October 2005                                                        The Megaphone                                                                    Page 4

Sounds of Home

by Jane Ann (Seright) Lemen

It seems to me that one of the casualties of modern, at least air-conditioned, living is the isolation from the sounds of life. We live in soundproof shells, broken only by the hum of the air-conditioning unit. Granted, we awaken in a refreshingly cool house after a good night's sleep, but I do miss the joyous song of the birds greeting the morning light.

My favorite place at the end of a busy day is in our garden swing, and the highlights of that garden are the two small waterfalls gurgling into the fish ponds. Granted, they are fake - turn off the electric pumps and they cease, but the sound of the water tumbling over the rocks and into the ponds is still refreshing and soothing.

In my childhood, we were not so isolated from the sounds of life. I can remember on hot summer nights when we slept with the windows open hoping for a breath of fresh air to creep in, and how could hear the trucks shifting gears as they mounted the hill on West Main Street. Occasionally I'd hear the whistle from the Pennsylvania Railroad and what a lonely sound a train whistle is. Many people who grew up in small towns considered the plaintive wail indicative of where they were. As the train headed for the "Real World," I always considered the people on board the train as the lonely ones; I was the one safe and secure at home.

One of my favorite sounds from childhood is that of a screen door, pulled shut by a simple spring, slapping against the door jamb. That was a sound that signaled adventure. The only times I remember hearing it were when I was going out the door. I'm sure it made the same noise when I came in, but I never paid attention to it then. I had a vivid imagination when I was a child, and our back yard at times was a ranch, a castle, a wilderness with a river (the back walkway) running through it, the jungle of India, and in the winter the Yukon -- and the screen door was the passageway to all these places.

School had its own special sounds. I don't remember bells, at least not outside bells calling children to school. I do recall the tinkle of the small bell that sat on Miss Garwood's desk at Washington. We paid great heed to that bell since most of us were somewhat terrified of her. In fact, the sound of her whistle was probably more important to us; oh, how we scurried from the playground whenever we heard it. Chalk screeching on a blackboard and the clanging of the chains on the Maypole were other sounds of school. A favorite sound of school, partly because it meant we had been selected for the honor of cleaning the erasers, was the "Whuff! Whuff!" sound of erasers being pounded together, or even better, though formally forbidden, erasers being hit against the brick of the school building.

Bells were such a part of life -- the bells of St. Joseph ringing the hours, Santa's bells at Christmas time urging us to contribute to the Salvation Army's kettles for the poor, and what were probably our favorite bells, those on the pop-cycle carts! 

And there was the sound of rolling thunder, of pelting rain, even the strange clinking noise of hail storms, all the sounds of the violent Indiana thunderstorm. I never heard the "sound of a freight train" which virtually all tornado survivors claim to hear, but I can remember cowering under my bed covers in terror that the sound of the "tornado train" would come through our home.

I remember one terrible night when the thunder and rain and hail had been especially ferocious. Six funnel clouds were sighted over Elwood that night. Then came the worst sound -- silence. Not the silence of a storm having left, but rather what I would imagine as the sound in the eye of a hurricane -- deathly still, with an emphasis on "deathly." I had my window open that night in the mistaken belief that somehow that would relieve the pressure of the storm and thus save the house from exploding if a tornado hit. In that deep, deathly silence, I heard one sound, the sound of a click. One solitary click. I could not imagine what that click could be. It had come from outside, but what was it and what had caused it?

Still frightened, I raised my head from under the blankets and peered out the window. It was totally black outside. The electricity had failed, so there were no lights from either houses or lampposts. Nor was there any traffic on either North A or North 11th Streets. There was only darkness, except for one tiny glow of orange. Then sheet lightning lit up the sky making it almost as light as day. Within a second or two, it was gone. But in that time, I saw my dad standing in the yard smoking a cigarette and watching the sky. The "click" must have been his cigarette lighter. But no matter. I could now go safely to sleep. My dad was watching over me. In the midst of the storm, I had heard a tiny sound of his love and concern.

Ah, the beauty of the sounds of home. 

Jane Ann Seright Lemen '59
Northwest Indy