1998-English 101
Second Place
I Heard That!
By James Charles
As a musician, I always related to sounds in terms of musical application. The only sounds I paid attention to were those involved in creating and performing music. Musical sounds were the most important to me. Well . . . actually, as a traveling musician, any troubling sounds my car made were almost as important. The only other sound I appreciated was silence - something I valued after six nights of rhythmic and melodic saturation and the babble of three hundred or so party drunks.
Since I've settled down and become a family man, however, I have discovered a whole new world of sounds that give me more pleasure than music ever did. Something I never thought possible. I would like to describe for you the world of sound that I experience in a typical day.
My morning always begins around seven o'clock when I am awakened by a sweet, gentle, little voice calling . . . "DADDY, I GO F'RIDE!" This is followed by a dainty smack of tiny lips on my cheek, then another smack of Mom's lips on my lips. A few minutes later, the front door slams shut and I slip back into a slumber. The next thing I hear (a few hours later) is the bloodcurdling, screaming caw of a pterodactyl about to swoop down and pluck me right out of my bed. Actually, it's only my alarm clock. I don't dare hit the snooze button, as I do not even want to hear that again.
From here, my morning ritual begins, rich with the sounds of water: the galoosh of the toilet, the soft spattering of the shower, and the gurgle of coffee brewing in the kitchen. It's the coffee maker that totally captivates me, for I cannot begin to function mentally until I've had my cup of "go juice." I'll sit in a total stupor until that gurgling stops - my cue that it's ready. Before that, noting else matters. After a sip or two, I step under the whispering water of the shower and, if never fails, the phone rings. At least, I think it is ringing. Actually, it is just a subtle overtone, an aural hallucination that is produced by the shower. The whirring of a hair dryer can also produce this effect. Even knowing this, I'll scurry to the phone every time. That ring is so convincing.
Off to school I go, usually listening to a pompous AM radio talk show host pontificate about social issues. Other than that, it's a quiet, uneventful ride. I generally don't like hearing music in the morning.
A funny thing though. I still relate a lot of sounds I hear to music or musical instruments. One example of this is how I equate teachers' lectures to different instruments. Some teachers rattle off information so hurriedly, they sound like a clarinet rendition of "Light of the Bumble Bee." Others blurt out lessons like a trumpet fanfare. Some have the lilt of a Debussy flute cadenza. One history teacher's lectures reminded me of a forties trombone ballad, played with a plunger, slowly and endlessly rambling . . . oohwahh-ooh wahh wahhh oooo . . . .
Once out of class, I usually head to the day care center to pick up my daughter. I open the door of her classroom to the usual rumpus of two-year-old children testing the strength of everything they can get their hands on, including each other. The only thing I can hear over that is the exuberant chatter of their trebly little voices.
Upon rescuing my little sweetheart, we head to the park. On the way, she is aware of every honk, roar, squeal, and screech around us. She is also very aware of every unsavory epithet I utter, and lets me know it.
We arrive at Lake Mayer, home of who knows how many feathered beggars. There are all kinds of birds making all kinds of sounds. Geese are obnoxiously honking, crows are cawing, mocking birds are chattering, and even a chicken or two are moping around clucking like a couple of old women complaining about kids' manners these days. "Fowl" language abounds with every speaker making the same demand for the food we brought. But the most foul in this mixed up flock are the seagulls. Their demanding, irritating, nonstop screeching is enough to make me scream! The funniest sounding bunch to me, are the ducks, who, as most of us would say, don't quack at all. Actually, they pap - "pap-pap." When the food is gone, there is an almost insulting silence. Four hundred birds totally ignoring us as they wander off in search of another freebie.
So, it's home we go, my little one expounding half gibberish, half queries all the way. As we roll through our neighborhood, we hear dogs barking for attention, the chaotic chatter of kids in the street, and an occasional dinner whistle shrieking from someone's father's lips. There is also our neighbor, Jamie, a steel construction contractor who does much of his work at home. Many afternoons are colored with the ding of a ball-peen hammer or the spit and sputter of melting steel under a welding torch.
Once inside our cozy abode, I am soothed with the sounds of a loving home. Barney is mumbling on T.V. The kid is quiet (for a minute). The sounds of dinner cooking - bubbling sauces, spoons tapping on pots, and the airy hum of the microwave - all set a relaxing tone. Of course, this being a cold winter, the roar and crackle of a big fire in the fireplace is very comforting. My quality times doesn't last long, however, as I must be on stage at nine o'clock sharp, ready to bang out that party sound.
One might think that I could go on and on about the sounds in a nightclub environment, but I think my opening paragraph aptly describes what I hear in that environment. There are a couple of irritating sounds that come to mind though. One of our regular customers wears boots with horseshoe taps on the heels and fancies himself a premier clogger. Well . . . he has the rhythm of a bucking bull, and that spastic clop-clopping from his stumbling boots is enough to throw the atomic clock out of time! The sound of those taps cuts through the most hectic of bar noises. Can you imagine what that does to my sense of rhythm? The other peeve I have concerns our sax player's occasional problem with tuning. He is predisposed to playing sharp (his pitch center being slightly higher than the rest of the band's), and this gives me that "fingernails on the chalkboard" feeling.
At about two in the morning, I'm back home. All is quiet . . . all but myself. I always seem to wake the girls with some form of clumsy banging. But once I settle in, and if I must study (meaning the T.V. must be off), I am frequently captivated by the sound of the trains rolling by. Our house is about one hundred yards from a railroad track . . . just far enough that the sound of a train isn't intrusive or overbearing. Quite the contrary, it is very soothing. The low distant rumble, and the beckoning cry of the horn, like a large, lonely giant searching for someone, makes me appreciate the safety, security, and sense of belonging I feel in my home.
I'm sleepy now. I turn off the lights and stumble to bed, kicking a few pieces of furniture along the way. Ahhh . . . all is peaceful and I'll sleep until the dainty smack of tiny lips again caresses my cheek.
(James Charles--Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, I first attended college in 1974, as a percussionist majoring in music education. In 1976, an irresistible opportunity to play drums with some prominent musicians in the ( then very popular) southern rock scene lured me away from school. I have made my living as a musician for 24 years now.
I met my wife almost ten years ago, here in Savannah, the very first time I played here. In 1993, we were blessed with a beautiful daughter who inspired me to get off the road and be the father that she deserved. A career change was in order, which is what brought me back to school to earn a degree in physical therapy.
My family is my inspiration and motivation for my success as well as for my writings. I would never have thought I could write creatively, let alone have my work published. But, my little girl especially has given me so many precious moments to draw from, that writing is a joy… though I never seem to adequately express the joy I am blessed with, watching my baby grow.)