Sounds of Distant Memories

When we think about which of our senses bring back memories of our youth, we generally think of smells or tastes. That’s probably because much of our early years are spent in the kitchens and dining rooms of the homes we grew up in. Of course, our sense of sight also comes to mind, especially when we’re looking at photo albums (paper or electronic).

I particularly remember the smell of lilacs and honeysuckle, which grew behind our house. My bedroom window faced our backyard and it was almost always open on summer nights. And of course, I think of the smell of a freshly cut evergreen when we brought the Christmas tree into the house. That’s what I miss most now that I’ve done the previously unthinkable and gone artificial. Just one more capitulation brought about by an aging body.

When we reflect on our past, most of us rarely think of the sounds of distant memories. But they can be just as powerful as sights and smells and tastes. When I was watering the plants on our deck this summer, a sound caught my attention. We had several small Amercian flags attached to the posts on the deck railings. What I heard was the flags gently snapping in the breeze. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. It took a minute to understand what was happening.

I was remembering warm summer days on the lake where I grew up. On weekends, I’d take my board boat out to a quiet area along the rocky shore, drop the sail and lie in the sun. The wind on the lake was highly changeable. On the trip to my chosen spot, it often shifted direction with little warning, setting the sail to flapping with a sound much like the flags were making. That small snippet of sound brought back such wonderful memories, ones that seldom bubble up to the surface. Memories of other boats I owned, other places I sailed years ago.

We also have a wind chime out on the deck. The tinkling sound it makes is soothing. It, too, brings back memories, though I’m still trying to figure out where they are taking me. I know it’s somewhere I loved to be. Perhaps it was the first house I owned with my former significant other. My sister gave us a Woodstock chime when we moved in. After we went our separate ways and I had a house on my own, I hung wind chimes as a welcoming gesture to myself. I often give these as house-warming or wedding presents to friends. It’s impossible to feel stressed when you hear a wind chime.

Some sounds send a slight chill up my spine, a frisson of pleasure remembered. One in particular that does that is the whining sound of motorcycle gears shifting in the distance. Then the sound of the machine accelerating, heading farther away from me. It reminds me of summer nights during my college years. Several young men I dated had bikes. I’d sit behind them, arms around their chests, as we headed off on some adventure. That sound is somehow melancholy, especially at night. I think it’s because it’s what I’d hear after the adventure was over, when the young man was heading home. These days I’m sad because I’m not on the back of the bike that I’m hearing.

Some sounds trigger bittersweet memories. That happens when I hear metal scraping on asphalt. My best friend died of lung cancer when she was just sixty. She’d never smoked a day in her life. She’s been gone eleven years now and I still cry when I think about our lost friendship. We met when I lived in New Jersey and we both worked at a large corporation in Manhattan. For a short period of time before she moved back to Rhode Island where her husband lived, she stayed with me.

The first week she was there, I was startled one night by sound of a metal trash barrel being dragged from behind the house, down the driveway to the street. It turned out that in Rhode Island, folks put their barrels on the curb on trash day. Not so where I lived in New Jersey; the men came around the house to get them. We were both laughing as we dragged those cans back up the driveway, making that distinctive sound again. Often when I hear that now, memories of my funny, smart and loyal friend come back to me. I cry a little; I smile a lot. And I’m grateful for all those sounds of distant memories.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

From the Balcony in Mashobra

The experience of spending a few days at my in-laws’ hill house in Mashobra was filled with sights, sounds and smells that begged to be recorded. I’ve already written about the smells, and about the monkeys, so this post will focus on other sights and sounds. I jotted things in my pad wherever we went, but many of my most enduring observations were made while I sat on the balcony of the house.

Ersatz Fireflies and Moth-like Butterflies

In the evening, across the valley, cottage lights are strings of giant fireflies, blinking along the ridgelines of the lower mountains. A storm is coming and the wind is blowing unseen branches back and forth in front of the lit windows. Blink. Blink. In the morning after the rain, small white moth-like butterflies flutter through the still-wet trees and past the balcony, like little leaves drifting around and down on wind currents.

Not A Phool, Fool

One moth swings by as though checking me out as a possible landing site. I don’t know why. I’m wearing the black garments from my morning exercise and haven’t even bathed yet. Surely I can’t have been mistaken for a flower. If the insect was looking for a phool (Hindi for flower), he showed himself a fool! His friends are flapping their wings so hard in mockery that they’re turning cartwheels of laughter.

Hara Hara—The World Becomes Green.

As the sun comes up and evaporates the droplets still left from the storm, the distant mountains change color, from deep gray to soft blue-gray to pale celadon green. Soon, the nearest ridges become bright green, mottled with the two-tone triangles of pine trees. The downhill sides are bright green; the uphill ones are deep forest green. Eventually, only the trunks remain dark, where they are visible at all. I find myself softly singing some mash-up tune: “Green, green, my world is green,” then chanting the color in Hindi: “Hara, Hara.”

One area nearby is becoming sun-washed mustard. I wonder if later in the day it, too, will turn green. As the sun hits the mountains in the distance, I realize that what I thought had been clouds on the horizon are actually the most distant peaks. They reveal themselves to be not just snow-capped, but completely snow-covered, even though it’s June and Delhi is in a heat wave far below.

Turning my attention closer to home, I notice that the wash on our house’s concrete is the same celadon as the far away hills were at first light. Likewise for many other houses nearby. I see round metal disks on most balconies and rooftops—telltale signs there is satellite TV and Wi-Fi. At least the dishes are small. And uniform. Thank you, Tata Communications (part of the enormous industrial conglomerate).

Geese or Betas?

Unusual noises are emerging from the farm area below us. At first, I think it’s a flock of geese, still hoarse in the morning air. Then it sounds like regimented groups of children—betas—at the school nearby, exercising the naughtiness demons out of their little bodies. A rooster crows. Now young voices rise in laughter. It may not have been geese; perhaps it was children after all. No matter. After yesterday’s rain, I’m enjoying everything the breeze is bringing my way this fine morning.

Watch How/Where You’re Walking

I can tell it’s going to be a great day for trekking. I’m learning to pay attention to certain walk-about cautions. At this higher altitude, the air is thinner so a gentle walking pace is prudent. Not my crosstown Manhattan commuter's trot. This is also sensible because the footing can be precarious on the uneven pavement and rocky paths. It’s important to pay attention to where you’re walking, even around the neighborhood. Did I mention the monkey scat and bullock plops? (Akin to Manhattan after all.)

On the brighter side, an attentive eye will discover wild berries along the path through the woods. My sister-in-law, Pinki, being younger and more stable on her feet, is our hunter-gatherer. My task is to rinse the harvest with bottled water. We share the joy of eating them on the spot.

Mashobra provided such memorable experiences. So many sights and sounds to be stored, along with the wonderful smells, the exotic botanicals and the charming monkeys, in the mental file of my visit to Himachal Pradesh. And so my blog posts from this trip to India come to a close. Next week, expect to see my usual style of social satire once again. Namaste, my friends.

Credit to sources from whom I purloined the photos, whoever you are.