I recently heard the song “Somewhere in My Memory” from the Christmas movie “Home Alone” (1990). When my son Jeremy was the character Kevin’s age, he was his spitting image, and probably tired of parental urging in public to slap his hands on both cheeks of his face and go “AHHHHH!”

In addition to McCauley Culken’s character, Kevin being left alone, I thought about his reclusive, lonely neighbor. That solitary neighbor lived mostly in self-imposed solitude, but I met someone years ago who fits (though oddly) the description of “a man alone in a crowd.

Several Christmases ago, while Jeremy and I were looking at Walmart’s fishing supplies, a man wearing a faded, plaid flannel shirt stood close by. Without introduction, he began talking about the weather (always an ice-breaker, no matter what time of year).

After Jeremy and I contributed our meteorological two-cents, he then put in his “two-hundred-dollars worth” on an unrelated, unrequested subject: a highly descriptive litany of “growths and other horrible things” plaguing him over the years.

The horror was increased by his ailments being in “lower latitudes” (not Buenos Aires).

Jeremy and I immediately made apology for having to be elsewhere, leaving his presence and nervously glancing backwards to make sure such presence was not in pursuit.

Whenever Jeremy and I would ponder any future late-night Walmart visit, I always said: “But HE is liable to be there!”

Many businesses have gone “paperless” these days; but anyone engaging in such small talk with their co-workers or the public, as had this man, would have found his resume “word-less” as well!

I happened across him again while walking at Danville Mall. When I passed him, saying “Hi,” it bothered me that he seemed to have a glint of recognition in his eye, possiblysaying: “Here is one who’s heard my ‘pathological stories’ before; perhaps he would care to listen again!”

You probably ask: “Why even speak?” Because my mother told me to always be nice.

I speeded up, not wishing to hear such strangeness again. (The Williamses are no strangers to strangeness, but there is a limit to what even they will put up with.)

A couple of Christmases ago, my daughter Rachel and I were at Belk when I spied that “unique” man a little distance away. Having warned her of him previously, we quickly took the stairs to the lower level.

The next year, while mall-walking or shopping, I might see him way off, avoiding his path.

He always strode rapidly, whether in mall corridors or Walmart aisles.

I gradually pictured him as more pitiable than an inspiration of fear.

He had the look of a solitary “man on a mission,” seemingly trying to outpace loneliness.

Last Christmas, while mall walking, I turned a corner and the “pathological man” was headed straight for me (as if playing “chicken,” to see who would “bolt” first).

Again, being Lorraine Williams’ child, I said “Hello,” then felt apprehension as the words “How’re you doing?” slipped uncontrollably through my lips. (I’ve yet to see “how’re” spelled as “hour,” but expect it any day).

The man replied solely about his sinusitis; and I spoke of the empty spaces in my skull (sinuses, in case you’re wondering).

Moving on, I said: “Take Care!” and he replied: “Be Good!”

I called my children, excitedly telling them the peculiar gentleman had distanced himself from prior “peculiarity!”

Just last week, he was in the Christmas “hubbub” of Walmart, his shirt’s pale plaid almost lost in the decorations’ rich red and green. I said “How are your sinuses?” (not-so-subtly guiding the conversation, just in case). Smiling, he answered that his sinuses were improving (keeping to “higher latitudes,” thankfully).

The man spoke of old TV Christmas specials and carols which were favorites of his dead mother. (I just now thought of the movie “Psycho” (1960); but I swear, no thought of it crossed my mind while he stood there at Walmart speaking of his late mom.)

At conversation’s end, we spoke our prior phrases of farewell (adding a seasonal one) then continued on separate ways.

So over time, there was improvement in our “quasi-friendship” just as with Kevin and the “Old Man” in the Christmas movie “Home Alone.” People change through time; and sometimes that change means improvement.

Although not “fast friends,” we’ve become friendly enough to conclude our chance meetings with: “Take care,” “Be good,” and this season, “Merry Christmas!”