Little Sounds.

We are surrounded by them, but our brains normally tune out familiar sounds.

My wife quietly talking to Bonnie as she puts on her leash for her morning walk.
The almost imperceptable ticking of the timer that controls the lamp in my office.
The refrigerator cycling on and off, my Uncle's Mantle clock's tick-tock.
Even the twice hourly chime escapes our notice unless we still ourselves and concentrate.
My Mac's very slight purr as the hard drive spins, and my crazy Labrador Csonk as he
amuses himself on the back deck by crashing into the house as he chases his favorite sqeaky ball.

Old houses are filled with them, some only in our memories.
When I am fortunate enough to go to the farmhouse on our ancestral place in WV I am almost overwhelmed with them.
Early in the morning I can still hear my grandfather Harvey slam the screen door as he shuffles onto the porch for a hand rolled cigarette.
A lifetime of rising well before dawn himself gave him little sympathy for those who "Slept all day" In his estimation that was sleeping until the sun was up.
The hardening of the arteries in his legs gave him a distinctive shuffling gait.
I can still hear it on the wood floors in the old house he and my father built by hand in 1938.

And I can still hear my father's forceful and purposeful stride, and his vain attempts to quiet his father. "Pap, they don't need to get up at 5:30, they're kids!"

I can hear my dear Aunt Bee clattering around in the kitchen, cooking up breakfast, or a pie made with apples grown right behind the house.
A pie just for my father, and for me. Her boys.
"Did you have enough to eat?" she was always asking. I can still hear her voice in the house.
She was personally affronted to see any man in her kitchen.
We weren't supposed to cook or clean up. It was her joy to do that for us.

And I can hear silly laughter in the house.
My sisters and I trying to see how much trouble we could get into.
And how far we could push our mother before she lost it and told us to go outside and play.
I hear her voice there also.

All sounds aren't necessarily good, but part of the saga that is our lives.

My Aunt Rosalie storming into the place on Saturday morning, fussing about everything.
"This place is a pig's sty, don't you ever clean up, Bernice!"
My saintly Uncle Willard, whom we called Uncle Junior quietly trying to get her to behave.
"Now shug, let's just have a cup of coffee and enjoy the kids."
A decorated and seriously wounded WWII U.S. Army vet, he had to exercise great patience to live with my Aunt for the Forty years they were married.
He was always kind and gentle, and happy to play a board game with us or go for a hike.
Just as quickly as it began, the whirlwind that was my Aunt would sweep into their car about four in the afternoon and head back to Oak Hill.

Even my Grandad breathed a sigh of relief.

"Be still, and know that I am God!" we are warned.

There is not enough stillness in the world today.