MAY 18, 2020 – When I was a kid, whistling was common.
My dad was a virtuoso whistler. The forte and mezzo-forte allegro and allegretto parts he whistled conventionally, that is, through puckered lips. The piano and mezzo-piano andante and largo pieces he whistled through his teeth. He was the only whistler I ever heard who could whistle a full open and closed trill, executed as perfectly into a light breeze up at the lake as Artur Rubenstein could execute a trill on a piano in Carnegie Hall.
When the wind is blowing right up at the Red Cabin (down the shore from Dad’s primary whistling domain) we can hear our secluded neighbor, John, whistling. John’s a former international lawyer turned woodsman, semi-heavy equipment operator, and specialized builder for hire—whose compound is hidden beyond the woods that separate us. His whistling is nearly as virtuosic as Dad’s, except John’s genre is strictly jazz.
Here in the city we have another neighbor, Dave, who is a consummate whistler. Like John, Dave is a few years older than I, and thus, grew up in the Age of Whistling. Dave is a serious biker and skier, and even if I can’t see him two doors away, I can hear him whistle very clearly and musically, eminently happy tunes as he secures his bike or skis atop his car.
But apart from John and Dave, I hadn’t heard a whistler’s whistle since Dad died 10 years ago. It had fallen out of fashion. Even I myself, a frequent, if mediocre, whistler back in the day, was long out of the habit.
Then new neighbors turned the quiet house across the alley from us into a veritable noise factory. Much of the noise is generated by two young kids, a boy six or seven, and his sister who just turned five. In this time of Corvid-19, I’ve learned to accept, then revel in the noise—the brother and sister shouting back and forth as they ride their bikes up and down the alley or the brother strapping on his roller blades and the sister nearly running him over or, with the sister watching, the brother dribbling and shooting 500 times, the full-sized basketball that looks huge in his hands.
But then comes the best part. The brother starts whistling. Yes, whistling. At first I thought it was a squeaky wheel. I investigated and realized that it the kid, whistling while he was playing. The whistling continued for a half hour. It was a perfect diversion from the world’s anxiety over The Virus.
Later I strolled into the alley when the brother was riding his bike in circles around his sister. He saw me and stopped.
“Was that you I heard whistling a bit ago?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said.
“Well, keep whistling! It’s great to hear someone whistle again.”
He said nothing in return but simply resumed riding circles around his sister. A few moments later I heard him whistling.
All’s right with this corner of the world, I thought.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
