Jim Alf

It’s the quietness. I ride on waves of it, like silent surf, over the deeps, to a beach of memories. A farm yard where I stood as a child, immersed in stillness, appreciative for the first time of the absence of noise. Not without sound, but sans the din and rattle of mechanical work. From the yard oak came a bird’s brief twit and far away a neighbor’s cow lowed, for a reason unknown. I drank the stillness then and going on a century later thirst for it yet. It gives me hope.

Now it’s here again, almost. It has been days since the car with the broken muffler has roared to life in the parking lot outside my window. Our television screen is dark and soundless, purposely, to keep out the endless and repetitive announcements, statistics, opinions and guesses and tomfoolery of the communication age. The radio hasn’t been on for weeks.

So I make sounds of my own liking. The soft tune of hot water in the sink, rattle of dishes being washed. The broom rubbing the floor, cupboard door shutting. Then, best of all, the barely audible turning of a page, newspaper folding open to the crossword and the pencil’s voice. In time I will seek the music of friend’s conversations or a favorite song on Youtube. As the sun mutely warms the air I will make some coffee and sandwiches and drive out to the Porterville Park, sit by the boat landing and listen for the faint swish of the Chippewa’s current. Maybe the dog on the other side of the river will bark softly, just once.

Jim Alf is the author of When The Ferries Still Ran: History and Stories From the Chippewa Bottoms.