There is a quote from the 1972 movie Jeremiah Johnson that I have always liked. “There’s
nothing wrong with quiet.” That’s something
most people these days know little about and, in fact, don’t seem to care. I’ve wondered what it was like in centuries
past when no cars or trains or airplanes existed to break the silence. When I was a young boy spending summers and
holidays along the banks of the San Fernando River in central Tamaulipas,
Mexico I had the opportunity to experience something approaching primeval
silence. The nearest town was about
thirty miles away. There was no
electricity where we had our cabin and we cooked with wood and used kerosene
lanterns at night. Sometimes when the
breezes quelled to a hush and the pauraques stilled and even the owls took a
respite from their haunting coos we could hear the distant rumblings of trucks
as they ground their gears on the highway leading south to the city of Victoria
many miles away. If you didn’t stop and
listen carefully you would miss the tortured inhale and exhale: A slow and monotonous
plea in the lowest registers as C slid into D flat and then to G. “Listen,” someone would say. “That’s a truck thirty miles away.” But other than that the quiet was intense.
Back in 1982 I drove from South Texas
to Boston, Mass. On the road fourteen hours a day
living on granola bars and coffee, and on the seat next to me in a small box a
cargo worth more than gold: an echocardiogram of a little five-year-old boy who
was going to have open heart surgery at Boston Children’s Hospital. All that mattered to me was my child’s health
and safety. I think every parent knows
exactly what I mean. That love does not
diminish over the years and the greatest gift of parenthood is the chance to
relinquish self for the rest of one’s life.
When I passed Allentown, Pennsylvania I saw a luminous glow to the
east. I stopped for gas and asked the
attendant, “What’s that light?” He
smiled and said, “That’s New York City.”
I replied, “But New York
City is a long ways off.” The attendant
nodded and said, “Well, it might be but that’s still New York.” An hour later at about midnight I pulled over
at a rest stop and even as cars and trucks sped by I could still hear the great
roar of the city that never sleeps. At
about two in the morning I drove across Manhattan and I remember seeing The
World Trade Center in the distance. By
the way, in 1969 I was in a taxi heading from Kings County through Manhattan and
then to the airport to catch a flight to Houston and we drove by a huge
construction project. The taxi cab
driver said, “That’s going to be The World Trade Center.”
But on my way to Boston that lonely night in 1982 I drove
across one of the bridges leading off Manhattan Island and all I could think
about was putting as many miles between me and the madness all around. At four that morning I stopped in Worcester,
Massachusetts exhausted. I rested a
couple of hours and then drove on to Boston.
At about two that same afternoon that very special five-year-old boy
walked off an airplane with his momma. I
can still see the look in his eyes when he saw me. Every father and mother who has ever loved
their children with all their heart will understand why even now all these many
years later I still choke up remembering that time. A couple of days later I helped wheel that
little boy into an operating room. But
that was a long time ago (though it often seems like just yesterday) and that
little boy is now a doctor himself. As I
write these notes a breeze blusters over the cabin’s roof and whips the limbs
on the mesquite trees surrounding me.
That is the sound of primeval quiet.
Last night the dogs barked for a while.
Was it a wild hog or a deer or perhaps someone moving overland
nearby? I figure that I am okay in the
hush that slips in after the dogs settle down.
I glanced out the window at a darkness intensified by overcast
skies. Earlier a pauraque had whistled
for what seemed an hour. A calm and
reassuring call that says all is well.
Sometimes the coyotes will start singing and my dogs engage them with falsetto
whoops and sliding portamenti. The clumsy
acappella lasts a few seconds then abruptly stops. The concert is over.
I’ll take my guitar out on the porch and serenade my
dogs. They don’t seem to mind. I might even decide to sing a song. They endure.
I read in the evenings when I’m not out in
my shop goofing around making a knife or a wooden spoon or maybe building a
bow. A person should do divergent things
in life. It helps the mind and the body. Spend your time on cerebral efforts and then
work with your hands. Try to do it
surrounded by quiet. That’s precisely
why I dislike electric tools—an affront to the quiet surrounding me.
The sun is trying to break through and maybe the breeze will
calm down by evening and I’ll take the dogs for the walk they look forward to
after their late afternoon meal. I don’t
have to tell them we’re going walking. I
amble out of the cabin with a canteen dangling over my shoulder and they get
all excited. When I grab my walking
stick from the storage room they start jumping and can barely contain
themselves. But we all know to keep it
quiet. On our long walks (at least four
miles) nary a word is spoken. I mimic the
squeal of a rabbit and they know that means to hurry up. I make a whheest
sound and they know to hold still. I
freeze and they freeze. They freeze and
I freeze. We sniff the breeze as birds chirp
nearby. All the while quiet surrounds
us. Yes, there’s nothing wrong with
quiet.
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