My grandfather, Harold Vance Hunter, born in 1906, was a sociable fellow. He was widowed early, but enjoyed decades of late-in-life solo travel that was never lonely. His secret, he said, was to always wear a “conversation piece” – something that could spark some banter with an amenable stranger, whether he was on a fireside barstool in a Cornish pub or at a burger joint in Albuquerque.
He might have, for example, twisted a gem-stoned Sigma Fi Epsilon ring onto his pinky when he drove his tangerine Karmann Ghia into a college town, to ensure that when he stopped for a bite someone might recognize the crest and ask what year he’d pledged. He had a collection of European watches – silver-dollar, with polished sapphires crowning the stem – that caught people’s attention. He collected football-related belt buckles and tweed scarves in the distinctive Hunter tartan, all unique enough to launch a “Tell me more!” dialogue that could unspool for hours.
