Sadie and I were sitting outside eating pretzels and almonds, and shaking hands. Or paws. The breeze started up and the wooden chimes began their hollow tinkling. I had just brought them from Fresno, and the sound itself made me look around this new-to-me patio and feel like I belonged.
Usually, I am a smell person. Basil, fresh corn tortillas. It doesn’t matter how much of either I have at home. If I walk by fresh basil at a farmer’s market, a fat bunch will come home with me. At the supermarket, I try to avoid the tortilla display at the end of the aisle, because I know I already have three dozen in the fridge and three times that many in the freezer. I smell it, I buy it.
Sounds, for me, are too often an annoyance. Loud TV. Car motors. One reason I dislike going to the movies is that the volume is always a zillion times louder than I need. Years ago, when I took a hearing test for the Peace Corps, the hearing technician told me to stop him when I heard the first sound. I heard the sound. I stopped him. He told me I could not have heard that sound. I told him I did. He tried it again and I heard it that time, too.
The gentle rocking motion of the wooden chimes is calming, and as the sticks softly clack against each other, it’s a pleasant sound I hear. It’s a home sound.