It could be said that men my age have fleeting, and sometimes inaccurate, memories of themselves at those ages.
But
I remember with complete clarity the nights in those homes when a
haunting, mournful, yet beautifully rich sound issued across the dark
night skies of Oklahoma City. The one I remember most clearly occurred
at about 4:30 in the morning. It woke me, to be sure, but the sound
passed quickly, and sleep once again dominated my mind. In the morning, I
would get up and, while showering or shaving, remember that mournful
sound with great affection.
It was, of course, the
sound of a train’s whistle as it passed various crossings ranging from
downtown to the northern limits of the metroplex.
I
loved that sound, and still do. So I read, with some regret, that a
movement was under way to eradicate that sound (News, Tim Farley,
“Quiet, please,” June 5, Oklahoma Gazette). I knew that the
movement would succeed, and that another minor, yet subtly pleasant,
aspect of growing up and living in Oklahoma City would disappear.
I
knew that after that sound disappeared, we would be one step closer to
hearing nothing more than the sad and empty silence of a population that
lived for nothing more than the real estate deal, the stock exchange
transaction, the mineral lease rights agreement, the monthly board
meeting, the weekly golf game … and all the other silences that define
the myopic and ultimately dull lives of the monetarily obsessed.
In
the moments that this sound softly permeated the room in which I slept,
I fantasized about traveling on that train to distant places and
altogether unique spaces that existed where those rail lines led. And I
fell asleep again to dream the dreams of voyagers to far, distant lands.
Go ahead; create a “quiet zone.” All you will truly be creating is a hole in the fabric of life.
—John Smelser, Oklahoma City
This article appears in Jun 12-18, 2013.