I recently spent a few of my days off at home. With just me in the house, it was very quiet (minus the cats) and I enjoyed our peaceful neighborhood on the fringe of Lakeland, Florida. But one morning, as I pushed through the overgrown palm fronds to get the newspaper, I heard a clamor that was neither the cattle mooing behind our house nor me swearing at the ridiculously overgrown palm fronds. It was a grown man down the street having a conversation with another man at a volume the whole neighborhood could hear, except the "conversation" was really just Yelling Man A squawking at Standing Man B. As I pretended to be caught in the palm tree so I could eavesdrop, I realized that we too often ask questions that we don't let be questions.