bowed and stretched and floated in the water like a miniature carousel in constant motion. One of them, temporarily losing its grip, flipped its tail repeatedly, rather like a calf roper on an off day, until the loop finally caught and it was safely anchored again.

For years, the word “seahorse” to me has carried with it the image of that colorless, rigid little creature from my shell collection. It was marvelous to have that image replaced by the sight of living seahorses. They were so delicate, so flexible, so colorful, so alive, that they were enchanting.

It was a long way from bullheads, carp, or breaded fish sticks.

We're Not in Oz Any More, Toto

It takes a long time to drive diagonally across Kansas. Our starting point, upper east, was rolling prairie, river breaks, and even—according to my accompanying geologist—a couple of outcrops of genuine rock. By the time we got to the lower western part of the state, however, we could see clearly—for miles and miles and miles—why the first word that comes to mind when you say “Kansas” is “flat.”

Dodge City, that Wild West legend, was initially a bit of a disappointment. The famed Boot Hill is now paved over and occupied by a substantial city hall building. It was only used as a cemetery for six years after the town was first founded. Even in its active period—if “active” is a word one can apply to a cemetery—it only contained about 20 graves.

Even though its name evokes the Old West, Dodge City today looks startlingly industrial. The first and strongest impressions it makes, on the nose as well as the eyes, come from the huge feedlots and meat processing plants on the edges of town. Actually, though, the feedlots are probably more authentic representations of the town’s past than the replicated store buildings at its museum. After all, it gained its fame as a cow town. All those wild cowboys only went to Dodge because of the huge herds of cattle they were hired to drive there. In the town’s wild and wooly days (Why “wooly,” anyhow? We’re talking about cattle here, not sheep.), the loading pens packed with cattle, waiting their turn to be loaded onto the trains, probably looked and smelled a lot like the feedlots do today.

Then there is Liberal, Kansas—named, apparently, for the area’s first homesteader, Mr. S. S. Rogers. In a vast, dry prairie where creeks were few and far between and most people who had water charged travelers for it, Mr. Rogers shared his water for free and gained a reputation for liberality.

The main highway through Liberal has been renamed “Pancake Boulevard.” That’s pancake as is “flat as a,” apparently. For the past 50-some years, Liberal has engaged in a friendly rivalry with Olney, England, staging every spring what claim to be, and probably are, the world’s only international pancake races. Women in aprons, flipping flapjacks in skillets, run through town in observance of Shrove Tuesday.

Still, despite having driven across three-fourths of the state the long way, we can’t honestly say we have seen everything of significance in Kansas. We missed the landmark that could have been the highlight of our trip. We were a mere 40 or 50 miles away from Cawker City, and we drove on by, oblivious to our missed opportunity. This is what can happen when you travel without a proper map. We didn’t get to see the world’s largest ball of twine.

"Are You a Man or a Mouse?"

The photo in a recent newspaper was eye-catching. A plump mouse was standing up on its hind legs, either whispering into or about to nibble on the ear of—a cat. The cat was looking off into the distance, wearing the detached expression of someone undergoing an invasively intimate medical procedure. It seemed to be trying to pretend the whole humiliating episode was simply not happening.

The accompanying AP article described a research project in which a group of Japanese scientists used genetic engineering to wipe out mice’s natural fear of cats. Instead of fleeing or cowering at the sight or smell of felines, the altered mice approached, snuggled with, and tried to play with the cats who were their companions in science.

The researchers said the cats they used were domestic and docile. Presumably, they were also well-fed. There was nothing in the article about the percentage of fearless mice who failed to survive the experiments.

According to the newspaper article, this research shows that fear is genetically hardwired in the brain rather than learned from frightening experiences. Personally, I think it’s more reasonable to conclude that fear can come from both sources. If you’re interested in finding out more about the fearless-mouse project, the study was published in the November 8, 2007, issue of Nature magazine.

The really significant issue related to this research, however, is much more serious. The big question is whether we—in our work places, our schools, our public buildings, and, above all, the sanctity of our homes—are prepared to cope with fearless mice.

Last fall our house suffered an invasion of the furry little varmints. We were first alerted to their presence early one morning, when I heard suspicious rustling noises in the kitchen. I knew it wasn’t my spouse filching from my hoard of chocolate. For one thing, he was still innocently tucked into bed. Besides, I know better than to keep my stash in a place as obvious as the kitchen.

Investigation revealed a disturbing amount of mouse-related evidence in one of the kitchen cupboards. We set traps, washed pots and pans, and tried not to think about the Hanta virus as we scrubbed out cupboards with bleach. After a couple of our uninvited guests succumbed to traps baited with peanut butter, and after we covered the holes they had used, we went back to a mouse-free lifestyle.

A few weeks later, rearranging furniture, I moved our rowing machine. Part of its frame consists of a hollow steel tube about an inch and a half in diameter, with an open top about 18 inches off the floor. That tube was filled with some 20 unshelled pecans. One of our enterprising little invaders had decided this would be the perfect spot for a hoard.

To get each pecan into the cache, the mouse first had to haul it out of a plastic bag inside a cardboard box, then transport it halfway across a large room. Then it had to hop up onto the base of the machine, climb a fairly steep incline, jump across to another slanted piece of the frame, climb that, then jump down to the edge of the open tube—all the while carrying a pecan almost half its own size. It made this journey at least 20 times, not counting any extra trips due to slipping, falling, or dropping its cargo.

When a critter is blessed with this kind of agility and persistence, it has enough going for it. It doesn’t need reckless courage as well.

Creating mice who don’t hesitate to cozy up to cats in controlled laboratory conditions is bad enough. But think of the possible consequences if they escaped to terrorize the outside world. You innocently open a kitchen drawer, and there stands a defiant mouse, waving a small red flag and squeaking, “Down with the cat-lovers!” It is wearing a tiny tee-shirt bearing the slogan: “Revenge of The Hanta Hordes!”

We have to stop these researchers now. Let’s keep the world safe from rodent rage.

Merry Christmas

Random Christmas observations drawn from personal experience:

If you wait to mail gifts to distant loved ones until a few days before Christmas, when it’s too late for them to arrive before December 25, the lines at the post office are much shorter.

Why is it, that after you’ve bought a gift for one person on your list, you keep finding things in store after store that would be absolutely perfect for that person?

In my shopping the last couple of weeks, Christmas and otherwise, I’ve noticed that store clerks everywhere (well, okay, in the six or seven stores I’ve shopped at) are saying, “Have a nice day,” instead of, “Happy Holidays,” or, “Merry Christmas.” Is this an attempt to avoid the whole who-do-we-offend-this-year political correctness issue? Or are they, by the third week in December, simply sick of the whole holiday routine?

When I buy Christmas wrapping paper, I judge it by two criteria: First, of course, it has to be on sale. Second, its design needs to include some straight lines both horizontally and vertically. This is a great help in cutting straight edges when I’m wrapping gifts. Despite this particular obsessive quirk, my wrapped gifts generally look as if they were done by an eight-year-old who was using dull scissors and who couldn’t find the tape.

But no wonder you can never find the tape when you need it. The label says it all: it’s “invisible.”

Blessings to all those of you who actually write, print, and send out Christmas letters—before Christmas, yet. Even though I’ve never done one, I love getting them. It’s great to hear about your year.

Luckily, each year, about three-fourths of the way through my Christmas shopping, I wake up and remember that giving gifts is simply another way to say, “I love you.”

May your Christmas be a wonderful time of celebration with those you care about most.

W00t in the World?

Merriam-Webster has announced its word of the year for 2007—“w00t.” No, despite the fact that it just gave my spell-checker palpitations, that wasn’t a typo. This “word” is spelled—if “spelling” is the correct term—with zero in place of the letter o.

“W00t” comes from the world of electronic game-playing, where it is used as an exclamation of pleasure or triumph. It was chosen through a poll that was conducted online, which may explain why it received enough votes to become the word of the year. Why it is produced with numbers instead of letters remains, to me at least, unclear.

This depresses me greatly, for two reasons. First of all, I had never heard of “w00t.” I would like to believe this merely reflects the fact that I don’t play electronic games. I don’t even indulge in FreeCell and computer solitaire any more, having realized several years ago that I was becoming way too skilled at both and not liking what that said about how I was spending my time. Still, having a venerable institution like Merriam-Webster choose as its word of the year a term completely unfamiliar to me makes me feel terribly out of touch, stodgy, last century, and—okay, I’ll just say it—old.

Secondly, having had a close lifetime relationship with words and a somewhat more distant relationship with numbers, I have always believed the two to be separate species. True, they interact regularly, working together cordially in the common interest of clear communication. Yet each is true to the laws of its own kind. We don’t “spell” numerals, any more than we punctuate words with decimal points.

I suppose “woot” works well enough as a word, though it does sound as if it belongs in a “Tarzan” movie. (Jane: “Here come the great apes! I’m saved!” Apes: “Woot, woot, woot!”)

Edgar Rice Burroughs, however, would have spelled it the old-fashioned way, with four actual letters taken from the alphabet. Replace two of those letters with numbers, and you no longer have a word. Instead, you have produced an awkward hybrid.

Some hybrids, most notably the mule, are useful creatures with a well-earned and respected place in history. Others, such as the lion-tiger combination called a “liger,” seem to be mere curiosities, produced to prove that it can be done.

“W00t” belongs in the latter category. We can only hope, that, like most hybrids, it proves to be sterile.

One Small Christmas Word

It’s time for my annual rant about the increasingly outrageous expansion of what used to be “Christmas” into a two-month extravaganza of over-eating, over-scheduling, and over-spending called “the holiday season.” Let’s focus for just a moment on holiday stress.

If I see one more article about coping with the stress of the holidays, I just may scream. Not, you understand, that I am stressed or anything. I will admit to being profoundly irritated, though. It just doesn’t seem reasonable to complain about holiday stress when so much of it is self-inflicted.

My own suggestion to reduce stress is to employ, early and often, one short word. No, not that word. Admittedly, it may have its place—such as when it’s 11:47 p.m. on Christmas Eve and you are attempting to put together something that the directions blithely assure you can be assembled “in 15 minutes with a few simple tools,” and you’ve been working on it for three hours and you have several small parts left over. In such a situation, feel free to use whatever words come to mind, as often and as emphatically as seems appropriate.

And no, although it certainly can be useful, “no” isn’t the word I’m suggesting, either. The word I recommend using lavishly at this time of year is “why.”

“I have to bake six dozen cookies for the cookie exchange at work.” Why?

“It’s the weekend after Thanksgiving; we have to put up the outside Christmas lights.” Why?

“The Christmas letter has to go out by December 15.” Why?

“I have to get gifts for all 47 people in the extended family.” Why?

“I don’t care what the in-laws want; we have to get together with the whole family on Christmas morning.” Why?

I’m certainly not suggesting you should turn into a Grinch and skip Christmas altogether. It can be a wonderful time of sharing traditions with the people you care about most. Just stop and think about why you do the things you do this time of year. Consider whether the activities are enjoyable, whether they are important to someone in your family, or whether they matter enough to you to be worth doing at all.

If writing a Christmas letter or sending out cards to a long list of relatives and friends is fun and helps you keep in touch with people, then fine. If it’s a hassle and you hate it, why not skip it? You can keep in touch just as well with a spring letter or a summer one—or better yet, emails and notes throughout the year.

If you truly love baking Christmas cookies and want to have dozens of them, that’s great. But if you make them because you assume you should, or you know you’re going to eat too many of them and hate yourself for it, or you end up throwing half of them away because they get stale—then in the name of Saint Nicholas, Rudolph, and all the elves, why do them at all?

By all means, participate in the events and traditions you enjoy this time of year. But before you commit yourself unthinkingly to a list of seasonal shoulds, stop and ask one small question. “Why do this?”

If the answer is, “Because I want to,” then go for it. Have a wonderful time—and a Merry Christmas.

Hysterical Chickens and Historical Outhouses

Thanksgiving is a time for reflection, for gratitude, for taking a few moments between the cranberry sauce and the pumpkin pie to appreciate life’s blessings, both major and minor. This may be or may not be why, over Thanksgiving dinner with a group of friends, we wound up discussing Mike the headless chicken.

Real name. Real chicken. Mike, for a few golden months back in 1945 and 1946, was the most famous resident of Fruita, Colorado. His notoriety was the result of a botched Sunday-dinner style execution. His owner, intending to behead the young rooster in traditional fashion, aimed a little high. He did indeed chop off most of the head, but most of the chicken’s brain stem was left intact. Mike not only survived, but thrived for an additional 18 months, thus proving something most of us would already suspect—that a brain isn’t really necessary to the everyday functioning of a chicken.

Mike’s owners put water and grain into his esophagus with an eyedropper, took him on a national tour during which thousands of people paid a quarter apiece to see him, and no doubt sincerely mourned his death when he eventually choked to death. For the whole story, see miketheheadlesschicken.org/story.html.

More than 60 years later, the town of Fruita still celebrates Mike’s unusual life each spring with a two-day Headless Chicken Festival.

Mike’s inspiring story came up over Thanksgiving dinner when one of the guests mentioned that she used to live in the Fruita/Grand Junction area. Another guest immediately brought up the headless chicken, which tribute to the fame of her former community caused the first guest to roll her eyes and shudder. Apparently she would prefer to see Fruita known for its excellent orchards and wineries rather than its famous fowl. She probably has a point, though you have to admit a public that breathlessly follows the latest escapades of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton may be culturally more attracted to headless chickens than to peach orchards.

It might have made her feel better had I thought to tell her about the institution that for several years was one of the claims to fame of my home town of Gregory, South Dakota—the outhouse museum. Some of the little buildings scattered across a vacant lot were original; others were reproductions. One was the outhouse in which a locally famous horse thief had hidden from a posse. Another—the highlight of the collection—was not merely a two-holer, but a two-story four-holer. The second level, presumably, was designed for easy non-shoveling access during harsh South Dakota winters. And in case you’re wondering about practicalities, the upper floor was set back from the lower to eliminate chances for unfortunate incidents.

The display never did quite achieve more than regional fame, and as far as I know it is now closed. Perhaps the fault was its lack of detailed research—the provenance of several of the buildings was suspect, and the historical accounts were simply full of holes. Or maybe it needed to pay more attention to the adage, “When you’re number two, you try harder.” Or perhaps the problem was its management. It may have done better under the supervision of a board of directors—a privy council, as it were. Or maybe an outhouse museum simply wasn’t exciting enough to move the general public.

But you never know—it was worth a try. The country is full of small towns that would like to get a small share of the traveling public’s vacation dollars. Some places, like the Black Hills, are blessed with an abundance of scenic and historic riches to tempt the curious tourist. Others have the resources to build exhibits like the Spam Museum (the edible kind, not the email kind) in Austin, Minnesota, or to annually redecorate the onion-domed Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota.

Smaller towns have to be more creative. So they sponsor outhouse races, bedstead races, turkey races, frog races, cockroach races, hog-calling contests, or husband-calling contests. They develop festivals and exhibits around whatever resources their history or their imaginations may suggest. It might be corny; it might be silly; it might be undignified. But what the heck—it just might be fun. And there's always room in the closet for another silly tee-shirt.

After all, whether it's a headless chicken or an array of outhouses, the important thing is not to squawk about what's missing, but to go with what you have.

Turkeys in Tights

A 60th anniversary party for one’s parents is a big deal—worth dressing up for, even. So when I packed my suitcase for the occasion I put in a nice dress, my good shoes, the curling iron, and not one but three pair of panty hose.

This redundancy should have been enough to guarantee having one good pair of stockings, but it wasn’t. Two pair had runs in them, and the third was badly snagged. Almost certainly, no one except me would care or even notice. Still, dressing up just isn’t dressing up without decent panty hose.

There’s never a clothes-transforming fairy godmother around when you need one, so solving the problem meant a quick stop at the grocery store on our way to the party.

I asked a teenage clerk where I could find panty hose, and she graciously took me to the right aisle. “We don’t have a lot left right now,” she said. “The hunters have been buying them for their turkeys.”

Hunters? Turkeys? What on earth do panty hose have to do with turkey hunting?

Maybe it’s a come-on, favored by hunters who can’t find D-flat on a turkey call, to get the birds within shooting range. “Hey, girlie, I got some new nylons here. Ecru. They’re yours, if you make it worth my while.”

The hunters are targeting toms, though, which makes this idea seem unlikely. Cross-dressing as a common activity for either hunters or turkeys is simply not something one wants to contemplate.

True, male turkeys are obviously proud of themselves. Just look at the way they fan out their tails and strut their stuff to impress the ladies—even if, honestly, it doesn’t take all that much to impress a female turkey with a brain the size of a peanut. But it’s simply too big a leap of imagination to go from showy strutting to a chorus line made up of wattle-shaking toms in tights.

And how would a turkey get into a pair of panty hose, anyway? It would be almost impossible to pull them up without thumbs. Besides, their spurs would tear holes in the nylon.

Presumably, of course, the hunters slide their trophy birds headfirst into a pair of panty hose as a good way to keep the feathers from being damaged on the trip to the taxidermy shop. This use for stockings might be a bit unorthodox, but it it’s certainly practical.

It also offers a whole new way to talk about trophy birds. “What’s that one? A size C? Oh, D? That’s not bad. But take a look at this guy—queen size, for sure. Maybe even a queen-plus. Just look at the size of those thighs.”

Looking impressive, after all, is the whole point of hunting trophies. And nothing quite sets off a nice pair of drumsticks like black fishnet panty hose.

"Green" Buying

According to that wise philosopher Kermit the Frog, “It’s not easy being green.”

Kermit didn’t know the half of it. The difficulties of being a green frog are nothing compared to the challenges of being a “green” human being.

You may or may not recycle. You may or may not use energy-efficient light bulbs or buy organic produce. You may or may not believe global warming to be a problem. But I would be willing to bet Al Gore’s electric bill that you would agree with the statement, “We need to use our planet’s resources wisely.”

One way to do that is through “green” buying. Unfortunately, this is not as simple as you might think.

The other day I got a catalog in the mail—printed, of course, on recycled paper. This company advocates “less wasteful consumption.” They sell all sorts of conservation-minded stuff like solar panels, battery chargers, energy-efficient light bulbs, and composting commodes. I’m sure a lot of their products are quite useful and genuinely “green.”

Then there are the more dubious things. Like the clothes and household stuff made from organic cotton and bamboo. True, the flannel bathrobe made from organic cotton costs $89, plus shipping, as opposed to the $19 you might spend for a flannel bathrobe at Wal-Mart. But you can feel so much more virtuous when you wrap up in the organic one. Never mind that both the garments are imported from China, traveling halfway around the world via ships and trains and trucks that use lots of good old-fashioned fossil fuels.

Or you can order fire-starters to use in your energy-saving wood stove. These are made from recycled church candles. You can be green and ecumenical at the same time, since the starters are 30% Lutheran, 30% Catholic, and 40% other denominations. Of course, you could eliminate the cost of hauling candle stubs back and forth if you just stopped in at a local church and asked them to save their used candles for you.

Then there are the decorative composting containers, designed to fit under your sink or sit with eco-pride on your kitchen counter and hold up to a week’s worth of scraps. They range in price from $17 to $42, plus shipping. A recycled ice cream bucket or yogurt container would serve the purpose just as well—but where’s the green glamour in that?

Green buying can even extend into the afterlife. You can return the remains of your beloved pet to the earth in an eco-friendly manner with a bamboo pet coffin. Not just any bamboo, either. No, these are made from “fair-trade-certified bamboo”—a variety, by the way, that pandas do not eat. They are hand-woven in a small family-run factory in—guess where? China.

If you chose a less ostentatious but no less eco-friendly way to return your pet’s remains to the earth, you could just bury it in the back yard in a cardboard box. With the $350, plus shipping, you would save by not buying the bamboo pet casket, you could donate a lot of food to your local animal shelter.

My favorite item in the whole catalog, however, is the “Ellie Pooh” brand paper. You can get a narrow notebook, perfect for your to-do lists, for only $9, plus $6 shipping. The same price gets you a cube of 100 4-inch-square sheets in a cute little cardboard box.

That seems expensive, you think? Ah, but this isn’t ordinary paper. This is made—without bleach or acid—from 25% recycled paper and 75% elephant dung. Organic, of course, and no doubt gathered by hand. When you think of the labor involved just in collecting the raw materials, not to mention the processing, the prices seem quite reasonable for such a unique end product.

Too bad the “Ellie Pooh” company doesn’t make stationery, but maybe people were reluctant to lick the envelopes. Of course, you could just make your to-do lists on the back of recycled junk mail envelopes, but then you’d miss out on the self-satisfaction of having helped the elephants of Sri Lanka.

If you think it’s important to use the Earth’s resources well, you could certainly order products like this from catalogs like this. Or you might try a different approach—not as eco-trendy, perhaps, but at least as eco-friendly. It’s simple—stop and think before you buy. Don’t assume that buzzwords like “organic” or “green” or “recycled” automatically add up to wise purchasing.

Think before you spend. Otherwise the only “green” in your purchases might be the color of the money that gets recycled out of your pocket and into someone else’s.

"Have a Nice Day."

Customer service is not necessarily about efficiency. It is not necessarily even about getting a problem solved—although that certainly is a nice bonus when it happens.

Customer service is about treating the customer like a person.

First case in point: Two young clerks, on different days, at the same store. Both of them were undeniably competent. They rang up my purchases and processed my debit card with quick efficiency that got me through the checkout line with commendable promptness. Yet I wouldn’t give either of them a passing grade in customer service.

The young woman said all the things she was probably supposed to say—hello and did you find everything and please sign here—but with no more courtesy than a robot would have shown. Her only sign of humanity was her response when I asked her if she had already put the receipt into the bag with my purchases. Her “yes” was impatient, with a touch of eye-rolling “duh—of course.” Not being her mother, I didn’t appreciate her tone.

The young man, a few days later, simply didn’t talk to me at all. No greeting, no acknowledgement, not a word until he printed out the credit slip and said, “I need you to sign this,” with utter disinterest. I was tempted to sign my name “Darth Vader” just to see if he would notice.

Second case in point: An equally young clerk at a different store, who said “hello” and “did you find everything” as if he meant them, who looked up a missing price with a “no problem” attitude, and who joked about having only 17 minutes left on his shift—“16 and a half, now.” We were both smiling as I left.

Third case in point: I called an airline to find out whether they had any sort of emergency fare that might help out one of my friends who needed to get home after having a vacation interrupted by emergency surgery. I was, of course, answered by an automated system. Holding firmly onto my patience by its back hair, I made my way dutifully through the menu of choices until eventually I was connected to a living, breathing human being. No, she told me, there was no such fare.

It wasn’t the answer I wanted, though it was the answer I expected. What I didn’t expect was her warmth. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “We probably should have that type of fare, but we don’t. I’m really sorry I can’t help you.”

By the time we ended our brief conversation she was passing along her best wishes—sincere ones, I am convinced—for my friend’s swift recovery. Even though she couldn’t do anything to solve my problem, she responded to me as one human being to another. I felt treated with consideration and respect, so I hung up the phone with a positive impression of the airline in spite of the negative answer.

Of course, I don’t expect to exchange life stories or meaningful conversations on a customer service phone or in the supermarket checkout line. I understand that greeting customers must become formulaic, routine, and largely mindless: “How are you today?” and “Did you find everything you needed?” and even the dreadfully clichéd, “Have a nice day.”

It just seems to me that extending courtesy and warmth must make a sales clerk’s job much more enjoyable as well as pleasing the customers. It doesn’t take much, just a brief acknowledgment that there’s another human being on the other side of the counter.

There’s nothing wrong with clichéd conversation, especially if it’s offered with a genuine smile. Because there’s another cliché involved here. The one that says, “The customer isn’t an interruption of your job; the customer is your job.”

Have a nice day.