A Simple Hello

When I was a kid, after school and weekends were blank canvases to fill with imaginative ways to have fun. One of my favorite self-invented games was called Hi. Hi consisted of me walking around my neighborhood saying Hi to strangers, and keeping track of how many greeted me back. So as not to appear obvious in my intentions, I would discretely keep track with my fingers. My right hand would count those who responded positively - because I thought it was the ‘right’ thing for them to do – and the left hand counted those who snubbed me. Once a hand was full I would run home to my cardboard fort in the yard, and record my findings on a Scribble Pad: "5 hellos, 1 grouchy guy". Then I would eat a piece of candy and start over again, fueled by a sugar Hi.

Obviously, this was well before ‘don’t talk to strangers’ became the melancholy mantra of all parents, and my game would be frowned upon by the current generation. But it is one I still play today, intentional or not. And one I’ve mostly had great success with.

For a simple two-letter word, Hi carries a lot of power. It can begin a friendship, or end a fight. It can lift a spirit, or bury a hatchet. It can start a conversation, or end loneliness. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, requiring a minimal effort to make a memorable impact.

My 19 years and counting career at the Boston Herald started with a simple hello extended to a first time attendee at a newspaper conference. Several years after we met, my friend was hired as Classified Ad Director at the Boston Herald, and recruited me to join him soon after.

As a member of the Wicked Running Club, sporting a club singlet at a race will attract as many hellos as there are fellow club members, reminding us that we are part of a greater group of friends; friends who support and encourage each other to achieve our individual goals.

And I once said hello to a woman sitting next to me on a plane as I flew solo to the Chicago Marathon in 2003, chatting feverishly about my upcoming race and the causes I was raising money for. As luck would have it, my fast friend turned out to be a New Balance representative and a major sponsor of the race, resulting in a huge shipment of New Balance sneakers delivered to the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Salem a few months later.

But as simple and innocent as Hi can be, I’ve found out the hard way that it can also raise undue suspicion when interpreted as an entry for evil intentions. Last winter as I finished a cold run with a friend on a Saturday morning, we saw a little boy at Forest River Park pulling his sled. "Hi!" I yelled instinctively, "How’s the sledding?" He allowed himself a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, and continued on with his head down, looking sullen and sad. My running partner, who works at a Salem school, turned to me and said matter-of-factly "Don’t you know you’re not suppose to talk to children you don’t know?" "Of course I know that," I said awkwardly, recalling the innocence of my childhood Hi game, and sadly realizing how different the world is for today’s kids.

But one of the funniest Hi gone wrong stories I’ve heard was from my friend Lisa who, while boating with a friend, pulled into an unfamiliar cove where boaters were enjoying a leisurely afternoon. As they cruised around looking for a mooring, Lisa smiled and waved enthusiastically to her floating friends, only to find herself being waved over by the Harbormaster for some questioning. Apparently he had received several complaints about an unfamiliar and suspiciously friendly female boater, who they feared was ‘casing the cove’. So much for the myth of the implied boating bond.

Not one to be easily discouraged, I still say hello to strangers, but my approach has become more subtle, usually just a smile accompanied by a silent head nod. "5 hellos, 1 grouchy guy" I note to myself as I exit a local coffee shop, reminding me that while some things have changed, other things have remained the same.

Clean Criminal

It’s easy to find me at a party. I’m the one picking up your dirty plate the moment you put it down and fluffing up the couch pillow when you get up from your seat. I’m consolidating food trays and washing the dishes so you can relax and chat with friends. Which would not be surprising, except for one thing. These are not my parties- I just act like they are. Perhaps it is my "I’m not worthy" attitude that fills me with guilt at the thought of relaxing while someone else waits on me. Or maybe I’m so appreciative of being invited that I overcompensate by making sure I leave your house even cleaner than it was before I arrived. Or it could be that my social awkwardness is easier to handle when I keep myself busy, making exciting small talk such as "Can I take your plate?"

At a recent cookout for my running club (which I was also not the host of), I helped with everything from serving food to cleaning up. Not because I had to, not because I was asked to, just because I was there. And at the end of the event as guests left full and relaxed, I was starving and badly in need of a nap, leaving one departing guest to ask if I had been elected as Club Janitor. If so, she laughed, the job was mine, as no one else in his right mind would ever want it.

Being born with a ‘janitor gene’ is not a role I relish. Why would anyone choose to live a life tormented by trash and distressed by disarray? I can’t eat a meal at home unless I’ve washed every pot and pan I cooked it in. I can’t leave the house for work until the bed is made. I can’t relax and watch TV at the end of a long day if I spy a spot of lint leering at me from the rug. And while having someone energetically sweeping behind you might be great in the sport of curling, it is not as endearing if you are simply trying to walk across the kitchen floor without being harassed about the dirt falling off your sneakers.

I’m not the only one suffering from this alleged affliction. Grabbing a coffee at a local shop where you add your own cream and sugar, I wait patiently as a woman well beyond retirement age, also a customer, uses a napkin to wipe up the mess left by others into her hand, and tidies up the sugar packets. "I was always the clean up girl", she says with an apologetic laugh as I stare into the eyes of my future self. And in the restroom of a local restaurant I spot a tiny tidier, no more than 12 years old, dutifully wiping down the wet sink, sealing her future fate as ‘one who randomly cleans up behind others’.

But there is another Salem citizen who may have us all beat. He spends his days cleaning up the entire city of Salem. Not because he gets paid to do it, and certainly not because he created the mess- just because he likes things neat. You will often see his bags full of other people’s trash lined up along the fences of public areas ready for pick up, an act of altruism so genuine it deeply touches the heart of this fellow picker-upper.

The life of a scouring scoundrel is not easy, and I’m often blamed for throwing things out that I never knew existed in the first place. Your favorite sweatshirt is missing? "Maybe Beth threw it out." Can’t find yesterday’s newspaper? "Beth probably threw it out." Those missing paintings from the Gardner Museum? "I think Beth threw them out." Apparently innocent until proven guilty doesn’t apply to a defense of acute cleanliness. Nor does anyone feel the need to apologize when they find the allegedly tossed trinket, as if my reputation as a clean criminal makes me deserving of blame regardless of my innocence. Reminding me that having a ‘spotless’ reputation is not always what it is cracked up to be, and that is a dirty, rotten shame.