Lessons learned in shutting up

            It was just a tickle really, nothing to be concerned about. Until that slight tickle turned into a fire-breathing dragon, lurking in the back of my throat, an aggravation that in two days completely destroyed my voice. The result? Laryngitis.

            For someone who's a talker, the diagnosis was like telling a fish it could no longer swim.

            Since I was a young girl, I've been a talker. My mom loves to tell the story of how she arrived at her grandparents house late one night, and I tap danced and sang for 30 minutes on top of a closed suitcase.

            Never mind that my parents thought a 3-year-old could handle a full bottle of Coca-Cola after dinner.  I was forever dubbed a talking machine by my great-grandfather but the moniker's almost a badge of honor because I come from a long line of talkers.

            The only strong silent type in the entire Hebert family is my cousin Mike, and he's one of 25 first cousins I have. The rest of the Hebert clan will sit and talk about nothing, everything and all points in between until the beer and crawfish run out.

            But even though I love to talk, I also love to listen.  As a young girl, I loved snuggling up to my grandmother while she spun outrageous stories about the latest gossip in the family. Never mind that I was only 7 years old – I was an adoring audience and she was the best story teller in town.

            My grandfather's stories were told as long fables resembling a slow-moving stream – always moving with a purpose but in no hurry to arrive at the end. His stories are the ones I remember word for word these many years later.

            I thought about the great storytellers I've known these past couple of days when I've only been able to listen, not put in my two cents' worth.

            Yesterday, I was checking out of the grocery store, and the clerk asked me a question. I had to smile, shrug my shoulders and point to my throat. I mouthed "laryngitis," and she smiled and did the talking for the both of us.

            I had the feeling that perhaps a great bit of her time was spent listening to people whine about high prices, questioning if she scanned in their coupons or talking to her like she's an indentured servant.

            Because I couldn't talk back, she was free to chat about anything she wanted and I couldn't say a word. It was one of the nicest one-way conversations I've ever had and I'll bet she thought the same thing.

            Today, I overheard teenagers talking about a problem, and instead of interrupting with a grown-up solution, I listened as they rationally reasoned their way out of the situation.

            Even when I was by myself, not having a voice brought unforeseen benefits. I love to sing along with the CD player, but because I have no voice, I was able to hear beautiful music without my off-key warbling drowning the artists out.

            I'd forgotten how clear John Denver's voice was or how Celine Dion perfectly hits those high notes. Hearing them again without my accompaniment was pretty nice.

            There were a few idiots on the road coming home this afternoon. Normally I'm yelling at them from the sound-proof comfort of my car, listing all their mental failings and their inability to maneuver a vehicle, but today, I couldn't yell at all. When I pulled into my driveway, I wasn't as aggravated as I am most days.

            Maybe keeping my mouth shut isn't such a bad idea.

 This column was originally published in the Fort Bend Herald.