Voices

I have the grand luxury of enjoying moments of self-imposed silence. Of course, silence is impossible in most settings, but being seated in a quiet home, without electronic devices blaring, is like drinking cool sips of water in a parched desert.  In the early morning hours, before most of the living roust from their nests, I am able to soak up the voices of natural causes. And things that go bump in the night.

My early morning greeting is often the gentle banging of doors in my basement. My husband says it is the change of pressure that causes such sounds, but I prefer to imagine a sweet little ghost taking care of business when no one is living in our lower level. The banging sounds always make me smile and sometimes I utter a cordial good morning greeting. I am alone at such times so no fear of mocking by others.

Our refrigerator whirs out the churn of making new ice cubes. Except, we have no ice making function on our refrigerator. I can hear the clunk, clunk of the pseudo ice cubes at the end of each cycle. Before you start using the crazy word, my husband recently startled to the same sound. He asked, "Did you hear that?" I responded, "It always does that. It's just the ice making dreams of our refrigerator." He had no reply. And no explanation. I continue to enjoy the process.

Occasionally, I hear the pop, pop, pop of something aching in the bones of the walls. I have long since stopped trying to analyze the source. Envisioning pipes ready to burst or studs in the throes of death does not provide calming thoughts for me. So, I assume little Casper from the basement is sending me Morse code messages. I just hope he isn't telling me that a pipe is ready to go.

The most mysterious sound also comes from my basement. It is a sharp ping that is identical to the sound of a freshly canned jar of peaches alerting the world that the seal is final. I have no idea what causes the sound as I haven't canned anything since my early years of marriage. I do enjoy it, however, as memories of the bounty of summer come flooding back. Jars of peaches, beans and cherries line up like jewels, ready for winter's dark days. A pleasant memory, for sure.

One of my favorite sounds is the rat-a-tat-tat from my deck. A downy woodpecker regularly visits the suet I have positioned on a deck post. She indulges her instincts by pecking away with rapid fire on the block of fat and seeds. I don't think she needs to push very hard to make dietary progress but she enjoys the motion of pecking away. Sometimes we all have to listen to our instincts.

We live in a culture of manufactured sound. TV, Netflix, podcasts, Spotify, books on tape and playlists all vie for our time. None of which are bad. But, sometimes it feels good to disconnect and release control of our surroundings. Listen for the voice of others, the hoot of an owl, the creaking of floor tiles or your favorite house ghost. You may not understand the conversation but you will understand the moment.

Pillow Talk

On the heels of the wretched event called Daylight Saving Time, I went on the hunt for new pillows. Mind you, this is becoming a frequent event and I wish it were not so. One would think that four decades of pillow acquisitions would make me an expert. I am not. In fact, my pillow shopping is now under the heading of "Fails."

I did not grow up with interesting pillows. We did not pluck the feathers of wild geese or use straw ticking to make our own pillows. In fact, I have little memory of our bed gear. I am quite sure that our family's frugality limited our pillow shopping to infrequent at best. It is possible that the pillow I started with in elementary school served me until I left the house. Which makes me wonder why I can no longer find a serviceable pillow. More likely, I was oblivious to such things at the time.

My challenge with pillows is their propensity to go flat. Or squishy. Or lumpy. Or sad. Oh, so sad. I do not buy the cheapest pillows I can find. In fact, I have upped my game recently. I look for pillows with a warranty and some reputation in the bedding world. I am discovering that the warranty is just a decoration on the packaging. I have yet to keep a pillow up to the 10-year warranty mark. And how does one go about cashing in on a failed pillow warranty? Does one stuff it into a big mailer and send it in? Is there a depreciation rate for said pillow? Is their a squish factor at play or is it simply customer satisfaction? I will never know as the hassle factor for such a process is far greater than sucking it up and moving on to the next pillow.

Thus the reason I found myself wandering around in a big box store, looking for more pillows, again. I have a Clem Kadiddlehopper complex when I go retail shopping. I feel totally out of place and my resolve to be a savvy, confident shopper dissolves within minutes. I start to sweat profusely and my ability to communicate with clerks becomes muddled and agitated. The store I was wandering around in relied heavily upon fragrances being pumped into the air that I am sure are the result of a marketer's desire to appeal to its target audience, young and hip moms. My days of young are long gone and hip will never be attached to my name.

A sweet little clerk tried to help me but I was too far gone by then. I carried on alone and dug around in the bins and shelves of bed chiclets. I ditched any pillow with a celebrity's name attached to it and did the same to the bargain pillows and the elite pillows. I settled on two mid-range pillows, one for a side sleeper and one for a stomach/back sleeper. Both felt firm enough, no lumps evident. And both came with a 15-year warranty.

I have a new pillow plan, now. Enjoy the pillow while it gives rest. Ditch it when it slumps into despair. And, don't try to overthink the process.

Duct Tape Man

Many of us enjoy goods and services on the backs and knees of hard working men and women toiling behind the scenes for us on a daily basis. One such individual is a man I do not know personally. I do not know his name, address or family details. He does not know me but we recognize each other because our paths cross almost weekly.  I know what his job is and the hours he works. And I know he wears duct tape.

DT Man works the overnight shift at my local grocery store as a shelf stocker. When I arrive at dawn on my Saturday morning foraging trips to the store, DT is usually finishing his shift. I hear him chatting with his fellow stockers about the usual components of life such as weather and store events. I often see him on his knees sliding cans of kidney beans and tomato soup into place with the well-ordered precision needed to showcase products for the upcoming day. I have never heard him complain, even when the aisles have been ravaged by frothing holiday shoppers. I am sure the weekend before Thanksgiving resulted in a few overtime hours as the cases of canned pumpkin and jellied cranberry sauces towered above the ends of the aisles. DT was on his knees again, replenishing the depleted shelves.

One would think DT would have no knees left, given the amount of time he spends using them. And I am sure an Advil or two is needed on occasion to alleviate discomfort. But DT also has a secret weapon. Duct tape. He has padding on his knees, secured in place by copious amounts of silvery duct tape. He is easily recognized with his gangly gait and shiny knee ornaments. He is clearly one who chooses to live with clever frugality.

Last Saturday, I met him in the aisle just as his shift was completed. His 5-buckle overshoes clanked a tune as he walked with a driven purpose. He was clutching two jars of salted roasted peanuts and he appeared to be on the hunt for something. I watched as he sprawled out on the floor and stuck his head in between two floor level shelves and moved items around. Clearly, salted peanuts were on sale and finding more of them was worth another bend of the knee.

Occasionally DT's shift is completed before I arrive and I see his lanky frame heading down the street, duct tape still intact. I don't know what his destination is but I presume he is headed to the bus stop or a place of abode, no car needed. He has the demeanor of someone who has finished a job and that is that.

I may not know much about DT but I know that I am grateful for his work. I depend on his knees to make sure I have the can of tomatoes I need for soup or the bag of brown sugar I am using to bake cookies. He makes my life easier.

Thank you, Duct Tape Man. You're better than the average Marvel hero to me.