Some of my most vivid memories are sounds. Perhaps my brain fools me, but it seems to me that I often recall sound more accurately than visuals–though of course there are notable exceptions.
When I was a child, the world was full of sounds. Often the first sound I’d hear was the hiss-hisss-hisss-gurgle of the percolator. If it was warm, that might be followed by a chorus of birdsong coming in through the windows; if it were cold, that was usually followed by a different hiss-pop! of my mother or father lighting their gas heater to start to warm the house.
You might not know–or you didn’t until I told you–but the sound of running a tub full of hot water is quite different from running the same tub full of cold water. It’s a subtle difference, but distinct–hot water fills the air with steam and all sounds are slightly muffled as a result. Hot water makes everything sound sleepy, like the world has blankets pulled up around its ears. Cold water is sharp and brisk. Hot water is for relaxing, and is relaxed; cold water is usually drawn with a purpose in mind, and it’s all business. Nothing is relaxing about a tub full of cold water–although on a very hot day, it can save someone’ life.
The sounds of my parents’ little kitchen were usually sounds of cooking. I know we didn’t eat as often as I seem to recall–most days I only ate two meals back then, some days only one–but in memory, there is always the sounds of food in that kitchen–bacon frying, sausage sizzling, the oven popping as it heated to bake biscuits, the sound–wow, the sound!–of my mom pouring coffee into the skillet she fried the sausage in, to make redeye gravy, as its lovely sizzling sound perfumed the air with a smell that was just indescribably wonderful.
Outside, there were many good sounds. The sound of the gravel in the driveway under the wheels of my bike as I rode out. The sound of the grass when I ran on it–when I was young, I was thin, and I remember the glorious freedom of being able to run without anyone laughing at me. The bike had its own sounds–especially the 10-speed that i got when I was a little older. The lovely clunk! of the derailleur as I shifted gears, the silky smooth clicks as I coasted–you think of bikes as being silent, but they aren’t. Even the brakes have their own unique sound.
When I was in junior high, my first day to be in a marching band, I remember the sound of a room full of 7th, 8th, and 9th graders all trying to tune. It was dissonant, and it was loud. It buzzed like a beehive and it made your teeth hurt. It was big like the sound of a truck idling was big – this was a sound that could move things, could knock them over. In spite of all the troubles that came from being a boy playing flute, especially from some of the older kids, I never stopped loving that sound. Although these days I do prefer my bands to be in tune.
The first time I talked to Shan–now there is a memory. The sound of her voice rang in my head like a bell, and the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t yet know who she was or what we would one day be to each other, but I knew that voice was Important. As indeed it was–and is.
Sounds, my friends. Some of them are important–don’t forget to stop and listen to them sometime.
If you have your own special memories of sounds that you’d like to add, you’d be more than welcome to share those memories here.
