The first couch I remember was medium-green, upholstered in something like damask, pretty and soft. Its seat cushions needed plumping after anyone sat down. Mom would jump up and dart to the couch whenever one of us stood up from it, and she would spank the butt depressions out of the cushion.

I’m sure there was no flame retardant in whatever stuffed that sofa. No one was imbedding chemicals in our textiles then. Our pajamas were 100% cotton. Our sheets acquired wrinkles when laundered.

We ate our dinner together every night. This was some policy decision by my parents; other families we knew let the kids eat early and tried for an adult meal for the grownups. My brother and I envied those other families’ kids; we would have appreciated kid food and no criticism for some of our evening meals. We sometimes resented having to wait till Dad got home. We even thought separate dinners would be easier on Mom, although she complained when we mentioned it that she wasn’t a short order cook (whatever that meant), and she wasn’t going to be making separate dishes for us (oh). Dining with our parents we had to answer questions about our day (we never knew what to say), and we had to listen to them chat about theirs, which included them arguing whenever repair of the car or an appliance had been one of my mother’s tasks, because according to Dad she never told the repairman the right things.

But Lay Down Time was always delightful. We’d be finishing our dessert (something fruit-based) and Dad would get that happy look, when his grin pushed his cheeks up to make crescents of his eyes, and he’d say “What time is it?”

And my brother and I would yelp “Lay Down Time!” but Dad was already on the move. He always got to the couch before us. His long body filled the sofa from one armrest to the other, and we crawled on him.

It’s such a sweet memory that I recall it like it happened every day. I’m sure that wasn’t the case. I probably made a tradition out of half a dozen episodes. My brother is two years younger than I am and we had that couch till we were at least eight and ten, and he has no memory of Lay Down Time at all.

Dad sometimes got into poetry appreciation with us all gathered in the kingsize bed on Sunday mornings. That’s when he recited Wordsworth and Shelley and reached for Keats, Lindsay, Service. We often discussed science and philosophy on the walks that grew longer as I did. But it was during Lay Down Time that I remember some of his most enduring advice, those phrases that rumbled through his chest to our ears on the plushy green couch.

Maybe the lessons were more memorable because they were flawed. They seemed awesome wise when he told some of them to me, but after I grew and tested them out by saying them and living them, I learned that they were incomplete. Clever and symmetrical but missing an alternative view, one that shoots out at a tangent, maybe perpendicular to the black and white of Western argument.

Like when he said everyone’s either a leader or a follower, and told us to be leaders. We got it. And it made sense; neither my brother nor I sought a hero we’d obey. My brother acted out cowboy and soldier roles before he settled into his fantasy career as a race car driver. If I couldn’t be a wild horse then I wanted to conquer one, and after that, together, explore the world.

We neither one was a follower, but I tended to go my own way, and my brother was a very good sport. Over time he appeared to be a team player and he wasn’t the quarterback. I matured into what some folks would call a black sheep, although I was never sheepish.

I did not get high marks for working with others. I never wanted to be a teacher. The fact is, I don’t give or receive supervision well. Dad’s wisdom was incomplete when he said you’re either a leader or a follower. There’s a third way of neitherness, and my favorite people choose that.

There was another Lay Down Time when Dad first warned us that we could have the best idea in the world, but if we couldn’t communicate the idea, we might as well not even have it. It was a pithy argument for mixing the humanities into a good old science/math education, and I understood it even though I was a bit young for it (probably in third grade).

That advice lodged in me. I heard it a few more times from Dad but mostly from myself. I had ideas, and I thought some of them were very good, but they weren’t useful unless I could describe them to others. I kept reading, building vocabulary and constructing argument, but even so, I didn’t often prevail.

Over time it occurred to me that there’s more to the subject than Dad’s succinct advice. You can have the best idea in the world, and you can communicate it with accuracy and force, but you still may not get it across to the other person. For that you need effective communication, and effective communication depends as much on the listener’s receptivity as on the speaker’s skill. I have made countless articulate arguments about the meaning of life, the opportunity to create new theories, the fierceness of agnosticism and, most often, my interlocutors turned (politely) away from me, to discussions they found more attractive. Sometimes they were ruder than that. I got shined on.

I learned to speak more softly. I was conscientious about gentling my facial expressions. I started getting through to some friends.

And I didn’t like the results. I collected smarmy acolytes. I bored myself. Eventually I fell off the civility wagon and reverted to declaration.

Recently a close friend commented about me. We were relaxing at my place after a Sunday walk when Annie said “Sometimes you blow me away with your kindness. You never tell me what to do. You’re surprisingly patient.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“No really,” she continued. “Why don’t people know that about you? It seems like they have to really get to know you before they understand how kind you are.”

“That’s because I speak with such confidence and vocabulary. The immediate reaction from most is ‘Oh she thinks she’s always right. She’s obnoxious.”

Annie was silent for a moment. “Yeah, that’s it,” she said.

“I’ve learned how to talk the way people want, but it bores me. I’m no longer interested in it.”

“But …”

“Yeah. I know. The way I communicate isn’t effective. But I don’t aim for effectiveness any more.”

“I guess that’s what’s striking me. Lately all I aim for is effective communication. I’m really trying for it.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “I used to be that way. But I’m done with it now. I’ll lay it out and if someone wants to run with it, they’re welcome. But if they want to shine me on, then fuck ‘em. I just don’t care.”

Annie made marveling murmurs.

“Anyway,” I continued. “Effective communication carries too much responsibility. If I’m effective it means someone listens to me. And then I feel responsible for the results of whatever actions they take or words they pronounce that were triggered by my communication. I don’t need that anymore.”

Annie chuckled. “What do you need now?”

“Some time with my grandboys.” I patted the firm cushion of my ultrasuede sofa (a different green, and firmly packed with mystery stuffing). I brought my legs up under me. “They always settle me down. Just the way they look at the world reminds me how awesome it is.”

“I’ll bet you try to communicate effectively with them.” The smile was on her face and in her voice.

“True. True. But mostly I want them for Lay Down Time.”