Quiet

There's really no quiet in my neighborhood.  It's one of the fistful of things I don't like about where we live; fortunately there are a couple handfuls more of things I do.

But the lack of quiet is probably my sharpest regret, and it was a surprise, because I was I was careful to choose a home at least half a mile from a highway, blocks from a major street, far from railroad tracks, and outside the residential stains oozing from universities. (Too much time in college towns gave me a healthy fear of undergraduates; my realtor thought I was nuts.)

But we're on a hill, and, in many wind conditions, the hum from the highway six tenths of a mile to the north carries.  So does the racket from the main drag a few blocks west, and the train tracks one mile south.  And although we're ten miles at least from the airport, we're under a flight path, and so, mornings and evenings, the planes bleat by like a herd of deep-voiced sheep.  My preschool-aged son is delighted, and his delight is also noisy.

And of course: neighbors.  I may have escaped the undergraduates, but I have not escaped humanity in general, and humans produce noise.  Car doors closing, kids yelping, the occasional saxophone riff from my neighbor who likes jazz.  Some of the neighbors own dogs, and while I am of the opinion that dogs should be seen and not heard, and should keep to themselves, more like cats, and in fact should probably just be cats instead- my opinion falls on deaf (floppy) ears.

All this to say that the occasional bit of quiet is piercing, a hypodermic shooting straight into your veins.

This morning, Sunday, 5:00 AM: turning a slow circle on the sidewalk before bending to pick up the paper.  Still dark and still hot, even in this coolest corner of morning, but, just for a moment, quiet.

The neighbor's AC rumbles on and I head inside.