......sounds

Yogis,
The melancholy sound of a train whistle fills the night, and I am brought right back to the bedroom in my grandmother’s apartment. Her building, located in a small town in upstate PA, was a short distance from the railroad crossing. Nestled in bed under her heavy quilts (my favorite) the sound always made me feel safe. It was one of the things that defined Jessup for me.

Every place has its own sounds.

I was reminded last week in the Outer Banks. Crossing the bridge to the island I always roll open my sunroof to let the serenade of insects who vibrate the hot summer air pour in. A symphony. I want not only to hear them but feel them. I have arrived!

The timing of that trip occurs when our bugs back home begin to rev. I return to their hum which is slightly different in tone. The undulating rise and fall in intensity is a soundtrack to my day. As the sun sets, the songs of night bugs waft through the open window next to my bed. I am lulled to sleep. I know it’s August and I know I’m home.

Every time has its own sounds.

I think back to college days when our townhouse sat on a busy intersection with a hospital in one direction and firehouse the other. The abrupt blare of sirens under my bedroom window took some getting used to. How professors knew to pause a lecture when the roar of low flying planes heading in for a landing filled the hall. Remembering puts me back in statistics class.

Visiting my family recently in northern New Jersey I remembered it is the land of chipmunks. Stepping out the door you are greeted by high-pitched chirps. Followed by sounds of tussling under bushes. Reminders of growing up.

Who doesn’t visualize a beach when hearing a seagull? The crash of waves and shrieks of kids on rides. Clanking and ringing of bells from an arcade. The song of Coqui frogs takes me to Puerto Rico. The bleat of goats lands me in St John.

What are the sounds that define a place or time for you? I would love to hear.

Listening,
SARAH