Peace in Our Time

I often think back to the good old days when life was slower-paced and a good deal quieter. I recall that as a teenager, I would sleep in on a Saturday. My window wide open, I often awoke to the comforting whirr of a neighbour’s push lawn mower.  These days one is shattered awake by the explosive sound of a gas-powered lawn mower.  My goodness, even the guy operating the machine has to wear ear protection!

When our neighbour finished mowing his lawn, I heard a gentle clip clip as he carefully manicured the edges of his lawn with grass shears. Now one is treated to the aggravating whine of the whipper snipper.

When fall came, we were all quietly industrious, raking our leaves into piles to be burned, at the same time exercising our bodies. These days one’s peace is broken by the annoying high pitched squeal of the leaf blower operated once again by someone wearing ear plugs.

And don’t get me started on the repetitive high pitched pinging of the back-up warning signals of  commercial vehicles , though I’ve no doubt that annoying sound has saved the life of many a child.

I think the very worst sound is that of a dumpster being emptied. The operator seems determined to make as much noise as he possibly can. What did we do before the advent of dumpsters?

I am of the age to remember the steady clip clop of the horse-drawn bakery truck; the dependable horse seemed to know the route and often plodded on to the next stop all on his own, leaving the delivery person to catch up.

Milk was delivered in glass bottles, kept cold in our ice boxes by large blocks of ice supplied by the iceman who sawed great chunks  from a massive block in the back of his truck. Then, with the use of tongs, he hefted the huge block onto his sack-covered shoulders and carried it to the icebox on our back porch. We kids always hung around him, begging for slivers of ice to suck.

Mum bought her vegetables at the door from a ‘Chinaman’ whose small truck, packed inside with a great array of fruits and vegetables, was decorated outside by a variety of wicker baskets which he used to carry purchases to the door of the house.

I vividly remember the East Indian wood merchant calling out ‘Barky wood’ as he roved the neighborhoods in his heavy-laden truck. Dad would inspect the wood on offer, give his okay, and it was then dumped onto our driveway. Then dad and I threw armloads of wood through the open basement window, later stacking it into neat piles in our big basement.

An interesting side-note to the wood story is that when my future husband was stationed in India during World War II, he wanted his mother to know where he was; as his letters home were censored, he wrote “I am in the land of the barky wood” and of course she immediately knew where he was located.