I grew up in quiet times in a quiet house. We had only a few machines: a small am radio, a small refrigerator, a telephone that rarely rang and a wringer washer on the back porch. In earlier times in that house we had none of these.
Outside it was often quiet as well, until school let out and kids came home. A car missing a muffler might now and then pass by on the dirt road by our house. It wasn’t a busy street. An occasional bark from the one or two neighborhood dogs might break the silence. Not everyone had a dog then.
I miss the quiet. I especially miss the sweet summer mornings when the loudest sounds came from flocks of sparrows in the trees and the neighborhood bees humming around the water hydrant. Other sounds drifted in from the distance, cattle lowing in the stockyards five blocks away and the train whistle as it whizzed by them.
In fall dormant sounds inside the house awakened with the arrival of the dry, brittle air of winter. Cold winds whined through the ill-fitting windows and the hum of the gas heater became a hypnotic lullaby that put me to sleep on the sofa many chilly afternoons.
No jets and drones overhead, with sonic booms to startle me out of my slumber and no cars with enhanced mufflers and giant amplifiers to disrupt my dozing. There were no sirens, no loud and long disaster warning wails and no dozens of neighborhood dogs barking to break my reveries.
It was a quiet time. I miss the silence.
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