Transient Lullaby

The first half of my childhood was spent in a little white house with a picket fence to match at the very end of a dead-end road. It was a quiet neighborhood, rural and residential. Baby Lane mirrored Oak Orchard Creek and was stopped by a small stream flowing toward the water. Behind the stream was a thick wall of farmland, property that built the economy of the town decades before and continues to nourish it to this day. I’ve always had trouble sleeping, but if I opened my window just a few inches I could hear the waterfall in the small ravine that separated my yard from the neighbors on the other side. The natural borders surrounding my home provided privacy, which in turn provided peace of mind.

Until I was seven years old the rhythmic, gentle whoosh of moving water sang me to sleep. In the early spring frogs ribetted a lullaby that’s notes pushed the thoughts cluttering my mind. Raccoons chattering in search of a midnight snack chased away insomnia that fled like a wise old crayfish, both pushing themselves away in reverse, without time enough to turn around. The smell of damp soil and distant livestock always lingered in the air, wafting through my open window, in the same way, the aroma of snickerdoodles baking downstairs traveled through the vents. On occasion, the restless steers behind the property would crescendo over softer sounds to ease me into a deep, restful dream.

The second half of my childhood brought me to an old farmhouse just a few miles up the creek, a few miles too far from my waterfall to hear its song. Creek road separated me from the moving water, but it could not separate me from the sounds of Route 63 just above my familiar Oak Orchard. Most nights I could still smell the water and damp clay through the mesh window screen that faced it, but the scent of a growing herd of beef was only present after crop fields upwind were fertilized with week-old manure from the farm downstream. Even then the sweet, comforting stink was estranged and tainted. Overpowered by the noxious smell of tractor diesel, the familiarity I longed for was gone. Replacing the gentle hush of the waterfall was sporadic traffic from tractor-trailers and late-night commuters. In my baby-blue room at the front of the house, facing the source of the sound, I felt I may never sleep again. Vehicles screamed over the bridge, changing pitch somewhere in the middle like they were driving down the keys of a poorly tuned piano.

But in the moments of their absence, I could still hear bullfrogs croaking with a cheerful choir of spring peepers. I became accustomed to the tone-deaf traffic quite quickly, turning my senses away from the mechanical karaoke and toward voices I hadn’t heard before on Baby Lane. This new block was littered with crop fields separated by other retired farmhouses, or by acres of woods on terrain too rough or too swampy to be productive farmland. Though I lost the relaxing, constant flow of fast-moving water, I gained the gentle chirp of a hayfield of crickets.

On hot summer nights, cicadas would buzz my ears numb and help me forget the memories that kept me awake. Barn owls that found refuge in old, empty rafters hoo-hooed my imagination into subsidence. The wind made a strong, solitary, ancient pine that was taller than the house yawn above me. That same breeze would whistle through the old oaks standing guard in the front lawn just a wall away. I could follow the wind out of any nightmare that may have tried to disturb my slumber. In the winter, hungry red fox cried out, cunningly luring my drowsy mind to follow them to their warm, cozy den. In time these new sounds became familiar, turning my lullaby into a symphony. A natural orchestra stood in place of the old backyard band.

Today, in my one-bedroom apartment on Jasper Street, my evening melody has changed once again. The symphony that overtook my lullaby has been replaced with a bustling, urban ballad. People walk the streets playing music or talking to their phones at all hours. I wonder if there is even a person on the other side of their call, and where that person may be. The neighbors’ dogs bark at passing travelers, alerting the next hound to the presence of a stranger, continuing the line of alarm to my pair of pups. Sirens sound as often as the bell in the tower of the church a few blocks away, often I wonder how many emergencies there could be in one neighborhood. I also wonder why I chose to live near so many hospitals, or rather why so close to so many people.

Even the traffic sounds different. Instead of a high-pitched screech over a bridge, I now hear a whirring engine, bass vibrating through speakers, and wheels crunching it all forward on the rough and painted pavement. I can follow the car's journey with my eyes closed, it travels past my window and squeaks to a stop at the corner. Remembering the doppler effect from the lecture of a tired sixth-grade science teacher, I can differentiate between a left and a right turn. Most turn right towards the city, if I were behind the wheel at the same stop sign, I would go right as well. I would pass through the downtown streets to find a calmer place, one with fewer people and less commotion.

The only sound I recognize here is the chirp of city street crickets, a single instrument from the orchestra I learned to love. But... if I’m tired enough to tune out all the other sounds masquerading through the night, I keep my window open and tune my ears. I listen through the city’s urban ballad, and friends of old friends are strumming a borrowed tune for me. I can almost imagine the rest of the orchestra chiming in, and I fall into my old bedroom as I fall asleep.