A View from the Hills
The sounds that fill the air these days are the screech of tools on steel, the pounding of hammers on wood, the slam-bang high pitched and incessant peep-peep of back hoes and other juggernauts.
These are among the most diabolical instruments known to man, and those who live in close proximity to such go in mortal peril of their reason.
Each day brings the special ear-shattering sound. Thursday is garbage collection day in the Hills. One resigns oneself to mornings forever lost in the clang-clang and ping of noisy behemoths, as the groans of their refuse-crushing machines banish all hope for those extra morning winks you'd planned on.
And I've learned never to go a-wandering in the neighborhood on Friday mornings, for this is usually the day local lawns are manicured, and power mowers are followed by leaf blowers. Round every bend and turn their racket grows as hired gardeners raise dust and debris. The leaf blower is a "singular anomaly," having been designed not to clean. Its function is to lift the dust from one area and deposit it on another, thus the patio is cleaned while the windows sport a film.
Owners of extensive lawns often contrive to do business elsewhere when their gardeners unleash these motor-driven mind-blowers, while home-bound neighbors, having no place to hide, break out the ear plugs.
When we moved to our then-rural Hills years ago, we reveled in a blossom-filled Eden. The sounds we enjoyed were the lazy clip-clop of horses as riders from local stables loped by. Occasionally a farrier was called to shoe a horse and the inoffensive tap of his hammer was audible.
Noise pollution grows apace on freeways as well as in the Hills. Once, traffic was light and muffled. Full-throttle driving was less fashionable than it is now.
The once-peaceful sky where hawks glided is now rent with low-flying planes, while higher in the azure blue super jets add their dulling drone.
Tools are now available for just about every household and community chore known to humans. In kitchen and laundry rooms everywhere dishwashers whir and beaters rattle. Out in the shop, father adds the buzz of power tools.
I was indulging in this internal harangue when a thought insinuated itself into my critical brain. Remembering New York, where I grew up, reminded me that when we moved from the family home to an apartment on White Plains Avenue my sisters and I slumbered peacefully through summer nights impervious to the elevated train that rumbled close to our bedroom window.
All day and through all the nights high energy filled the air. Our No. 1 son, who visited his home state after having grown up in the Hills, was enthralled with the city's tempo and viewed the experience as a "big block party."
And I recalled, with a wistful sigh, how we thrived on it as we danced 'till three, and rode the clanking subway to our home uptown feeling energized and joyful.
And the memories that flooded back made me pause to reflect, and conclude ...
Perhaps noise is the stuff of life, after all - and silence is for graveyards.