Ponderosa Skatepark in southeast Bend captured on a spring morning. (David Jasper/The Bulletin)

At a recent cookout I went to, a woman complained how her dad now gets into conversations wherever he goes, which he didn’t used to do. 

I used to feel introverted and shy around strangers, but now I relate more to her dad than to her sentiment. I felt defensive on his behalf.

Over the years — maybe due to increased trust in others after successful social interactions, or the unavoidably interactive nature of my work or just cognitive decline — I have gone from a skulking young man to a gregarious, hopefully not-boorish middle-aged fan of talking to strangers. 

I tell you, people are interesting. Talk to them and you may find you have a lot in common. Just be sure to pause and listen. Don’t be a pontificating boor or energy vampire.

Small talk is how I learned how Matt, a Safeway grocery store checker, once lived in Georgia, where I attended college. His wife grew up in Florida, where I, too, had grown up. After our chat and my stuff was bagged up, he tore off a receipt and sent me on my way. As I walked out, a bewildered feeling I hadn’t paid washed over me. I looked at the receipt and it was for headphones I hadn’t bought but the guy ahead of me had. We’d been so engrossed in our conversation that neither of us noticed I hadn’t paid.

I went back in, and we had a good laugh as things got sorted out. No way that would’ve happened if we hadn’t talked. Now, we all three — Matt, myself and the woman who’d been behind me who’d paid for both our groceries — have a story.

In fact, I’d argue that small talk is the best kind of talk: You get the dopamine and endorphins of connecting socially without the heavy soul digging of heart-to-hearts. Yet sometimes real connection occurs: Last year at Rockridge Skatepark, I reconnected with Geoff Ruddell, who I met in Bend back in 2004 when mutual friends from Tampa visited on a snowboard trip. We were talking, and I suddenly put it together. 

“Wait. Do you ride dirt bikes?” I asked, the one thing I remembered about him, except that he once lived in Tampa, too. He did, and remembered me, too. Now we’re friends.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve made a few new acquaintances at Rockridge Skatepark: Reuben, Melissa and Nate. It’s awkward when people are sharing a skateboard park and not chatting at least a little. Nate and I got to talking about the challenge of frontside kickturns and carves, both kinds of turns when you’re facing the coping, and I gave him some tips.

Early last week, I began my Thursday morning at Ponderosa Skatepark on Bend’s east side. As I began putting on my pads, I saw a woman rolling around the park. At a glance, she looked comfortable on a skateboard, maybe a couple of years into skating or more experienced but scraping off some rust after time away, like most of our fellow adults who go to the parks early.

We exchanged a “Morning” and I saw her try to ollie — a hands-free air where you pop the tail and jump with the ascending board — onto the bottom step of a small stair set. She was coming close, but didn’t pull any that I saw in between my own runs around the park. I refrained from offering unsolicited advice, so count that in my favor, please.

Maybe a half hour later, I was standing on top of a quarter pipe when she passed near me in the direction of the parking lot. 

“You’re skating good,” I said to her. Her back was to me, and as she turned toward me, a rueful smile on her face — a smile that maybe meant “Target acquired” in retrospect — I repeated it, adding, “Are you a beginner, or did you maybe used to skate?”

I know. Not great wording. What I had meant was, “How long have you been skating?” However, I don’t think Nate at Rockridge, who volunteered he hadn’t skated in 20 years, would’ve been offended by my question. It was my way of saying, “You look comfortable on a board, and if I had to guess, you’re either quickly advancing, or the rust is coming off. Keep at it.” 

 “Are YOU a beginner?” she said. 

“No,” I replied. There were some self-deprecating replies I later thought of, including, “Yep.” We skaters are always trying to learn something new.

But it was early, and I clearly wasn’t fully awake. She mumbled something that sounded like “not a beginner” and headed straight to her car. 

I’ve been trying to puzzle it out since. On the one hand, there are always some people whose brains find offense in the innocuous, that always find the slight in an ambiguous remark. Part of me wants to say to such people, “That’s life in the big city! Others also exist in the world, don’t always say the right thing, and you’re just gonna have to put up with them in communal spaces.” To Thursday’s situation, I could add, “Why are you even working on flat ground tricks in a skatepark? There’s a lot of flat asphalt and concrete where you won’t risk, heaven forfend, running into anyone else who skateboards.” 

But because I’m me, I felt bad. Bad that I had bothered. Bad like the dad who talks to strangers. Bad because to her I’m the annoying guy at the skatepark she probably told someone about. Bad because maybe she was having a lousy morning made worse by my poor attempt to be friendly.

Bad because I enjoy talking to fellow skaters, and it usually goes a lot better than that interaction Thursday. 

So, sorry/not sorry, I’m not going to stop. There are too many  Matts, Geoffs, Reubens, Melissas and Nates out there. 

Better a swing and a miss than to never swing, and always miss.