My grandfather was a man of few words. But a couple of his favorites were, “Still talkin’?” He’d ask it with a glint in his eye, one brow slightly raised, pitched as a half question, half you-know-exactly-what-I’m-gettin’-at directive.
It’s not that he thought words were cheap. But he was a farmer. Every day for him was about what he did, not what he talked about doing.