One has to grow up with good talk in order to form the habit of

Host: The library café was half-lit by morning — that gentle hour when sunlight still seems to think before it enters the world. Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching the gold in the windowpanes. Shelves of old books lined one wall; the scent of paper, coffee, and quiet thought filled the space. The world outside moved fast, but in here, everything paused between sentences.

Host: Jack sat at a corner table, a stack of newspapers folded beside him, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee. His tie hung loose, the morning already having taken a piece of him. Across from him, Jeeny stirred cream into her drink, the tiny swirl of white and brown spinning like a conversation not yet begun.

Host: They were surrounded by murmurs — students, old couples, friends in mid-discussion. The soft sound of human connection.

Jeeny: (softly) “Helen Hayes once said, ‘One has to grow up with good talk in order to form the habit of it.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Good talk, huh? You think that still exists?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Of course it does. We’re having one now.”

Jack: “Are we? Or are we just two people passing time between distractions?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it good — that it’s not distraction. It’s connection.”

Host: A long pause. The clinking of cups, the turning of pages, the soft hum of music from a nearby speaker.

Jack: (leaning back) “You know, I grew up in a house where silence was the only thing louder than the television. My father wasn’t a talker. My mother — she talked, but only to fill the air. Small words, safe words. Nothing that really meant anything.”

Jeeny: “So you didn’t grow up with good talk?”

Jack: “I grew up with survival talk. Polite nods. Weather. Bills. Work. But nothing honest. Nothing deep enough to stick.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “That’s the thing about good talk — it’s not about vocabulary. It’s about truth.”

Jack: “Truth’s expensive. Most people can’t afford it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we should teach them how to earn it.”

Host: The sunlight moved higher now, sliding across their table. It lit the edge of Jeeny’s face, making her eyes glow like she carried a secret warmth the world had forgotten to keep.

Jeeny: “When Helen Hayes said that, she was talking about conversation as inheritance. The kind of home you grow up inside. Good talk teaches you to think out loud. To listen. To build bridges out of words instead of walls.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful idea — but most people aren’t raised that way. Most of us learn to hide behind what sounds polite.”

Jeeny: “And then we wonder why our relationships feel hollow.”

Jack: (smirks) “You’re saying poor conversation makes poor hearts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Conversation is where empathy lives. If we never practice it, we forget how to see each other.”

Host: A small child’s laugh echoed from the next table — a girl reading with her father. He leaned close, whispering something that made her giggle again. Jeeny’s gaze softened as she watched them.

Jeeny: “See that? That’s good talk. It’s not intellectual — it’s emotional. It’s shaping her without her even realizing it.”

Jack: “Yeah. And someday she’ll expect her words to mean something, because his did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The doorbell jingled as someone left, the rush of cool air bringing the faint scent of rain. Jack looked toward the window, watching drops gather on the glass.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who grew up with that — real talk. Families that debated, laughed, asked questions. Words that had weight.”

Jeeny: “You can build that now, you know.”

Jack: “At my age?”

Jeeny: “Good talk doesn’t have an age. It has a will. It’s a choice, not a childhood.”

Jack: “Then why’s it so rare?”

Jeeny: “Because it demands listening. And most people would rather be heard.”

Host: The rain began to patter harder now, soft and rhythmic. It filled the silences like punctuation — nature’s way of underlining truth.

Jack: “You ever notice how people don’t talk anymore? Not really. They post. They react. They perform. Every word’s a transaction.”

Jeeny: “Because the world taught us to value visibility over vulnerability.”

Jack: “You always have a line ready.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I grew up with good talk.”

Host: He smiled then — genuine, small, but real. He looked at her the way someone looks at a bridge they didn’t know they needed to cross.

Jack: “So what’s good talk to you, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “It’s when the conversation leaves you different than it found you. When it lingers — not in your mind, but in your chest.”

Jack: “Like a song you can’t stop humming.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A group of teenagers walked by, laughing too loudly, their words tumbling over each other like stones skipping water. Jack watched them — the ease of their noise, the innocence of it.

Jack: “You think they’ll grow up knowing how to talk?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not yet. But if they find someone who listens, they’ll learn.”

Jack: “Listening. The lost art.”

Jeeny: “No — the hidden power. Everyone thinks good talkers rule the world. But it’s the listeners who change it.”

Host: The barista called out an order — two names, one mispronounced, laughter following. Jeeny leaned closer, lowering her voice.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Helen Hayes meant — that the world doesn’t just need good speakers. It needs people raised in the rhythm of respect. Conversation as compassion.”

Jack: “Conversation as love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light shifted again — a soft silver glow as the rain eased. The café felt suspended in time, like a pocket of peace carved out from the chaos outside.

Jack: “You ever wonder how much of who we are is shaped by the way people spoke to us when we were kids?”

Jeeny: “All of it, I think. The tone of your parents’ voice becomes the tone of your conscience.”

Jack: “Then maybe silence isn’t always golden.”

Jeeny: “Not when it teaches you to fear your own voice.”

Host: The rain slowed, the clouds beginning to part. Sunlight filtered through in hesitant streaks.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think conversation was just noise between people. But now… I think it’s how we build each other.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every word’s a brick — every question, a doorway.”

Jack: “Then this…” (gestures around) “…is home.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It can be.”

Host: The camera panned slowly away from them — two figures leaning closer over coffee, surrounded by the hum of ordinary grace. Outside, the street shone wet and alive, the morning now fully awake.

Host: And as their conversation faded into the noise of the café, Helen Hayes’s truth lingered softly between them:

Host: “One has to grow up with good talk in order to form the habit of it.”

Host: Because good talk isn’t just words exchanged —
it’s understanding cultivated,
kindness practiced,
and connection — the most human art — kept alive.