I’m not used to these quiet country days.
Colorado Springs is hardly a bustling metropolis, but while living downtown on a busy street, we had our share of traffic noise, neighbor noise, and…I don’t know…there was just more noise. Ambulances speeding past with sirens blaring at all hours of the day; Air Force Academy trainers whirring overhead; music pounding from the pseudo-frat house next door: loud things were happening all the time.
Here on Stevenson lake, deep in the heart of Clare County, “noise” is the engine of a lone speed boat skimming by the lakefront a few times in the evening. It’s the sound of goldfinches chirping as they gather around their feeder on the lawn. It’s the low cooing of mourning doves, which, incidentally, sound exactly like Sam’s coos when he’s in a good mood. That can be confusing. But, mostly, it’s quiet here.
And while there’s no end of things to do—cabins to clean, wood to chop, diapers to wash and hang on the line—a calm stillness surrounds me all the while. These keystrokes seem to echo in the room.
There are moments of chaos, to be sure. When all the grandchildren and their friends come over to play, they cause quite a ruckus, thundering through the house and shrieking in the water. And when my mother-in-law is cooking one of her legendary feasts for a crowd, the kitchen becomes a storm of clanging pans and rumbling KitchenAid mixers.
And there’s the sound of the screen door slamming—my husband has come in from a morning’s work in the yard. Time to make some lunch.
It’s not that I mind the quiet. I actually find it soothing.
I’m just not used to being able to hear myself think.