The Art of Chit-Chatting

By Ricky Fitzpatrick

My wife and I went into town this morning.

And I think that was our first mistake.

What should have been a relatively uneventful excursion into the civilized world turned into a social engagement of considerable proportions, involving no fewer than three separate acquaintances, two lengthy conversations, and enough personal information to fill a modestly sized encyclopedia.

And I was just an innocent bystander.

As The Missus talked and I stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, looking at my watch, examining the merchandise, I found myself feeling like a ten-year-old boy whose mother has run into somebody she knows at the grocery store.

Which, come to think of it, is almost exactly what happened.

But somewhere between learning about somebody's sister-in-law's recent surgery and the intimate details surrounding a distant cousin's second marriage, I came to an important realization…chit-chatting is a Southern art form.

Now, before we go any further, we need to establish exactly what chit-chatting is.

It is not necessarily gossiping. Although gossip can certainly be involved.

It is not exactly meddling, either. Although a seasoned chit-chatter can insert herself into somebody else's personal affairs with the precision of a brain surgeon and the subtlety of a bulldozer.

No, chit-chatting is something altogether more sophisticated.

It is a delicate mixture of local history, current events, family genealogy, social observation, and unsolicited speculation, seasoned generously with names, dates, marriages, divorces, medical procedures, and people who have been dead for forty years.

It is, in essence, the oral preservation of Southern civilization.

And nobody does it better than Southern women.

It usually starts with something like: "Hey, Linda! How's your mama doing?"

A perfectly reasonable question. And one might expect an equally reasonable response. But that, my friends, would be a terrible waste of an opportunity.

Instead, Linda begins by explaining that her mama has been having trouble with her hip, which reminds her of the hip replacement her Aunt Josephine had back in 2017, which was performed by the same doctor who treated her neighbor Karen’s husband after his tractor accident.

Now, Karen, as you may recall, used to be married to Ronnie Evans, whose brother worked at the mill before it closed, which was about the same time that somebody discovered Ronnie had been seeing “that woman” from over in Homer.

"You know the one. Her daddy used to sell insurance."

"Oh! You mean Charlene?"

"That's her!"

"Well, I heard she moved to Florida…"

And we're off.

What follows is a remarkable journey through three counties, four generations, two church congregations, and a pontoon boat that disappeared after a bottle of Ancient Age came into the picture.

Eventually, half an hour later, Linda returns to the original question.

"But anyway, Mama's hip is doing much better."

And there you have it. A complete conversational circle.

It's magnificent, really.

What's even more remarkable is the sheer volume of information these women possess. They know who married whom, who divorced whom, who ought to have divorced whom, and who probably shouldn't have gotten married in the first place.

They know whose children have moved away, whose children have moved back, and whose children are currently living in a camper behind their parents' house because things didn't work out.

They remember people I’ve never heard of, recognize names I cannot pronounce, and maintain an astonishing mental database of family connections that would bring ChatGPT to its artificial knees.

Now, chit-chatting between two Southern women is impressive enough. But introduce a third participant, and the entire operation moves to another level. It becomes something resembling a tennis match played on three courts simultaneously and together, but flawlessly.

One woman serves up a story about somebody's gallbladder.

Another returns with an account of a church disagreement involving the fabric on the chairs.

The third suddenly remembers that the fabric lady's nephew was arrested in 1998 for something involving a stolen john boat.

And somehow, everybody knows exactly what everybody else is talking about.

Another fascinating component of Southern chit-chatting is what I call social extrapolation.

This is the process by which a perfectly ordinary fact is carefully examined, discussed, embellished, and eventually transformed into a reasonably confident conclusion that may or may not have any basis in reality.

For example:

"I noticed Mary wasn't at church Sunday."

"Well, I heard she wasn't feeling good."

"Her husband wasn't there either."

"Really?"

"Well, you know they've been having trouble with their youngest boy."

And suddenly Mary’s entire family is under investigation. Nobody has actually accused anybody of anything, mind you…they're just “concerned”.

Now, Southern men have their own version of this activity.

Men do not chit-chat. They loaf.

Or, as it’s scientifically known, loafering.

The term is closely related to the noun loaf, as in a loaf of bread, which is something that sits around all day accomplishing very little unless somebody decides to make a sandwich.

Loafering is a predominantly male pursuit, perfected by elderly gentlemen who gather at feed stores, hardware stores, country restaurants, and other establishments where the management has long since abandoned any hope of getting them to leave. These men arrive early, claim their customary chairs, and proceed to solve the town’s problems without ever actually getting up from their seats.

It's critical to note that there are important differences between chit-chatting and loafering. 

Chit-chatting commonly involves giggling, whispering, and the aforementioned social extrapolation.

Loafering, however, involves guffawing, grunting, and tall-taling that would make the jumping feats of Dan’l Webster a gospel truth in all of Calaveras County.

To be clear though, the results from both practices are considered perfectly acceptable contributions to the cultural record. Although neither should necessarily be accepted as sworn testimony.

And while women generally chit-chat standing up, often in doorways or grocery store aisles where they can obstruct the maximum amount of pedestrian traffic, men prefer to loaf while seated. Preferably with coffee.

Of course, outsiders sometimes struggle to understand these customs. People from other parts of the country seem to believe that conversations should have a purpose, proceed in a reasonably orderly fashion, and eventually come to an end.

Bless their hearts.

They don't understand that here in the South, conversation isn't merely a means of exchanging information.

It's how we connect.

And occasionally, it's how we find out that somebody's husband has been fooling around with the church secretary. But mostly, it's how we connect.

There's something reassuring about that.

In a world increasingly dominated by text messages, social media, artificial intelligence, and people who would rather stare at their phones than acknowledge another human being, the Southern tradition of standing (or sitting) around talking about absolutely everything (and nothing) is still alive and well.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe we need a little more chit-chatting. A little more loafering. A little more time spent remembering that the people around us are more than just strangers occupying the same geographical coordinates.

Of course, I'd appreciate it if we could occasionally accomplish all of this in less than forty-five minutes. But I suppose that's asking too much.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife just ran into somebody she knows.

Y'all go on without me.

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