Spring is Sprung

 

            Spring is Sprung 

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The wolf-whistle bird is back. This sharp-voiced bird returns every spring. It has two very distinctive calls. When I hear its voice, I instinctively jerk my head around to see who is either trying to get my attention (Hey you, over here!) or is teasing me with admiration (Wolf-whistle, I kid you not.).

Then I laugh at myself. Foiled again!

The wolf-whistle bird doesn’t sound anything like a love bird, does it? This avian character sounds more like the kind of birds your mama warned you about, the birds standing on the corner outside the pool hall, ciggies dangling from their lips, jeans hanging dangerously on hips, greasy hair slicked back in perfect duck’s tails.

The ones who populated our fantasies.

Ah, love is in the air.

Our little gringo community consists of a small cluster of homes, only eight or nine. Next door to us on the rancho, is a campground. For me to walk to the campground, if there were a direct path, I would trek through the yard of only one other casa.

Last Saturday night, at the campground, the owner-family hosted a huge wedding reception party celebration of the marriage of the baby of the family, the youngest son, respectably in his fifties. Perhaps it was the bride’s first marriage. I know nothing about his chosen one. Who would not love a wedding?

When I lived in Mazatlan, I saw some fancy wedding parties on the beach, but not one came close to the elaborate preparations, the all-out-gung-ho-no-holds-barred-blitz-and-bling of this wedding, with not a beach in sight.

I was not a guest so I speak from descriptions, photos, and reports of peepers.

When it comes to knowing how to truly celebrate any occasion, Mexicans do it better. Take my word for it. My word, with admiration.

Louder, too.

When the bands began to play, I closed my house and went to bed with my Kindle. It’s not warm and romantic but it is entertaining. Remember when I told you how close my home is to the campground? This is why.

A good celebration requires a bank, a virtual wall of speakers. The most important speakers seem to be the ones which blast out the deep tones. I’m not sure the others matter. Or even register on the ear-consciousness.

What I rather quickly became aware of, is that each boom of the bass hit me on a cellular level. After an hour or so of feeling battered, I physically hurt. My muscles hurt. I did not have a headache. My entire body throbbed. Not like that—with pain.

Sunday morning, I told my friends that I felt like I’d been attacked and beaten up. John told me about an experiment, done years ago, with sound levels, confirming that how I felt was not my over-active imagination.

Sound can and does affect our bodies in more ways than simply losing the upper ranges of tones with age, forcing us to become adequate lip-readers.

I listened closely, watching his lips, as John recalled details (in a nutshell) of an article about an experiment using submarine, or was it subsonic, or is that a football team (?), wolfers. John is a careful researcher and has a memory like a steel trap. He said these sub-wolfers are the ones that carry the bass tones.

John said that at a concert event, the researchers, using huge speakers, cranked the wolfs up to 80 mega hurts. This particular level of sound, heard or unheard, caused a mass evacuation of audience to the restroom facilities.

Oh, my, I said. That explains a lot.

I don’t know about you, but loud boom-boom-boom noise does not put me in the mood for romance. If there is ever another wedding or party in the campground, I’m renting a hotel room for the night, three towns distant.

I hope the newly wedded couple live many years in bliss.

Me, I’ll stick with the wolf-whistle birds, reminding me of old times, past fantasies.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Middle of March already!

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