“He is interested in people,” would be the highest praise my grandmother might give about someone she knew.  Seems innocuous enough, but there was significance to it.  It meant that the individual in question, whether male or female, wanted to know your story, but not for any devious purposes. It was sincere interest in you and in knowing what made you happy or depressed.  According to my grandmother, my mother was “interested in people.”

Apparently my father, although a congenial person, was “not interested in people.”  People like him were all business or would not care to probe past the pleasantries of conversation. They wanted the news, not the background story. They would be first to declare “too much information,” if only by their body language.  As regards interest in people, the jury was still out on me.

My grandmother spent most of her latter days at the dining room table of the old farmhouse in Bowerbank, Maine in a dining room that doubled as Bowerbank’s post office. Her sister ran the post office (later a “postal station”) most of her life, and it was the hub of activity in a town that swelled to 250, when the city folks came up to the Lake, from a winter population of about 20.

She was a heavy-set woman, barely five feet tall and not one to labor over her appearance. Her role at “Hardscrabble” was to cook and clean up, but we usually had to double-check her dishes, because of her eyesight. She and my Aunt Mary lived in this house without indoor plumbing or central heating well into their eighties, always waiting impatiently for spring.

My Aunt Mary was somewhat reclusive and communicated in simple sentences and “ay-uh’s,” but she managed the post office efficiently. My grandmother took the responsibility of greeting people, sometimes with “Who is that?” because her eyesight was so poor. But if you were taken aback with her abruptness you were quickly reassured by her inquisitiveness about your family and your state of health. Through her cataract-shrouded gaze she would follow your path to a bank of cubbyholes that was Bowerbank’s post office, where you would receive your mail.

Genieve had a natural interest in people and never used their stories for her own purposes. She didn’t gossip or write down stories about people. She did not try to sell you on a church or a political party or a product she liked.  She did not hand out advice or try to convert you to her version of right living. She might remind people of habits they were trying to break, whether eating or drinking or driving too fast, but generally when she disapproved of something, she held her silence.

She bonded with anyone who would give her the time of day. When my grandmother would ask, “How are you, Lloyd?” you knew she wanted to know, and then she wanted to know about every member of your family. She was not a busybody and never talked about her acquaintances out of their earshot, but she learned what she could and expressed her admiration or disappointment to your face.

My grandmother did have prejudices, some mild racism and intolerance of divorce and alcohol. She was a proud member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, and she counseled me over and over about not taking that first drink. But if she did not know you well, she would listen and shake her head slowly, without giving much advice. After you were gone, she might go so far as to sigh, ” I don’t know what will become of that man,” but it was motherly concern, not judgment..

Despite the baggage of opinions, Genieve was appreciated by strangers because she was transparently interested in them. Visiting her in my teens I was not so interested, though she would give me the short narrative of everyone who came into the post office, while they were there, hoping I might take after my mother.  I was too self-centered to talk much about anything short of a book I was reading or the New York Yankees.  As regards people skills, I took after my father.

Now I understand how much her interest attracted people.  There was no quid pro quo in her questions; she hardly ever volunteered her own joys and sorrows unless you asked persistently. It seemed like she was born just to sit in her oak rocker at the table and listen to you.  I realize now how rare it is that someone wants to hear what you are doing without making some use of the information or perhaps out of courtesy, so they can share their story in return.  Psychiatrists do it for a fee; my grandmother did it for joy.

In my family we often talked about “having a ministry” which would be like some people speak of “having a mission.”  It could be a good thing, but too often our “ministries” get in the way of hearing people and understanding their needs. We want to graft their narrative into our narratives, make sense of their lives by comparing them to ours. The world has to make sense according to our hopes and values.

My parents were wont to classify the world as “Christians” and “non-believers.” My grandmother, although a professing Christian, would sometimes snort and say “I’m not sure God cares as much about that as we think,” scandalizing my folks.  Prudish and opinionated about many things, she was the least judgmental person I knew. Or at least she kept judgments to herself.

I admire her empathizing welcome more than I did while she was alive. I realize I have a low TMI threshold, and I would rather be known as someone “interested in people.” Even while I am disgracing her while publicly imbibing, I would like to be like her.  I would like to hoist one in her honor and lean over to greet a stranger during happy hour, to get the story, not merely the news. It’s not my first nature, but hopefully, my inheritance.