I’ve been thinking about winter lately. I’ve always been the type that romanticizes the seasons, even though out here in California the weather is rarely extreme. No snow, for example. In the depths of summer I often think about winter--just as in the middle of winter I think longingly of summer. But while driving home down Highway 113 one night as the sun was setting and the headlights of my aging Nissan starting to take hold of the night, I thought of the winter season ahead and the sound of cars on rainy streets. I thought, what a lonesome ound that is, the swishing noise that, if your standing at a curb, changes tone as the car rolls by like the redshift of light in the cosmos.*
As a kid, I remember opening up the window in the bathroom at the rear of the house on Lark Street. On winter nights if the wind was right, I could hear the cars on busy East 14th Street five or six blocks away. Swish, the sound of tires going to where I didn’t know.
I was a weird kid. The world around me astounded me, scared me. I couldn’t comprehend the idea that I would someday leave Lark Street and strike out on my own. The distant sound of the rain and cars seemed like a world a million miles from mine and a reminder of the mystery that is life.
When you’re a kid your life is surrendered to your parents. They direct where you go, what you do, and why. You’re just along for the ride. For what seems like an eternity you do nothing but live in the now with little responsibilities or comprehension of the world around you.
I remember wondering where electricity came from. You plugged something into the wall and presto, you had power. Back in those days people didn’t think a lot about where their energy came from. In a time of seemingly endless abundance it didn’t matter. My dad once went on a campaign to have us kids turn off the lights when we left the room. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about.
We were six people living in an 1100 sq. ft. house with one bathroom. I was the youngest. My brother was ten years older than me, so by the time I became aware of things he was out of the house hanging with his friends. He was an enigma. (Did he haunt the streets on winter nights, his car splashing in the night?) That left me with two older sisters who both loved me and tolerated my presence.
Being the last child born had its advantages and disadvantages. I was the youngest, therefore I was someone to protect. Not that it mattered. My parents did their best to keep the harshness of life at bay from all us but especially me, the baby. They were lucky people, my parents. They never argued, and they raised four decent kids. The few heavy incidents of my childhood, like the time my brother came home with a tattoo, are etched in my mind because they were so few and far between.
Swish. The sound of rain. The sound of tires lifting water from the streets and throwing it out into the world. It’s a sound that I remember well, and to this day when I hear it, I am taken back in time to a place where everything seemed perfect and the outside world a million miles away.
*In physics (especially the physics of astronomical objects) redshift happens when light seen coming from an object is proportionally to appear more red.
As a kid, I remember opening up the window in the bathroom at the rear of the house on Lark Street. On winter nights if the wind was right, I could hear the cars on busy East 14th Street five or six blocks away. Swish, the sound of tires going to where I didn’t know.
I was a weird kid. The world around me astounded me, scared me. I couldn’t comprehend the idea that I would someday leave Lark Street and strike out on my own. The distant sound of the rain and cars seemed like a world a million miles from mine and a reminder of the mystery that is life.
When you’re a kid your life is surrendered to your parents. They direct where you go, what you do, and why. You’re just along for the ride. For what seems like an eternity you do nothing but live in the now with little responsibilities or comprehension of the world around you.
I remember wondering where electricity came from. You plugged something into the wall and presto, you had power. Back in those days people didn’t think a lot about where their energy came from. In a time of seemingly endless abundance it didn’t matter. My dad once went on a campaign to have us kids turn off the lights when we left the room. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about.
We were six people living in an 1100 sq. ft. house with one bathroom. I was the youngest. My brother was ten years older than me, so by the time I became aware of things he was out of the house hanging with his friends. He was an enigma. (Did he haunt the streets on winter nights, his car splashing in the night?) That left me with two older sisters who both loved me and tolerated my presence.
Being the last child born had its advantages and disadvantages. I was the youngest, therefore I was someone to protect. Not that it mattered. My parents did their best to keep the harshness of life at bay from all us but especially me, the baby. They were lucky people, my parents. They never argued, and they raised four decent kids. The few heavy incidents of my childhood, like the time my brother came home with a tattoo, are etched in my mind because they were so few and far between.
Swish. The sound of rain. The sound of tires lifting water from the streets and throwing it out into the world. It’s a sound that I remember well, and to this day when I hear it, I am taken back in time to a place where everything seemed perfect and the outside world a million miles away.
*In physics (especially the physics of astronomical objects) redshift happens when light seen coming from an object is proportionally to appear more red.
This is a gem. Your alliteration about rain is amazing and nostalgic all at the same time. Thanks!
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