Believe it or not, I used to be rather cool. This was before you were born, probably, but I have pictures. I was aloof and enigmatic, unsmiling, and I liked the monosyllabic. Someone said, “It’s a beautiful day today.” I said, “Right.” Flat tone. Irony. My dad was a friendly guy who always made small talk with clerks and waitresses (“So how’s it going then?”), which I found embarrassing and stood apart from him so people wouldn’t know we were related.

That was long ago and a person learns by experience and now I’m so far from cool I wouldn’t know it if I saw it. I am an advocate of cheerfulness. I believe in good manners. I like making small talk, just as Dad did.

Six a.m. at the MSP airport, a February morning, long lines of sleepy travelers snaking their way toward Security, and I approach the scanner and a TSA lady sees that I haven’t removed my shoes and says, “You’re not over 75, are you?” and I say, “Darling, you’ve made an old man very happy,” and she smiles and says, “My pleasure.” I go through the scanner and a TSA guy pats down my back and underarms and I say, “Are we having fun yet?” and he says, “It’s a laugh a minute.” Two simple exchanges, two moments of fellowship.

I’m old enough to remember the pre-terrorist time when you walked uninterrupted to your gate, no questions asked, and now long lines of flyers laden with baggage listen to screeners barking orders and a TSA sniffer dog walks along the line, giving it a prison-camp feel, and this makes it all the more important to be cheerful and say, “Good morning” and “Thank you” to the agent who stops me to search my briefcase and find the little capsules of eyewash.