My world has gotten a whole lot noisier. Some routine happenings are downright deafening and lots of things that were silent are no longer. I can hear the ticking of the ship’s clock on the wall and the cycling of the fridge. The sound of freshly made ice cubes dropping into the plastic storage bin is exactly the same as a load of refrigerator-size boulders dropping into the bed of an empty dump truck. The slapping of the flag in the wind on my porch sounds like Lash LaRue is right outside, practicing snapping cigar butts out of the mouths of bad guys. (Ask Gramps about that one, kids.)
Did you know that a teaspoon of sugar sliding into a cup of coffee makes a “shissssh” sound, or that a dog’s nails on a tile floor sound like a hatful of quarters dropping on a steel plate?
I had forgotten that songbirds are named that way for a reason, and ditto hummingbirds. The coffee pot starting up to make my morning cup of mood softener sounds like the boiler room of a World War II-era ammunition transport ship, say the USS Wrangell (AE-12), for instance.
The noise of newspaper pages or wrapping paper being handled sounds like firecrackers in my ears. Few sounds are more piercing, except maybe the microwave. I’m pretty sure the whole island knows when it’s time to take out that slice of last week’s processed-meat-lover’s pizza.
Anyone with hearing aids knows this stuff, but for a person new to the technology, it’s eye-opening, so to speak. Just a few years ago, it was not possible to disguise a hearing aid, what with most models being the size of your average bison horn. But today’s units are nearly invisible and packed with more features than a Tesla, while also being less likely to burst into flames.
Mine are pretty user-friendly, starting with the batteries, which are rechargeable. Additionally, like my fridge, stove, phone, PC, laptop, treadmill, smokers, truck, stereo, clock radio, headphones, Fitbit, snow shovel, and toothbrush, they have Bluetooth. Now there’s a whole new world of music and audiobooks, all day, every day. Sirius XM, Spotify, YouTube, whatever I want to hear at any time, even sometimes my wife, although she would tell you that she’s not on the list. I’ve had to be aware of her comings and goings in order to turn off the music when she arrives, but sometimes she sneaks in and says something I don’t hear because of the music. If I don’t answer, she blasts right through a Southern Pacific track with, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO MUSIC??” It’s the same tone she’d use if she had caught me setting fire to the cat.
In other settings, life has changed considerably. I stopped enjoying going to most restaurants because conversation with others at the table was impossible. Now, on my phone, I can change the hearing aids’ setting to “restaurant,” and suddenly the background noise is quieted and speech is clearer. I’m certain my companions are grateful that they no longer have to repeat themselves all evening. Still, though, with the single touch of an icon, I can turn these babies off and be instantly shielded from vacuous chatter. That alone is worth the price of admission.
Being ancient in a high-tech age means that many age-related parts failures can be compensated for. At my age and mileage, my factory-installed equipment is prone to failure, and a number of my failed parts have been sent to biohazard facilities on two out of three coasts of this great country. Several of these parts have simply been removed without replacements, while others have been upgraded with new components. In several instances, clogged pipes and tubing have been repaired or rerouted with satisfactory results, but there’s only so much pipe and tubing that a man can do without before running into unexpected and often messy challenges. Fortunately, my electrical systems are mostly intact, and structurally, I’m only missing one bone.
The ability of today’s medical professionals to keep a smelly old jalopy like me running seems nothing short of miraculous. But it’s not like I haven’t provided the opportunities for repair or replacement. As a frequent flyer at the Mid Coast Hospital operating room, one anesthesiologist greets me by my nickname when we meet — even if I’m just visiting a friend.
I’m just an old manufacturing business boss. I can run a big business that makes stuff. Turn a failing one around? Done it. Manage a few hundred employees? No sweat. In a different language? Sure, if I can pick it. Read and understand a P&L and balance sheet? Piece of cake. But I swear I didn’t know how just hearing what’s happening around me would change my life. For that I have Dave to thank.
Thank you, Dave.
Butch Lawson is an observer of life. He lives on Bailey Island.
