THE NOISE FACTOR or ARE WE CRAZY YET?

The child factor: Tonight some neighborhood kids were out playing. What they were really doing is screaming--for twenty minutes they screamed which sent the poor dog next door on a barking spree. Screaming usually mean "help." Not today, it meant, "We really don't know how to play, but we've watched a billion hours of TV and we sure have seen a lot of screaming so that must be what people do." 'And so they did.

The band factor: Every day, it seems, we get a free band concert. My dear neighbor, whose kids are in the high school marching band asked me one day, "Can you hear the band practice after school?"

"Oh, yes," I said.

"Me too," she said. And then I realized--she liked it! Of course she liked it, it means I know where my kids are and what they are doing. I didn't have the heart to say, "It's driving me crazy." She was so happy, hearing the band fill the air with drums and trumpets FOR HOURS ON END.

The high school mascot is the Thunderbird. Thundering and bird screeches. It figures.

This is a picture of the BYU band but the Thunderbirds make every bit as much noise, I'm sure of it.

The garbage man cometh: We now have three different garbage trucks. One for garbage. One for yard waste, that the city composts and sells back to us for our gardens. One for recyclables. Garbage trucks do not have mufflers. What they have is noise extenders.

Garbage trucks also have "The claw!" It grabs the garbage can, propels it upwards at ninety-five miles and hour and shakes it over the truck bed like a Coyote with a rabbit. "Clunk!" the can is deposited back on the street with such force that the wheels pop off. It falls over and a remaining stray soup can rolls out and into the gutter. They start this scary, insane noise and fearful demonstrations at 6:00 AM. We had a woman garbage truck driver the other day and she drove forty-five miles an hour IN OUR CUL-DE-SAC. What's up with that? I thought she was going to to slam breaks and skid into the neighbor's house.

Garbage trucks that empty dumpsters know they can not rely on their puny noise extenders to wake you out of a sound sleep so they crash the dumpsters with such force that the concrete has to be replaced. They have to do this for the sound to carry for five miles. They have also made a deal with the concrete man, who is their brother-in-law. Then those garbage trucks back up, and the "beep-beep-beep" causes people in bedrooms all over the city to roll over and hit the snooze buttons on their alarm clocks. Then, before they figure it's time for the alarm to beep again, they get up and shower. These people get to work an hour early and they have no idea why.

The school is "bing-bonging" me into insanity: We live close to two schools. An elementary and a high school. One of them has some kind of "bing-bong, bing-bong, bing" warning system attached to something ALL DAY LONG. I don't know if this is the noise of their phone's make or a warning when they are going to make announcements so the kids have time to turn their ear off or what, but it is enough to make me want to stick needles in my ears.

Jet airplane engines masquerading as lawn trimmers and lawn mowers: Is it my imagination or have lawn trimmers and lawn mowers gotten louder? We sit outside a lot, visiting with neighbors. When other neighbors decide to do yard work we have to put conversation on hold. I think trimmers and mowers are engineered by men who are hearing impaired. I know, they think, let's compensate by making our products sound like jet airplanes taking off. The we will always know whether the mower/trimmer is on and we won't put our fingers under there and get them chopped off.

People with silly little electronic lizard tails attached to their ears: I realize they have a right to get a phone call. What I can't understand is why they talk louder when on the phone. Is my conversation with my lunch companion bothering them?
Motorcycles: I saw a sign on a motorcycle the other day. It said, "Start seeing motorcycles." The motorcycle engineers figured that if we heard motorcycles maybe we'd also see them. The problem is the car engineers are making cars more and more soundproof so the motorcycle engineers have to ramp up the noise. It's a contest between the two. Something ate the only noise that's pleasant: For years we didn't have crickets out front. Two years ago a cricket found the front yard, climbed the oak trees and crick'd. It was so pleasant. This year there were two of them. How do I know? The second one was a cricket's heart beat behind the first one for a day and then he learned to stay in rhythm. 'Then one day there was a "clicking" insect in oak trees. I never saw him but I heard him. He ate my crickets. They were easy to find. They advertised. The next day the only noise was The Clicker and then the next day he moved to the back yard to eat those crickets. My teenage neighbor has to collect 50 insects for his science class. I'd donate The Clicker in an instant if I could find him. But, after dining on my crickets he moved on. My neighbor plays in the band. It would be some kind of justice if he ended up with The Clicker, stuck on a pin in his insect box. I can only hope.

DREADLOCKS, Part one

Tall, blond, Lord Bumhampton was getting perfect grades. There was only one thing keeping him from total perfection—well two things: he pretty much thought his parents were clueless and he had dreadlocks: ratty, blond dreadlocks. It took effort for a blond boy to get his hair into such a state but Lord Bumhampton was a hard worker and it had paid off. Those dreads were amazing.

One day he asked me if I would do some volunteer work for the Art Department at Timpview High School. I would have walked through fire for any of my kids, even dreadlock’d ones so I said yes.

I walked to the school with a prayer in my heart. Please, Heavenly Father, just let me see one kid with hair worse than Lord Bumhampton. I repeated this prayer over and over until it was tattered.

When I reached the front door, a student in the “commons” saw me through the big windows. He rushed to open the door, smiled and said, “Hi.” He was one of those boys I would have liked to write to his parents about. He was so polite, so considerate, I’m sure they would have liked to know.

And he had bright blue hair.

Sometimes prayers are answered so quickly it takes your breath away.


PS If that boy’s parents could just have seen Lord Bumhampton's hair their prayers would have been answered too.

THE FROZEN PUDDLE

When I was a kid I could board the bus in one of three places. One block away, to the south (uphill, toward the mountain) at my cousin, Holly's house. One block away, to the east, by the church, or right in front of my house. If I boarded at Holly's, I got my choice of any seat I wanted. If I boarded by the church I got most any seat I wanted and if I boarded at my house I had to sit where I could find a seat. If I boarded early I could save a seat for Pam, my best friend and we could visit or read or giggle together all the way to school. At my house I had to sit with a surly boy or a haughty high school girl or wherever. I hated sitting with surly boys or haughty girls or whatevers. I would look back to see Pam sitting with someone she didn't want to sit by either. My bus stop choices affected her too.

But, I was a slow getter-upper. And I loved to stand over the heat vent in the kitchen and let my flannel nightgown fill with warm air. I would do this for a l-o-n-g time. Mother would say things like, "Are you watching the clock?" I never was. She did it for me.

Or, I was still in bed, which happened more often. She would call up the stairs a lie such as, "It's ten minutes to eight." I had a clock ten inches away and knew it was only 7:35. She wanted me to be on time and thought a little lie was necessary. And sometimes it was, as occasionally that call woke me up from a sound sleep after I had banged my alarm off and snuggled back down under warm covers.

One day--this was in grade school--I loitered in bed one minute too long--as usual--and missed the bus at Holly's. I took off for the church at a dead run, cleared the front porch steps in one leap and vaulted across the ditch. The fear of the surly and haughty gave my little legs extra oomph. In front of Lloyd Gleave's house there was always a puddle. This morning it was frozen, but I didn't notice. My heel struck the ice and down I went. I scrambled up, bare hands scraping dirty, rutted ice. I took off again, my unbuttoned coat flying behind me. I made the corner just as the bus screeched to a stop. I got on, found a seat and settled in, nursing my bleeding hands. When Pam got on I forgot all about them and we settled in to tell secrets, laugh and enjoy the warmth of friendship--there was no warmth on the bus and we could often see our breath--but the friendship was enough.

When I got home that night Mom told me the story of the tenderness of a mother. She watched from the door as I cleared the steps, jumped the ditch and then, her hands clutched to her chest, watched as I went down on the puddle. She had her hand on the door, pushing it open when I got up and took off again. She was going to go outside, gather me up, comfort me and tell me I didn't have to go to school. How glad I am that I was off and running before she got to me. I might have gloried in the sympathy, stayed home and been pampered. Instead I went to school and faced all the things that all school students face. Some good, some bad, all contributing to who I am.

I know some people have bad memories of their school years and I have my share. Friends who did underhanded things. Boys I had a crush on who didn't ask me out or boys I didn't like, who did. Teachers who ridiculed in front of the whole class--I had one high school teacher who did this--he actually hated me, I think--and the reason was because I deserved it.

I was a brat in his class. I was even a brat right to his face. I argued with him in front of everyone more than once and I think I went to the Principal's office over it, but more often than not he gritted his teeth and put up with my rudness.

I need to put those times behind me. Not forget, maybe, but forgive. Forgive those who hurt me and forgive myself for being on the other end, being in power--or supposed power--and hurting someone else . I need to forgive myself for being rude or even for not doing my best, just sliding by and not caring that the teachers were trying to change my life for the better.

I really don't know why this all came out tonight but there it is. Since I can't apologize to all those who I hurt or disobeyed or dishonored I am confessing to you. I'm sorry. I hope I have been forgiven.

I hope your good memories overshadow your bad ones, like mine do. I hope you have forgiven others and yourself and are facing each new day with courage to get up from the frozen puddle and face life running, coattails flying, knowing that good things await.

THE CHEATER

I am sitting at the computer, thinking I should finish cleaning the kitchen. The dishes are done. The floor isn't. Its unwise to walk in the kitchen without shoes. I'm longing for the Sunday morning when my overachieving sprinkler enlisted Phil to do the floor cleaning (Cleaning the Kitchen Floor 101)

The counter has all manner of things that don't belong there, including a half-full jar of pickles--what should I do with them? Are they still good? I'm not going to be the taste tester. So I'll leave them there until Phil throws them out. He will eventually. He's always saying, "Do you want to keep this?" about something that isn't worth saving and I always say, "No" and then he throws it out and I think why couldn't I have done that?

There is a respectable sized stack of paper on the counter and another one on the table. I love paper, truly love paper but once it's been used I don't know what to do with it. Drawings by the grandchildren--how can you throw those away? Love notes. Letters from friends. Stacks of drafts that have gone through either my personal history group or my critique group. There might be valuable suggestions written on them. Why didn't I deal with them the day they came home with me?

I want the Shoemaker's Elves to come in the night and deal with all my lingering papers. I don't want to do it myself. In my defense I did start on them today and then my husband came into the kitchen to fix his own lunch--probably because of that dog food crack he made several weeks ago (Why Old People Get Sick and Die) and he doesn't trust me not to slip an Alpo sandwich on his plate. So, his being there, underfoot, was the perfect excuse to give up and go somewhere else.

"Did I chase you out?"

"Yes."

"Well, blah, blah, blah," he said.

I really wasn't interested in his theory of why I had the right to stay in there and clean so I tuned him out. I simply didn't want to stay and work so I let him take the blame for the mess that didn't get dealt with. Of course, he is a reasonable man and isn't going to take the blame but neither was I so I will have to blame the cat.

I think I learned this not finishing business early on. Certainly as early as high school. Patsy, Dick and I got kicked out of Mr. Hunsaker's English class. In order to be admitted back in we had to write a 5,000 word paper on "Why I shouldn't talk in class." I didn't care if I got back into class or not but I didn't want to be the only one not in there and I knew Patsy and Dick were reasonable people so I sat down that night to compose my pathetic paper. I don't know what Patsy and Dick wrote but I wrote everything I could think of and still only had it half done. I was a smart mouthed teenager so three fourth of it was sassy. I finally enlisted my brilliant oldest sister's help.

"I can't think of one more word to write."

"How much do you have done so far?" she asked.

"About half."

She got a gleam in her eye and I knew I was saved. She wrote a poem, I'd pay money to have a copy of it but I didn't think it would ever be important and so I just copied it on the bottom of my paper and handed it in. It said something about my diligence, my devotion and the words, "Dear Mr. Hunsaker" were in there too. Then it said something like I've written 2,500 words and if he would just read it again I'd have made the required number of words. It was in rhyme and made me sound hard working and obedient. It lied.

I watched the next day as he read the last page. When he got to the last line he smiled. I was saved.

When I got the paper back he had written on the bottom, "This paper was 2,337 words long, not 2,500. He had counted every word! Who would have thought? I was a cheater even about the length of half of my required words.


And I'm still trying to get away with it. Send the Shoemaker's elves. You got in my space so I can't finish. It's the cat's fault. I have things I have to write. I'm too tired. I should just say I have an deficient tidy gene and call it good. I think I will.


Does it sound better to have an deficient tidy gene or to say I want to be a cheater and have things magically fixed, like they were in high school when I didn't have to write the other 2,663 words? I can't decide. One says I'm deficient and the other says I'm a cheater. I think I like being a cheater better because I can always repent but how can I repair a deficiency in my DNA? I don't want to be a cheater either. It gives me the shivers to even type the word. I just want it to be fixed and I guess I'm the only one who can fix it.

I need a class on Tidy 101. I sure hope I can find one on the Internet because I don't want to have to leave the house and go out in the dark and cold to take it. I'm boycotting the dark and cold this winter and I'd hate to have to go out in it and acknowledge that they actually exist.