The day begins before 4:30 AM most days. It will be an hour before the light begins to creep into the woods. A fire has begun blazing through the semi-opaque glass door in the stove. I step out onto the porch in the dark to fetch more firewood about 4:45.
It’s Thanksgiving morning and I notice something slightly different right away, but I’m not sure what it is. What do I usually sense that time of the morning?
My ancestors always noted the weather first. It is damp, with a temperature that must be upper 20s. It’s a little frosty but not a bone-chilling cold, not even close to that. It isn’t the shocking cold in the nose and lungs that will be here soon enough.
Then I notice it. There is no sound
It’s the third week of November, and already the blood is beginning to thicken, as they would say. There’s no shivering, no urgency to get back indoors.
Then I notice it. There is no sound.
Look up. There are scattered sky clouds, irregular altocumulus, paused in their movement with a little moonlight giving away their presence, but the moon has already hidden behind the timber ridge.
There is no sound. Tucked into a creek valley, we rarely hear any noise from the curvy state highway that is only a few hundred yards away, but on this morning there is only silence in every direction. No car or truck moves within five miles of my little valley.
There is no wind at all, no whisper of breeze, so there is no squeaking of wood on wood from behind the barn where the tall sassafras and yellow poplars cross their arms and slide upon each other like a bow on the neck of a viola. There is no soft hiss in the soft white pine needles and no sound from the tall trees atop the ridge catching the slightest breath of air. It is completely still.
If it were anytime between April and October there would the irregular morning chorus of songbirds. Cardinals would sing dear-dear-dear sweet-sweet-sweet, and the towhees would join with ‘Drink your tea!!’ A wood thrush would be heard between the robins and a phoebe and the windows would be open to enjoy it all. But now it’s November’s somber morning. Squirrels have taken the fetal position in their leaf nests. The woodpeckers won’t be hammering until they’ve burned an hour of daylight in their hollow tree stubs.
Then there’s the first sound since the door closed behind me. It’s very bass, quite a ways off, lower in the valley and soft, like he’s inside a big box. Whoo. Who-who. Whoo. It’s the great horned owl. Sometimes the barred owls murmur ‘who cooks for you’ nearby, and they always make it seem colder, but this morning’s owl sits invisible on a sturdy branch and boasts about how toasty he is inside his feather coat. Woe to the rabbit who thinks the darkness protects him out in the open. The big brown owl will make no sound leaving the branch or gliding across the opening to find his meal. Then I hear it again. Whoo. Who-who. Whoo. He hasn’t moved.
The remarkable silence returns. A curl of # wood smoke from the cedar sticks finds my nose. I remember the split red oak, elm, and hickory chunks beside the door behind me. They’ve dried for a year so they don’t creak or pop anymore, but when I go back inside, they’ll warm me again as they have three times already in the warmer months. Deep in the stacks in the woodshed the cat will be sleeping with her tail over her ears. I may find her leafy nest when I’m pulling more firewood out about the end of February. For now she contributes to the quiet.
I listened carefully for another full minute, then went back inside out of the chill. It’s time to savor a fire with the one I missed for 36 years. It’s time for her coffee and my tea. It’s time to remember how lucky I am. It’s time to be grateful.
Wouldn’t you know, there’s a hymn to match the silence and the wonder perfectly! There’s such a beautiful, restful chord at the end of the first and second stanzas in each verse. If you can play it, pause there and hold the sustaining pedal down to allow the sound to keep going after that chord. It’s a beautiful resolution repeated often through the song. There’s a message in there beyond the lyrics. What do you hear?
Dr. Bruce Smith (Inkwell, Hearth and Plow) is a retired professor of history and a lifelong observer of politics and world events. He holds degrees from Indiana University and the University of Notre Dame. In addition to writing, he works as a caretaker and handyman. His non-fiction book The War Comes to Plum Street, about daily life in the 1930s and during World War II, may be ordered from Indiana University Press.
