Speak the Quiet

For the past eight years, it has rarely been quiet at our house. Yes, this coincides with a sweet, blue-eyed blonde being ever-present. It is quite the change for us.

You must understand neither Jennifer or I are very talkative. There was a time in her younger days when Jennifer’s parents were very concerned how she just would not talk. My parents never shared such a concern about me although they could probably tell you about the many times when someone came to our house and I would disappear into another room only returning when the visitor had left. For those who know us this well, they were not surprised when one of the songs we used in our wedding was Allison Krauss’s remake of the Keith Whitley song “When You Say Nothing At All.” It just seemed appropriate on several levels.

Jennifer and I tend to be the quieter, fit-into-the-scenery type of people. I am fairly certain some may even consider me unfriendly or surly just because I don’t really talk that much. Some may even think I am stuck for an answer when someone says “hello” to me. Frankly, maybe I am. I am instead someone who doesn’t believe I have to chime in on every little thing that happens. Sometimes, just keeping quiet is the wisest alternative. Still, some, on the other end of the spectrum, may know my talky side that comes out sometimes. They know how it steamrolls into a rolling, droning, never-ending stream of yawn-inducing minutiae over some subject. Not everyone can be pleased, I guess.

Meantime, some close to me have even said my facial expressions tell a story all their own better than I could even express verbally. Someone once told me I held no toleration for idiocy which must have been written across my face as I don’t remember uttering those words then. I guess I owe all those things to genetics and my feeling of constant bewilderment at the turns our society seems to blunder down daily.

All that said, pun intended, to get to how one recent day it was rather quiet in our house. Jennifer and I often talk how we haven’t had a complete conversation since Hannah learned to talk. We both find her often inserting herself into any conversation we may have ongoing. Yes, we then discuss with her how she should let someone finish what they were saying before stepping into a conversation. It has yet to completely stick though. I am sure one day it will.

Anyway, a recent day found the three of us home. The cold had embraced the outdoors. We also had work going on in another part of our house. In a sense, these factors isolated us for a day. Now, for me, that is an ideal day. The three of us together at our home spending time with one another. Oh, the things we could laugh at together. Oh, the plans we could make together. Oh, the opportunities to have every conversation interrupted by the eight-year-old.

Those conversations though mostly happened uninterrupted. Hannah was much quieter than normal. She was not feeling well. She said her throat was hurting. Since her throat hurt she decided not talking might help it get better quicker.

During the day, I watched her. She clung to a stuffed cat. Her tiny arms held it close to her in a secure embrace. She nibbled at food. She bristled at medicine. She looked like she did not feel good. She looked worried that this sore throat might never go away. I wanted to cry knowing she did not feel well. I wondered how all those parents who have children with serious medical issues deal with that gnawing, helpless, terrible feeling of watching your child struggle.

 

Later in the day, Hannah looked at me. I told her I had missed her voice that day. She gave me a curious look. Truth is, I missed hearing her ask some question every time I tried to talk. I missed her belting out a song out of the blue. I missed her stories of her and her friends.

Life is an odd thing. Many of us hold close to the familiar and safety everyday life can bring. Others like to live on the edge dancing on the line of uncertainty. Life really accommodates both constantly. It always changes. One day you realize the familiar and safe place you once knew sits at another place. You adjust and that new place becomes a new familiar, safe place.

One day, God willing, that voice will change from an eight-year-old to an older, wiser voice. It will do so seemingly as I stand still. That voice will grow up and may not be around as much as it is now. I know though I will always feel the cadence, the pitch, the rhythm of that voice. Maybe then it won’t interrupt me when I try to say something. While I may wish now for that, I know if I am able to live that moment in the future I will miss that voice stopping me while I try to flesh out my thoughts enough to verbalize them. Maybe then I’ll remember how truly blessed I was to be interrupted in such a way.

Road Trip

Most of us spend a lot of time traveling from one place to another. Most of us do so in our own car. From day to day and week to week, we often travel from the same places to the same places. It becomes routine to dodge the same potholes and rough patches on the road. It seems as if the scenery along the way seldom changes. Maybe this same-old, same-old is enough reason now and then for a road trip.

That said I am not a world traveler. I most likely won't ever wear that title. I prefer being closer to a base I can call home. I have gone up and down many of the same roads through the years. That level of familiarity is a nice place to visit occasionally. It has also given me enough memories to recall and share.

The road trips I recall started long before I ever sat behind the wheel of a vehicle, adjusted my mirrors and put the pedal to the metal. They begin in my childhood fast forward through my teen and early adult years and slow down enough for this place where I now find myself.

Recently, we took a short trip away. We left early on a Saturday morning on a surprise trip to the mountains. Two-and-a-half hours later and we are just beginning a memorable weekend. Hannah got to spend some time with cousins while Jennifer and I spent some time with other family members all within the confines of a gigantic theme park. By mid-day the next day we were on our way home.

I drove us home that afternoon. It was rainy and overcast. The traffic through Knoxville was steady but never came to a complete stop. Soon enough, we were halfway home. I often travel the back roads. We passed through a few small towns replete with a handful of red lights. I found us on a four-lane road sticking to the speed limit. I looked over at Jennifer only to find her as curled up as the passenger seat would allow. The movie "Zootopia" played over the audio system. I looked in the rear view mirror and noticed Hannah had also gone to sleep.

I thought a bit how many road trips I had been on in my life. Trips with my parents and other family. Trips with friends. And now, trips with my wife and daughter. A slow and steady pace would find us pulling into our driveway soon enough. Until then, the steady hum of the tires on asphalt mixed with the memories of trips from the long ago and the not-so long ago leading me to a place I find warm and cozy.

Playlist for "Road Trip"

Johnny Cash "I've Been Everywhere"

Boston "Hitch a Ride"

Todd Rundgren "Bang On The Drum"

Ray Charles "Hit The Road, Jack"

The Allman Brothers Band "Ramblin' Man"

Blackfoot "Highway Song"

Old Crow Medicine Show "Wagon Wheel"

Roger Miller "King of the Road" 

Chuck Berry "Route 66"

The Pretenders "Middle of the Road"

Shakira "Try Everything"

Tom Cochrane "Life Is A Highway"

The Smell Test

Nearly every morning sees the same routine for me. I reach into a kitchen cabinet then pull out a plastic purple bowl. I open a drawer fumbling for a spoon. I set these two items on a counter beside the refrigerator. Then I locate a box of cereal, usually Cheerios of the honey-nut variety, although I go crazy some days and reach for the plain variety or even Rice Krispies or one of the Chex cereal family members. I open the box top, unravel the interior protection then fill the bowl with the cereal. Of course, the next step is to add milk to the bowl.

This is where this whole process slows down. I open the refrigerator door, scrounge around to find the jug of milk then bring it out into the kitchen. I slowly remove the cap to the milk then instead of pouring it onto my cereal I pull the whole jug up to my nose to give it a sniff. It could be a new, never-opened-before-that-very-moment container or one that has spent a week taking up time in the chilled repository known as the refrigerator; I am not partial to applying the smell test to milk every time I get near it.

Jennifer finds this amusing. In time, I am sure Hannah will as well. Some days, I think the cat even gives me the stink eye when I do this. But, folks, I’m just not going to take a chance. After all, I have filled my cereal bowl in past times then poured in milk only to discover the milk has turned sour. It is an awful way to ruin a pile of processed breakfast food. If I had only taken a precious few seconds to hold my nose over the milk jug opening, I could have saved myself from having to alter my morning meal plans.

I have a good life. I am blessed beyond what I ever wished for and definitely more than I deserve. Still, I have made poor choices during my lifetime. I also know I will most likely add to that list as time moves forward. Looking back, I wonder if some of those bad choices though could have been avoided if I had only taken the time to give the impending decision a smell test. You know, assess the situation a bit longer, remove the cap to hold my nose over the situation and given it a sniff. That sure would have been a better solution than to cry over spilled milk.