Hello backyard, my old friend
It’s nice to sit in you again
As the temperature starts rising
From all my cares I am hiding
And believe that the sound of my breathing is the only thing to be heard
How absurd
For there’s the sounds of suburbs
Poets and writers have tried to describe the “stillness of a summer’s afternoon” with varying degrees of success. Most modern suburb dwellers will tell you that this stillness is a myth, that afternoons in this part of the world are alive with sound.
To be sure, the wind still rustles the leaves of trees (if you are fortunate enough to live in a neighbourhood that has trees). And, you can still hear birds chirp, whistle, hoot, caw and flutter about.
But, if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear a strange rumbling in the distance. The sound could be something as simple as the earth turning, or, to be more fanciful, the earth complaining about the man-made burden it has to carry. It could be something as mundane as the turning of the turbines of a nuclear power plant. Distant rumblings are invariably inscrutable.
You don’t have much time to consider this noise, however, because the puttering roar of a motorcycle can be heard from the front of your house. As if to accentuate the man-made noise, a different roar comes from overhead: the sonic whine of an airplane.
Things are quiet for just a moment, then a dog starts barking. Soon, another joins in, then another, and, before you know it, the air is full of the sounds of discontented canines. This goes on for several minutes (a game of doggy broken telephone, or some more meaningful form of communication?) , until the dogs, grown tired of the game, stop.
A couple of cars pass, one honking loudly.
Every so often, you’ll hear a sound you can’t identify. The irregular kathump, kathump…kathump could be somebody banging a piece of wood with his fist. Or, it could be the tread of some futuristic robot, or even the firing of some unknown and unimaginable weapon…
In the summer heat, the imagination can run rampant. The sound is probably just somebody dribbling a basketball.
The plane that flies overhead mocks your imagination.
Somewhere, a child laughs. Other children’s voices are audible, and you strain to hear what they are saying, but they are too far away. A car squeals its tires; by the time the ringing in your ears has stopped, you can no longer hear the children or the unidentifiable noise.
At this point, you start to hear a buzzing. This does not mean that the mosquito has just arrived; on the contrary, you suddenly realize that you have been bitten a number of times. You hear yourself gently sigh or heartily curse, depending upon your temperament.
A siren starts. It is distant at first, but shrill. It sounds like it is getting closer. The siren is joined by two more, differently pitched. The three sirens play leap-frog for several tense minutes; then, they are lost in the distance.
The roar from the planes passing overhead nearly knocks you off your lawn chair. There are five of them, flying in a tight V pattern. You can hear your windows rattle, and you angrily wonder what the heck is going on.
A lawnmower uncertainly starts, vrooming rather close to where you are. Almost immediately, the sound is drowned out by a heavy rumbling coming from the street. It is either an immense truck or…a tank?
What would a tank be doing in your neighbourhood?
The wind suddenly picks up, and rain clouds appear out of nowhere. You are chased inside. As you go in, you hear the children crying. As you enter, you hear the pat pat of a gentle rainfall on your roof.
What are the suburbs coming to?