Silence Isn't Golden

 

The rear speakers in my car blew out a few weeks ago. I came to this conclusion when instead of hearing the classic rock stylings of Detroit's WCSX on my ride home from work, "psst-psst-psst- SQQQQQQQUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ooooooooohhh-sssQQQQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooohh-SQQQQQQUUUEEEEEE...ffffft-ffffft-fffffft... POP!" was heard in its place.

You know? That high-pitched bad frequency feedback you hear at every amateur rock show each time the novice guitar player wanders out in front of his amp, "SSQQQQQUUUEEE-OOOHH!", then looks around confusedly like, "Dude, what was that noise? Where is it coming from?"

Well, that was my ride home the other week. For twenty minutes straight. With the radio turned OFF. My ears rang for days. DAYS, I tell you!

I had to beg my father to drop his fork full of dinner, calling from my cell phone in the driveway, "Please come out and disconnect this thing! I can't take it! The noise!" He came outside and we went through the same, "What noise?" conversation that takes place every time he's called out to my car. (Too many amateur rock shows in his day?)

There were some perks to losing the rear speakers though. When toting a carload of kids around town the following weekend and having a song arise that's totally their jam; their "Turn it up! Turn it up!" pleas were easily squashed by my, "Oh, so sorry, Karlie Rae Jepsen. The rear speakers are blown. This is as loud as it goes." (Volume turned down to three.)

But, then madness happened on today's morning drive. I usually have the Christian radio station on in the mornings, setting my mind and spirit in place for the coming day. When I started off my drive they were taking calls from listeners, "My life... ppppfffftttt...that bridge...p-ppt-pfftt-ppt...my family is in... Ptt-[silence]-pttp...sooo low...ptt..." "Wow! What a sto...ptt-[silence] Let's lift up... pfftt... in prayer.. Ptt-[silence]-[silence]-[silence]..."   Augh!

Now the front speakers! In my mind there was some depressed soul out there dangling from the side of the Ambassador Bridge and my curiosity couldn't be any further fed. I convinced myself the word "bridge" I'd heard was just part of some analogy I'd missed in between the sputters and silence, but said a "Please help whoever that was with whatever that was all about..." prayer (almost verbatim) just in case.

By lunch, the front speakers were useless and the radio could only be heard from the radio itself. This reminded me of the transistor hand radio I had in the early eighties.  A vintage sound.  Better than nothing!

By the five o'clock rush hour commute, even that had evolved into "Here I am... [silence]... again. ♫ Here I... [silence]... the stage. ♫ [silence]" That's it! I threw in the towel and the radio went off. Twenty minutes of silence can't be that bad. Stereos aren't a necessity. It could have been the engine to die. It could have been the transmission.

Silence isn't so quiet though. The first thing I noticed, without having music to distract me, was the squeaking of my seat every time stopping and going caused the slightest shift in my body. Red light. Squeak. Green light. Squeak. Right turn. Squeak squeak. I spent the next quarter-hour wondering if I had recently gained weight.

I briefly tried to make my own music. For some reason a medley from Les Miserables was all that came to mind and mouth. It took very few stanzas to realize that my own voice wasn't something worth listening without a full set of speakers and a pro on the cd player to drown me out.

The squeaking of the driver's seat then met the harmony of the pinging of invisible debris being flung at my windshield. I didn't see a thing, but every few feet was met with, ping! Ping. Ping! Ping. Dust particles? Microscopic insects? Gravel shavings? Is it possible to hear glass settle?

The "quiet" of the red light of my final left turn caused me to notice dozens of birds up on a wire.  I'd never noticed them up there before, but they are likely to be sitting there every evening like thirty little dots all in a row. I'd never noticed them chirping before. I'd never noticed them actually interacting either. One bird kicking the other to his left like a bratty little brother. This made me laugh and almost hear the next sound of my drive. I preempted the honk that was sure to be coming my way as the light turned green and I was still gazing skyward.

The last sound of my evening was the pop of my speakers' last dying gasps. "Remember us! *pop* Make sure our story lives on... *pfft!*" And so, it has.

I may never adjust to the sound of silence before my budget affords a new sound system for the car. But, at least I managed to honor a deathbed promise. *pop!* [silence]

Search Me

 

Visiting my blog stats page can be amusing from time to time.  Especially when perusing the search key words people have used to find (unwittingly or not) An Aunt's Life.

Here's some very true examples:

• "coldplay glow in the dark"
• "coldplay glowing in the dark"
• "cartoon candy shop"
• "the glee project down syndrome boy"
• "melchior de hondecoeter"
• "la zoo carousel figure chart" (huh?)
• "mob wife aunt"
• "jack the pumpkin king standing in front..."
• "casey mr dressup"
• "gabby douglas's hair"
• "is santa bad?"
• "hilary duff horse teeth"

and my personal favorite

• "peeing underwater"

However, you found me---accidentally or on purpose---you've helped An Aunt's Life reach over three thousand hits this past month.

Thanks for coming!  (Psst... And, next time auntslife.blogspot.com will get you here just as efficiently.)

Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!