The Whistler

As I arrived at work this morning, I stood in the elevator lobby waiting for my ride to the fourth floor. I caught myself whistling. The lobby is large, with stone floors and vaulted ceilings. Since no one else was around, the sounds echoed off the hard surfaces and sounded like many people whistling in unison. I rode the elevator to my floor, and when I exited, I started whistling again, but this time the elevator lobby was closed in with glass security doors on both sides, and the ceiling here was also vaulted. The echoes were different from those in the main lobby, but they sounded good to me.

I stopped whistling when I exited the elevator lobby because there was no longer sound feedback in the carpeted halls I was walking through. I thought about why I whistled, and my thought took me back to hearing my Dad whistle. When I was in Junior High School, Dad sometimes drove me to school. He loved listening to Big Band music on the radio as we went. Most times he would whistle to his favorite songs. One time I asked him, “Dad, have you thought about entering a whistling contest? I think you would win.” He looked at me with a smile and said, “No, I have not thought about that. I don’t think I would do well; so many other people would do better than I would.” As we continued to my school, he went back to whistling. I had to disagree with him, but did not say so.

Fast forward to my long drives to college. It was a 12-hour drive from our house to school. I found myself whistling to the tunes I loved to hear. Many times I would turn off the radio/tape player and listen to the wind with my windows rolled down. I whistled tunes I knew as I drove.

Fast forward again to driving my Bug after work to enjoy some road time with my dog Zora. The Bug does not have a sound system. I found myself whistling and noticed Zora looking at me. I think she was admiring me, or maybe she was thinking, ‘I wish he would be quiet’. Who knows? She was enjoying my company while cruising along in the Bug.

Today, Paisley and I play a game while I work in the garage. She barks, then listens as I answer with a whistle. Sometimes she sits at the back of the garage, where she can see me. I see her bark, then tilt her head, waiting for my whistle answer. She is a funny girl.

I inherited whistling from Dad. I am not sure about my brothers. I have not heard them whistle. This is the first short story I have written since last March. My cat Jasper died on March 12, and Dad died on March 31. Those two events took the wind out of my writing sails. They say time heals all wounds. That might be true, but some things will always creep back to mind, like losing a loved one. It feels good to sit at the laptop and create a piece like this. If you read this far, I thank you. I enjoyed writing this.