Waving allows us to connect in a simple, feel-good way
Not long ago, I moved from a tiny town to a small city of about 8,000 people in central Illinois to be closer to the action. You know: band concerts, ice cream socials, veterans’ sandwich sales in the park and even a professional summer theater festival, as well as a mayor who personally waters the huge flower-bedecked urns along Main Street. (Talk about good politics.)
A broken-down professor, I have been conducting a social science experiment in and around my new town. My finding to date: Waving is good; more would be better.
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An inveterate walker, I give a rather hearty wave to every car and pedestrian I confront along city streets, country roads, park lanes and rails-to-trails paths. Nine of 10 folks I meet wave back. The fraction may be higher, but the sun’s glare on windshields sometimes blocks my view.
Some wavers seem a bit startled. After all, they neither know me from Adam, nor whether I am progressive, a Donald Trump supporter or maybe even a believer in QAnon. Yet wave back, they do. Most accompany their wave with a smile, which is an added bonus. The only thing they know is that I am a human, like them, and, somehow, we’re all in this together.
There are different waves. Fortunately, I have not received anything close to the tortured figure-S wave of beauty pageant contestants atop parade convertibles. The most rewarding wave is from people in cars, windows down, when each person in front enthusiastically shoots an arm way out, at roughly 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock, and twirls an arm, always nodding or smiling as well. I call it the “all-American wave.”
I am always pleased with the “sight-unseen wave.” When I hear a car coming up from behind while I’m walking, I wave, the auto still behind me. Almost always, the driver waits until he or she is passing me by, then the hand comes out the window, enthusiastically. People seem to want to wave, if prompted.
There have also been grudging waves, but waves nonetheless. Take the wizened old farmer in his seed corn cap, astride the cab of his fully loaded Ford 250 quad cab pickup.
I sensed from a distance he was determined not to wave. His right hand tightly gripped the very top of the steering wheel. So, as he came close, I waved again. Somehow, he couldn’t help himself — eyes straight ahead, he briefly flicked up the index finger of his wheel-gripping hand. I counted it as a wave and call it “the grouchy old farmer wave.” Waves should have names.
I was introduced to waving by the old black-and-white, cowboys-and-Indians Saturday matinees of my youth. Out on the Plains, a Native American chief — maybe it was Tonto, the Lone Ranger’s companion — would solemnly hold up the flat of his right hand to approaching Indians. “We come in peace,” said the hand. That was a wave. That’s what waving is all about.
I began waving as a rural state legislator, decades ago. Being neighborly is good politics.
On our dominating, snark-infested social media platforms, the human touch is absent, and echo-chamber political sites stoke red-hot passions. Nothing neighborly here.
Waving is a healthy antidote. It might even be infectious.
Maybe more of this totally cost-free waving will remind us that, no matter our differences, we’re all in this together. We should come in peace.
