July 9, 1987

Music stores these days are brimming with the sounds of nature. One of the latest rages for the ears is the refreshing sound of the tide lapping rhythmically upon the sandy shore, the gentle sound of a summer breeze stirring the aspen leaves, the discordant croaks, chirps and splashes of a cat-tailed pond.
A host of record companies have recorded outdoor sounds, pressed them into long-play records, and are selling them for $10 per. From smog-laden Los Angeles to thug-laden New York, people are relaxing after a long day battling the metropolis by pulling earphones down over their heads and escaping into the country. Recently, video cassettes which combine the sounds of nature with the scenes of nature have been selling like pornography.
Listening to a waterfall on the stereo or watching the sun rise over a field of sunflowers on the television is, they claim, better than being there.
We don’t have an album of nature’s noises, nor do we have a video of idyllic country visions. But we did sit on the front porch steps one evening last week, after the sun had gone home for the night, as the robust sounds of the day were being softened by twilight. A dog near and a dog far clamored against some unseen foe. The last of the cicadas was winding down as the crickets were tuning up.
As darkness lowered its ceiling acoustics improved, sounds magnified. Four heels scraped the asphalt of an adjoining street, giving distinct rhythm to the voices of two boys making their hurried way toward some engagement. Another youngster sped past on his bike, the tires whirring, kicking up an uneven tail of gravel.
For a time activity ceased. Crickets created their cacophony. From a field south of town came the low of a mother cow beckoning her calf. From the living room windows of several homes oozed the soft, humming blue of television and through the screen doors of those homes came the commercial laughter of summer reruns.
Then down the street, slowly, came the stooped figure of an old man. Garrison Keillor says old people walk slowly through small towns because they know the stories of each house and as they trudge past each abode they struggle to remember the story. This man must have known the stories and must have had trouble recollecting them because he would take a few steps then stop, then a few more steps and hesitate again. If the people watching their glowing boxes would have glimpsed out their windows they might have thought he was peeping in from the darkness of the street.
But he wasn’t. What was going on in the houses didn’t seem to concern him. He would just glance at a house and then return his gaze to his shuffling feet. At the corner he turned and went on, moving steadily in and out of streetlight glows.
Spinning car tires screamed from Main Street and another car honked, breaking the stillness. High school voices echoes off asphalt and frame houses. Above, a nighthawk’s wings slapped through the dark.
There was no waterfall, no comforting splash of tide against shoreline, but the natural small town sounds were reassuring. They are not sounds which would delight the ear through stereo headphones, and a video of an old man shuffling down a darkened street is not the stuff Oscars are made of.
But they are the timeless sights and sounds which make it unnecessary for us to purchase a $10 recording of tranquility….