Music has the power to awaken memories and join generations. Even now, listening to the first few notes sends me back to happy times when song filled my heart.
The Music of Nature by Lee Schafer Atonna latonna@cox.net
Music has filled my life. It began as my mother and I, journeying through life together, learned harmony. Momma sang soprano while I hung under with alto, learning to measure my voice against hers and nestle a musical third under her clear soprano. We greeted the day with "You Are My Sunshine." Our voices, shaded by the years separating us, were clarions announcing our presence along dusky Colorado roads. The high notes warned antelopes poised for flight across those lonely roads that something was headed their way and gave them pause about leaping gracefully into oncoming traffic. Instead, they lifted their tails and leapt across prairie meadows, their bounding leaps counterpoint beats to the rhythm of the Studebacker’s engine.
Meadow larks lifted their voices and joined in our song as they hunted in the fields thick with fragrant clover. Cottontail rabbits flashed us with their white tails and skittered to safety. Prairie dogs tilted heads quizzically, trying to discern whether Wolfman Jack was announcing a new pop duo on the radio or if they were the first to hear a new rendition of a fine old favorite. She was my sunshine as my mother drove us across the rolling hills. I was a sturdy plant growing in her light. Her gift was my undying love of music.
And the beat went on. My husband and I practiced the fine art of camping with our sons. Only certain songs were deemed camping worthy. As we wandered Arizona and Southwestern byways, a love for the music of a desert rainstorm or the wind whistling down the desert floor formed in our hearts. We sang with Kenny Rodgers about "Lucille" and swaggered through life like "The Gambler." With windows down and voices at concert hall volume, mule deer were halted in their tracks. Then fading against the live oaks, the deer blended with shadow. Freed by the silence between our songs, our reward was a glimpse of white tail flashing against dark leaves.
Walking through shade speckled washes and arroyos, the quail whistled at our noise. We whistled back this unrecorded song. As they scattered into mesquite thickets so impenetrable that horse and human were barred entry, the quail sonata hushed to a rhythmic whirring of wings. Resting in the shade of an ancient cottonwood, the cicada serenade crescendoed with the heat of the noonday sun. Moving along wagon rutted roads, our western heritage fell into place, as we traveled "Home on the Range." Our proximity to Mexico could be measured by the quiet maraca beat of a warning rattle. Respectfully we halted, frozen in time and space, until the rattlesnake’s percussion solo ended.
With the setting sun pulling warmth from the desert like a vacuum tube pulling energy to project sound waves into the radio, we sat around a glowing campfire, eating s’mores and singing campfire songs. The guitar strum smoothed away our aches and quieted us like a long forgotten lullaby. In the distance a coyote howled in protest, a freedom fighter, seeking equal time to air his views. The pygmy owl turned away from the firelight and sang its hunting song. We listened, awestruck by the sounds of life played out beyond our sight known only through nature’s song.
Rustling bushes heralded lives unseen, unknown as we leaned closer to the fire, secure together. Penetrated by whispers, the sibilant timbre held night and fear at bay. By the light of the dying embers, my husband’s gentle snoring promised that music goes on even as we sleep, even while we dream. Now my sunshine is measured by the breath issued by my sleeping sons and husband held in the afterglow of a sunny day spent in laughter, song and exploration. They are "my sunshine, my only sunshine. . . "
Lee Schafer Atonna latonna@cox.net