Exclusive
Sneak Preview
Book will be available April 28, 2009
The Noticer
Chapter 3
By Andy Andrews
The sun was shining
brightly as, moments later, Jones walked up onto the
Gulf State Park Pier where I had been waiting. I was
sitting on a picnic table, my feet on the bench, nursing
a soft drink and watching the fishermen.
We greeted
each other again and began to talk—mostly about me and
my life since he left. It wasn’t so much that I wanted
only to talk about me, but he was still reticent to
discuss himself. “Here and there” was the answer to
where he had been. “A lot of things” was the response to
what he had been doing. In a way, it was frustrating,
but I knew better than to push any more than I already
had.
He declined
my invitation to stay at our house, though he
congratulated me on having one. Jones pointed
underneath the pier and, affecting a serious tone,
asked, “It is nicer than your first place,
right?” Then Jones told me about Jan and Barry. He
wasn’t breaking a confidence, he explained, because he
was only telling his own part of the story
anyway. “And besides,” he added, “they’ll be telling
everyone what they’ve learned soon enough.”
As he laid
out the idea behind love expressed in different
dialects, I asked if there were more than just the two
he had revealed to the Hansons. “Yes,” Jones answered.
“There seem to be a total of four major dialects that we
use to convey and feel loved. There are combinations and
subgroups, too, I suppose, but basically, four.”
“Okay,” I
prompted, “I know about spoken words of approval, and
favors and deeds. What are the others?”
“The third
dialect,” Jones began, “is one of physical contact. This
can be in the form of a simple pat on the back all the
way to the other end of the spectrum, a sexual
relationship. A quick back rub, a head scratch, a hug or
a kiss—these are all common forms of this dialect.
People who speak the dialect of physical contact tend to
feel most loved —sometimes only—when affection is
expressed in this form.
“And that is how they
show their love as well?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Jones said. “It’s not right or wrong. It’s
just the only dialect they understand. So, for the sake
of conversation, consider the person who speaks physical
contact to be like a cat.”
I raised my
eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Cats are
almost exclusively creatures of physical contact,” Jones
answered, himself grinning like the Cheshire cat. “You
don’t really have to feed them—you know cats . . . If a
cat’s hungry, he’ll kill something. Cats don’t pay any
attention to what you say or do. No reason to call one.
He wouldn’t come if you did. Cats just want to be rubbed
and scratched. That is how they feel love. And how does
a cat express love? A cat will rub against you
with its face or back. ‘Touch me,’ a cat is saying. Some
people are the same way.”
“That is
so true!” I exclaimed. “Amazing. And what about the
fourth dialect?”
“Number
four would be love expressed in quality time,” Jones
said. “To a person who speaks this dialect, it doesn’t
matter if you touch them, do something for them, or tell
them repeatedly that you love them. The only thing that
matters is quality time together.
“Now,
you’re not a ‘quality time’ person, Andy,” Jones said
with a laugh, “but let me ask you something. Has your
wife ever said something like, ‘I wish we spent more
time together,’ or ‘You’re just not around that much’?”
I nodded
uncertainly, beginning to suspect his conclusion, and
answered, “As a matter of fact, yes, she does. And you
know, I work at home, so I always thought, What do
you mean I’m not around? How could we spend more
time together? Holy cow! I’m here all day long!”
Now Jones
was the one nodding. “Yes, you are there all day long,
but not with her. Your wife speaks the dialect of
quality time. She craves time alone with only you. That
is how she expresses her love. And for you to have a
wife who is happy and who feels secure in your love, you
must learn to speak this dialect. It is expressed
by giving her times of undivided attention, listening to
the details of her day, her dreams and concerns.”
“To be
honest, I feel kind of ridiculous that I never knew
this,” I confessed.
“Don’t,”
Jones said with a wave of his hand. “Why would you know
it? We grow up expecting everyone else to be just like
us. And they aren’t. But now that you know . . .”
“Yes, now
that I know, I can do something about it.” I paused,
trying to take it all in, then had a thought. “Hey
Jones, you said that physical-touch people were like
cats . . .” I grinned mischievously. “Do you have an
animal for quality time?”
The old man
ducked his head, sheepishly. “Yes, son, I do. I have
always likened a person who receives and expresses love
by quality time to a canary. A canary says, ‘Just be
with me!’ A canary never really notices who gives it
food or water. It doesn’t care what you say to it and
certainly does not need to be touched. A canary is
happiest when you sit and listen carefully to its song.
And a canary that is ignored will die. Not from lack of
food, but from a lack of love and attention.”
“What am I,
Jones?” I asked then, studying his face.
“You, my
friend,” Jones said with amusement, “are a puppy dog.
You, I am quite sure, feel loved by spoken words of
approval.”
“That is
exactly right!” I laughed. “But why a puppy dog?”
“Well,
think about it,” Jones said. “Tell a puppy how wonderful
he is and his whole body wags. And how do you
teach a puppy most effectively? With praise! ‘Good boy!’
‘There’s a good doggie!’ But here’s a word of caution to
those who love a puppy dog, or a person who speaks the
dialect of spoken words of approval. Nothing—and I mean
nothing—is more devastating than words of disapproval
spoken in an angry tone of voice. Puppies cower as if
they are under attack. And so do people who express and
receive love in this dialect.”
“Okay, we
have cats, canaries, and puppy dogs . . .” I was
counting them off on my fingers. “What is the animal for
favors and deeds? That’s a person like Jan Hanson,
right?”
”Right,” Jones said. “Jan—and people like
her—are goldfish.”
I laughed
out loud. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that,” I
said.
“And I’m
sure you’re gonna tell her!” he fired back at me.
“Jones,” I
responded, still laughing, “I’m gonna tell everybody.”
He
shrugged. “Well, it might not be a bad thing for folks
to know. It isn’t just married couples that can make use
of this knowledge. These dialects, when you get good at
spotting them, can help you communicate with your kids,
your friends, even people with whom you work. Yep, no
matter the age or relationship, everybody—every single
body—speaks a dialect. Won’t the world be a better place
when we understand them all?”
I thought
about that for a moment, then remembered . . . “Jones,
why is Jan a goldfish?”
“Jan is a person whose dialect is favors and deeds,
right?” the old man began. I nodded as he continued. A
goldfish also feels loved based purely on favors and
deeds. You can’t really touch them. I don’t think they
can hear you, even if you do talk to them, and as far as
quality time, they don’t care if you’re there or not! A
goldfish just wants you to feed them and clean the bowl.
And, oh yeah, straighten the ‘castle’ while you’re in
there!”
I hooted in
laughter. “You really have it nailed, Jones.”
“Well,” he
said modestly, “It’s just something I noticed over the
years. Just a little different perspective how we relate
to one another.” He stood, stretched, and remarked,
“Getting to be late afternoon. ’Bout time, I’m sure, for
you to go home and spend a little quality time with that
pretty wife of yours.”
I stood,
too, ready to go, but then was suddenly uneasy. While we
were talking, it occurred to me just how much I owed
this old man—a person about whom I knew virtually
nothing. And somehow, I loved him. And I knew he loved
me.
“Jones,” I
started, “are you sure you won’t come home—”
“Hey, I
appreciate it. I really do,” he said, “but I’m fine. I’m
not hungry, cold, or wet. Don’t you worry about old
Jones. Actually, I have another appointment. So, scat,
okay?” And he smiled at me, picked up his suitcase, and
walked me off the pier.
At my car,
I asked, “Will I see you again? While you’re here, I
mean?”
“Oh yeah!”
he answered. “And I’ll be here for a while. Be looking
for me.” Then he swept his hands over his T-shirt and
jeans. “Be looking for me . . . I’ll be the one wearing
this!”
