Contentment in the sound of voices

On a recent acceptably cool afternoon I was reading a Ray Bradbury novel, one written a long time ago when I was eleven, one in which the protagonist is of a similar age. This nostalgic trip was being taken in a slightly swinging hammock, a delicious pastime, except that it was interrupted by a serious chastisement aimed at me by, of all creatures, a beautiful gray squirrel.

It seems she felt I was invading her territory. I’ve seen her around for a couple of years and our relationship has been amicable, but this day was different. She clearly wanted me gone, stepping out onto branches, closer and closer, until she was almost overhead. She may even been threatening my life, but I’ll never know.

Please remember, the author of this little essay is an old man who talks frequently with his two cats, wonderful creatures that understand him well. I have no doubt animals can and do communicate by speech, not in a language we have learned enough to understand, but speech nonetheless. They understand, they conceptualize, and their language, like ours, continues to evolve and, like our own, the language of all creatures includes not just sounds, but facial expressions, gestures, and, of course, movement, like a menacing squirrel getting closer and closer.

Not being particularly clever or sentient, I get lost pretty quickly in the scientific studies about the origins of language, so I will offer you Ullrich’s language theorem on “Creatures That Don’t Live in Houses”: If they have brains, they have thoughts and, if they have thoughts, they have language.” Simple enough. Don’t argue with me.

My encounters with animals keep me relatively sane, but every once in a while I venture into a town for essentials, groceries, and gasoline, so I’m compelled to mix it up with human beings. Pumping gasoline at a pump a couple of days ago, an unknown man about my age at the next pump engaged me in a simple, pleasant conversation, about cars, pickup trucks, miles driven, etc.

As our pumps clicked, indicating our tanks were full, I said, “Good to see you. Have a brilliant weekend!” His response was; “You too. Be safe, man.” There is nothing of any real significance in these encounters, just two old guys who will likely never see each other again, wishing the other well at a time when such exchanges have become more and more rare. Tiny human speeches.

A few days back I sat alone in a busy restaurant, not knowing anyone, not really caring to; however, there was a contentment in hearing the rather loud hum of human speech circling and wafting all around, without any specific words or exchanges clear enough to be understood. I could have sat there all day, reveling in the sound of our common language, one that allows us to talk of love, family, life, and the passing of time.

So here we are. September has passed ever so quickly and summer has disappeared out beyond an orange horizon. I have a wish for you this autumn season: I wish that on cold, windblown nights someone you love will be lying next to you, in a hammock between two trees, in a warm bed, or under a blanket on a grassy hillside, someone who will speak your language, the language of assurance, assurance that everything will be OK. And soon, when sleep overtakes you, October will be welcome.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.