The rolling thunder rattled the windows in our house.
A torrential rainstorm was pounding on the roof, and the lightning lit up our yard like there were spotlights in the trees. For a few minutes, the power went out, and the storm provided a powerful soundtrack.
When the electricity returned, the household noise seemed louder. The dishes were clanking together in the dishwasher, and the air conditioning was rushing to catch up. The washing machine was filling with water, and the dryer was bumping and thumping.
Loud surrounds me.
Whenever I’m driving, the radio’s tuned to either a podcast or music. On the days when I need a break from the same-old tunes or doomsday threats, I turn the radio off.
Sometimes on hot days, I’ll roll the windows down, hoping I’ll experience a bit of nature’s silence. Instead, music from other vehicles invades the calm as does the rumblings of concrete and dump trucks.
Occasionally, a souped-up car comes zooming around me, the muffler and exhaust obliterating everything else. Tires pump out their own soundtrack as do jack hammers and construction equipment at the never-ending road work.
My heart beating is something I only notice when it’s quiet in the house. Breathing is a little harder to ignore, thanks to seasonal allergies.
Until there’s quiet, I don’t realize how loud life has become.
Noises are louder at night when the house has settled down. Because it’s so quiet, I have a hard time falling asleep. Senseless videos on my computer cause my eyes to feel heavy. I’ll often nod off when watching the computer screen as if I need the noise to quiet my mind.
That’s a strange concept.
But I’ve come to accept that I need noise.
I grew up in a three-bedroom, bath-and-a-half house with seven children. We were loud kids, too. The television was usually on as was an argument.
If we weren’t yelling, we were playing, and our games were always loud. We even managed to make the board game Scrabble a shouting match. But instead of the noise being distracting, for me, it was familiar.
My sons provided a whole new level of noise. There was the thumping of basketballs in the driveway on pretty days. Since two played the guitar, there were usually the sounds of somebody practicing James Taylor songs upstairs, the music loud even from behind closed doors.
My eldest son was a DJ, so having loud music was second nature to him. He was considerate and blasted the music when the house was empty. Sometimes I could swear the windows were still rattling when I came home.
There were a few years of quiet before the grandchildren came along. I remember appreciating the foreign silence in the house. But once the grands started walking, the noise returned.
Eight under the age of 18 fills a house with life, from the little ones dumping out baskets of Hot Wheels cars to the teenagers chasing each other around with Nerf guns. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Whenever I visit someone’s house with small children running around, I can practically feel my blood pressure lowering and a nostalgic smile warms my heart. The parents apologize, but there’s no need.
Noise was the soundtrack to my childhood, and now it’s the comforting soundtrack to my adult life as well.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.