I'm trying to hone a rusty sense.
After living for so long in the forest in England with no electronic conveniences at all I got very comfortable with silence, and with my own company. There, I became more attuned to birdsong. It poured into Bryn Garth cottage's bedroom window on cool April mornings, and in late evenings. Often a nightingale would sing in the deepening twilight; I knew then what it meant to be enchanted. There I was, alone in the universe, with nothing but stars to light the evening, listening to this heavenly sound. Tears crawled down my cheeks. The experience was -- unearthly.
Home now in Traverse City, I've become much more aware of the click of pawed toenails on cement, the different sounds cars make as they trundle along our brick street, and the little moans and groans elderly houses emit as they settle.
This morning I flicked on the porch light and went out the front door for the paper, and a small cadre of cats peeked around the porch corner at me; they'd been bunking on the swing, and looked surprised to see me out there at that outrageous hour. They soundlessly flowed as a unit to the stairs and faded into the mist, like wraiths. Velvet-soft padded feet were utterly silent on the smooth floorboards. One cat deliberately brushed against my pant leg, leaving his scent-marking me. I felt claimed.
This past summer I wandered to the beach one peaceful Sunday morning. An older man with dark glasses and a white cane sat alone on a bench, facing the calm bay. As I paused near him to admire the view, he said, quietly, "Good morning, young lady." Startled, I stumbled out a polite response, then impulsively asked him how he'd known I was female (and young? Ha! But I didn't ask that).
"Elementary, my dear," he replied, smiling. "I heard you breathing, and measured the distance from your face to the ground. You're short ... and I'd say your hair's about 3 inches long; if it were longer I'd hear it brushing your jacket. Air moving through varying hair lengths sounds subtly different.
"You favor sneakers, aren't wearing perfume, and your pants are cotton," he said.
"Most men, by the way, have really short hair," he continued. "Plus, your stride on the grass was light, so you're probably younger, and not heavy."
Fascinated, I asked to sit by him. He'd been blind most of his life. Early on he began to develop and nurture skills -- sensitivities, as he called them. He knew countless perfumes and aftershave lotions, and could identify which friend or family member was approaching, not only by the rhythm of their walk, but also by their natural body-scent. "My grandchildren try to sneak up on me, but I always know ..."
He grinned. "I'm pretty darn good at recognizing lies, too. Voices subtly change; people shift uncomfortably, or turn their heads away, directing sound elsewhere. Sighted people, except maybe for some talented detectives, have largely lost that knack. People believe what they see; I believe what I hear, and smell. Liars emit sound-cues, and a distinct odor ...
"I have a friend whose dog is learning to detect accelerants. Once I went with him to a training session and picked the right box; Tom was amazed. He thought, half-seriously, that I should get a job with the fire department's arson unit. I finally confessed I'd chosen the right one because his breathing changed as we passed it. We had a good laugh ..."
I envied his awareness, and talent; this man's world was huge!
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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