Ears outnumber mouths.

My math skills can be suspect, but I think that’s true.

We can’t help but listen. Someone is always speaking loudly on a cellphone and not eavesdropping isn’t a choice. We hear the petty gripes and personal swipes whether we want to or not. We yell into our phones when we have trouble hearing the party on the other end.

I listen because I’m a storyteller

So are you. We all are. Everyone has a story to tell.

Some folks are shut-mouthed, but most people are willing to tell a story. Some are willing to tell more than they know. There are those who are inclined to give the long version of everything and are capable of talking more than others can listen. Mouths close and ears don’t. There are know-it-alls and there are say-it-alls. It could be argued that selective hearing is more common than selective talking.

I take guidance from Winnie the Pooh.

“I’m scared,” said Piglet.

“A story will help,” said Pooh.

“How?”

“Oh. Don’t you know? Stories make your heart grow.”

It’s true.

A good friend, Arlo Tweeten of Hartland, called me aside. “Aside,“ he said, and we shared stories of family, friends, basketball, Alaska, fishing, travel, eating raccoon meat, lutefisk, health (life ages a guy) and assorted tales that teetered on the fuzzy edge of memory of those thrilling days of yesteryear when we claimed to have cut trees during the day and pulled stumps at night. It was all good. I enjoyed hearing all his stories, but particularly those of seeing the polar bears in Churchill, Manitoba. I’ve always wanted to do that, but I’ve seen enough white stuff this winter. Once the snow melts, I’ll regain my desire to see a polar bear — in Churchill, not here. I appreciated Arlo’s stories.

Each day, when I returned home from school, my mother asked me what I’d learned that day. There were days when I hadn’t learned anything. That was all on me and not my teachers’ fault. I was subject to brain cramps. On those days lacking learning, Mom’s inquiry hit like a sack of wet skunks. I’d make something up. It was nincompoopery in action. Mother knew what I was doing, but was relieved that I’d possibly learned something. The question might have been stress-producing, but I appreciated her listening to my fanciful stories.

A woman called me and asked if I’d be willing to stop to see her aunt who enjoyed my peculiar scribblings. I said I would and I did. I visited with her and enjoyed her company immensely.

I stopped many times after that. Why wouldn’t I have? She was a nice woman who told wonderful stories and made me happy that both of my ears were still on my head. She said that the people who knew the least about our home area were the ones who had never visited here and the ones who had never left. She’d lead an interesting life, just as you are doing.

I’d stop listening with reluctance. Each time I bid her farewell, I’d say “Mange takk” or “Tusen takk.” Many thanks or a thousand thanks. I’m Norwegian by marriage. I said those things because they made her smile break into a chuckle.

As I left from what would prove to be my last visit, her niece thanked me and told me that not much made her aunt laugh anymore, but I did.

I knew my looks would pay off one day.

The niece added, ”She loves how you listen to her stories.”

I loved how she told them.

I’ve been told that a man listens because it gives him something to do while he waits for his turn to talk. That’s not always true. I’m a good listener. Not good enough to earn a ticker tape parade in my honor, but I listen more than some, less than others. I make an effort. I’m interested. I listen to music, the radio, audible books, the birds, the wind and people. Listening is easier than folding fitted sheets. I may be chronically clueless, but I’m curious and listening makes my understanding more acute. I love to hear stories. I listen while I can because I know my ears didn’t come with a lifetime guarantee.

If you want to make someone feel like the most important of persons, listen to him or her. You don’t have to agree with anyone. Just listen. Listening matters.

It will make your heart grow.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.