Andy Rooney_ 60 Years of Wisdom and Wit - Andy Rooney [71]
There are some problems that would have to be worked out, of course. The reason all of us now try to get what is known as “a good night’s rest” is not because that’s the way our bodies like it, but because the whole civilized process of going to bed and getting up is such a time-consuming activity that we couldn’t afford to do it three or four times a day. And, of course, if it took the night people a couple of hours to get going again after each sleep period, they’d be less help than they are now. A personal opinion, you understand.
The Sound of Silence 151
And, of course, there are other questions that would have to be resolved. When, for instance, would we change our underwear, take a shower and make the bed?
The Sound of Silence
There’s no telling what wakes you on those nights you can’t sleep. Last night, I awoke at 2:20. It was the sound of falling snow that did it. I knew it was snow because there was not a single, solitary sound. The silence of falling snow is deafening.
I lay there for several minutes, trying to breathe quietly so as not to obliterate the soundlessness. Finally, I couldn’t handle my doubt any longer. I got up (I’m fighting off “arose”), pulled back the curtain and looked out on the backyard. Sure enough, there it was—gently falling snow hitting the ground silently, covering the little slate walk and clinging, half an inch thick, to tiny branches that are themselves no more than half an inch thick. It perched on top of the points of the picket fence in a beautifully symmetrical peak that no human hand could fashion. They say no two snowflakes have ever been the same but we don’t know, do we? I saw two that looked very much alike.
There are all kinds of sounds in nature that are better than noise. Some sounds are good or bad depending on where you are and what you’re doing when you hear them. Nothing is worse than a downpour of rain when you’re caught out in it without a coat or umbrella. But inside, the sound of the same downpour is a pleasure that makes you appreciate your shelter.
Of all the sounds combining weather with nature, none is so persistently loud and impossible to turn off as the roar of the sea rolling up onto a broad, sandy beach. I envy people who live on expensive property near the ocean. There’s the roar as thousands of tons of water advance on a broad front along the width of the beach, or the crash when the waves hit the immovable rocks that cup the shoreline at either end of a sandy crescent. There is the soft, seething sound as the water recedes. It pauses briefly out at sea, gathering strength for its next attack. A beach confounds angry waters by accepting them and defeating their destructive intentions, waiting patiently for the waves to go back where they came from, out to sea.
The heat of summer is as silent as snow but it’s an oppressive silence. There is no pleasurable relief from heat comparable to the great feeling of pulling up the extra blanket on a cold night. Air conditioning is a modern marvel but it is loud, heartless and mechanical, with no charm. I don’t like it but I don’t know how we ever lived without it.
Wind is nature’s most unpredictable sound. You never know for sure what it’s doing, where it’s coming from, or where it’s going when it leaves. It’s going somewhere but while it blows, it seems to stand still. The trees in front of my house are miraculously strong standing up to the wrath of a gale. The trunks creak, the branches crack, but the big maple has stood through hundreds of storms since it was a slip of a tree whipping in the wind fifty years ago. The tree will, in all probability, survive many more years.
My perfect day would be to awaken to a cool and sunny day with a sun that shone in the kitchen window while I ate breakfast. I’d take my own shower under circumstances that improve on nature’s showers by allowing me to control the force