Sounds in the night

There is a rhythm to a neighborhood and a house as they settle in for the night. When you move to a new place it takes time to tune in to what is the norm. From the turning on and off of forms of entertainment in adjoining houses or apartments, to the opening and closing of garage and car doors, to the creaks in the floorboards, we subconsciously listen for what become familiar and expected sounds that symbolize the end of an evening.

Some sounds can represent community or at least remind us we are not alone on this planet. My neighbor's have a newborn and I occasionally hear a midnight tiny wail. In hotels one might be confronted with hacker's cough or a loud TV in the next room. Pitter patter on the roof doesn't usually mean Santa or reindeer. It can be the delightful and soothing sound of gentle rain or an unwanted raccoon. 

Teenagers think they are quietly slipping into the house, whether before or after curfew, but at least one of the parents either awaken or are still awake waiting for the click of the key, the tiptoeing on the stairs that indicate a safe return. These days evening sounds include the annoying song of the ice cream truck and overnight white noise includes the hum of air conditioners. 

Urban and rural day-to-evening-to-night transition sounds can be opposite. Residents of cities that never sleep have a different definition of quiet than farmers. I shutter to think of the places in the world, near and far, where darkness means gunshots and power struggles not between hawks and mice but gangs and rebels.

This time of year the birds begin their songs earlier than in fall or winter. Yesterday at 4:48 a.m. I heard the chirp of a cardinal and smiled a good morning to the world. Then I realized that I was hearing it at regular intervals. It was a distant smoke alarm battery alert and I ended the night and started my day with a chuckle.

Marilyn

Childhood giggles

Saturday's brief shower reminded me of hot summer days when friends and I would run out into the gentle rain. We would laugh as we ran around the backyard in our bathing suits as though the raindrops were just for us. Other times it would be giggles as we ran through the sprinkler. We figured out how to take the hose from the sprinkler and, using our thumb over the spout, squirt water at each other. Laughter was the result of planned attacks as the 'hoser' or the 'target' or mutual drenching with squirt guns. Games like Simon Says had kids of all ages in awkward positions on the front lawn or in the basement. 

My first backyard giggles were toddling barefoot in the grass toward grandma. Then my dad built a sandbox. He painted it grey and put a bench on each corner so my neighborhood friends and I could sit and wiggle our toes in the sand. Jamie, who was a year younger than me and lived across the street, liked to use our different sized pails to build cities of round houses and we would create elaborate roadways. Once our kingdoms were finished we would sit above those cities and make up stories about who lived there before we came crashing down and destroyed what we'd built. Sometimes both the stories and the destruction involved shared giggles.

Adults both smile and cringe when kids discover knock-knock jokes, for they know they are in for endless conversations of "who's there?" What cracks up a 6 old year can make a 60 year old groan. In junior high our chuckles included the fad of elephant jokes.

Q: How many elephants fit in a Mini?

A: Four. Two in the front and two in the back.

Q: How many giraffes fit in a Mini?

A. None. The Mini is full of elephants!

By then our neighborhood games had disappeared. The older kids were too cool to play with the few younger ones and my friends and I had discovered Nancy Drew and movie magazines. Girlfriends and I would giggle over movie stars and popular singers, and, of course, boys at school, although none of that for very long, even at slumber parties. We might moon through Teen Angel but then One-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater would come on and we'd shout along and laugh.

Giggles, chuckles, laughter and smiles were contagious in childhood and remain the same today. Just the other day I heard this one. What does the buffalo say to the calf heading off to school? Bison!

Finding more than what was lost

When I was 8 years old, the big gift for me under the Christmas tree was a Timex watch with a dark grey leather band. Sometime that spring the watch went missing. I  retraced my steps and searched my bedroom but to no avail. When I 'fessed up over dinner one night, both my parents gave me 'the look.' You know the one. It's two main elements are disappointment and disapproval.

The loss of an expensive present certainly was an appropriate occasion for the use of this parental tool, but the moment it appeared was a touchtone in my young life. It was the first time my father's features reflected those characteristics I was so accustomed to seeing on my mother's face. By then I had realized that my mother was an unhappy person. It was decades before I made peace with the fact that while I know she loved me as best she could, her love was not unconditional, and as hard as I tried, her disappointment and disapproval were an underlying factor in our relationship.

But my dad was another story. My 8 year old self suddenly saw that my dad also had limits for his love and I had reached it. I had lost more than my watch. I'd lost some of his love and respect.

Several months later, during which time I'm sure my mother also searched my room, I found the watch in a purse that was hanging on a hook in my closet. I don't remember why I hadn't looked in or used that purse. What I do remember is the elation at finding what I'd lost and at thinking I could now get back that portion of my dad's love. When I ran downstairs shouting "I found my watch!" his response was, "Well, at least you're not as irresponsible as we thought."

I had my watch, but my feeling of acceptance and place within the family, diminished with the loss of the watch, was not restored with its reappearance. In the scheme of things, when an otherwise responsible child loses a material item, it should not ultimately be a big deal. It should, however, be noticed when a child is feeling like an outsider, having to earn their way back in to love.

From that point on I was cautious and careful not just with things, but with feelings. My 8 year old self could not have articulated what the passing years helped me understand. Something more than a watch and love had been lost. I lost some innocence and a piece of my security. But something was also gained. I took my first steps in learning to rely on myself more than on others. A pretty good lesson put into action while wearing a pretty cool (for the time) watch.

Marilyn

Lessons from a cap gun summer

If your neighborhood is like mine, there have been blasts of firecrackers day and night for the last couple of weeks. When I was young the most frequent explosive sounds leading up to the 4th of July, and indeed all summer, were the 'pops' from a cap gun. A red roll of 500 explosives bought at the store for a nickel was inserted into the play revolver. Pulling the trigger enabled the hammer to hit a flammable dot of the roll, resulting in a puff of smoke and a loud 'pop.'

Cap guns were also part of our outdoor neighborhood play as we mimicked the pretend worlds we were watching on this new thing called television. Cowboys and Indians fired their rifles and enemies fell off mountains but were back on the show the following week. Annie Oakley and Dale Evans had guns in their holsters and could ride their horses and shoot and, while the bad guys were shot, there was no blood. Fights were choreographed so that even as saloon furniture was destroyed, the actors' hats stayed on their heads. Violence was fake.

The lessons related to my cap gun came when my mother served venison stew one late summer evening when I was seven. "What's venison?" I asked, enjoying an early taste of autumn.

My mother began her answer with, "Remember when Uncle Eddie went hunting last year?"

"Sure," I replied. "Sandy and Aunt Del came over for lunch."

"Well," she continued. "He shot a deer, and cut it up and wrapped the meat in small packages that Aunt Del put in the freezer. Yesterday she took out a couple of packages to thaw and gave us one of them."

"Venison is deer meat?" I exclaimed, putting down my fork.

"Yes," said my dad entering the conversation.

"Uncle Eddie shot a DEER?" I continued, thinking of the beautiful animals we sometimes saw on rides in the country, for I hadn't yet seen or read about Bambi.

"Yes," came the reply from my mother who was sitting across the table watching me intently.

"With a GUN?" I persisted.

"Well, with his rifle," said my dad patting my hand.

"And the deer died and we are eating it?" I sobbed as I absorbed my first lesson in a cycle of life and lost a piece of my childhood innocence. I've heard of similar stories that turned the child into a vegetarian. My parents must have handled the situation in a manner that didn't push me in that direction or maybe I hadn't heard about such a choice.

The second result of that evening was the loss of a desire to be Annie Oakley. She had been a role model and I enjoyed our pretend plots where I got to be her. Maybe it was time the cap gun and my cowgirl outfit stayed in the drawer, and while it was my decision for them to stay there, it seemed the result of a harsh reality rather than outgrowing a toy.

Now that I understood what it meant when Uncle Eddie went hunting, my view of him changed. It was one thing for pioneers to have to hunt for food but to hunt for fun, which is how my seven year old mind perceived it, was quite another. I was not truly and fully comfortable around him after that meal.

The last lesson was my mother's. She never served venison again.

Marilyn