Patricia’s Porch Talk ©

Chiming In . . .  a little lopsidedly

When my son presented me with wind chimes a few years ago, I carefully hung the clever design of wood, string, and pipes on the back porch.  There was a gentle breeze that day so I went inside and waited for it to set them to tinkling.  But, no, they stubbornly hung lifeless and silent for several days until one blustery afternoon when a bone-rattling GonNNNNng reverberated through the air.   Since I live within the five-mile radius of TVA’s Sequoyah Nuclear Power Plant and had read and re-read my ‘alert’ instructions, I knew I either should grab my car keys and follow the designated evacuation route OR tape the windows, seal the vents, and await further instructions.  I  wasn’t sure which.  Before I could locate the calendar to double check the ‘alert’ details on the back, I heard it again…. GonNNNNNNng.    

I then realized there was no cause for alarm.  It was only the wind chimes.  They had awakened.

After midnight, I once again heard the chimes as they clamored for attention amid the rolling thunder and driving rain.  I thought of ways to get even with my son as I almost levitated with each resounding GonNNNNg and worried that my neighbors were being kept awake also.   Something would have to change; I would have to put some distance between me and those banging, clanging, gonging chimes. 

The next morning, after snatching them from their hook on the porch, I stomped and splashed through the puddles to the edge of the woods, dragging a small step-ladder.    I teetered and clung to a tree limb for support with one hand and hastily hung the chimes on a broken tree limb with the other.  They hung lopsidedly, but it was the best I could do.  A neighbor came out to watch and a bit of friendly chatter ensued, but ended quickly.  When she looked up at the chimes and muttered ‘We’ve been wondering what all that noise was”, I feigned a look of panic and repeatedly tapped my watch to support my hasty retreat.  “Oh, my!  Look at the time!”   To heck with the ladder; I would retrieve it later.  I sprinted towards the house, landing behind closed doors in mere seconds, all the while tapping my watch, in a scene reminiscent of Lucy. 

That evening, a gentle breeze moved through the trees, just enough to show the silvery undersides of the leaves.  The first clear, bell-like tone caught me completely off-guard.  Suddenly the air was filled with enchanting chimes that seemed to float high atop the treetops, over the gentle sounds of rustling leaves.   I stood in the open door and listened, transfixed, acutely aware those tonal blends had soothed souls through the ages.

A few days later, I again bumped into my neighbor.  When she commented, “We love listening to your wind chimes. . .they’re beaut-i-ful!”, I  held my head high, struck a proud mom stance, and boasted, “Yes, aren’t they nice?  I think they like being lopsided.”  As she turned to leave, I quickly added, “My son gave those chimes to me, you know.”

Constant exposure to the elements and daily inspection by several curious squirrels resulted in the wind chimes being re-strung a couple of times, and a new backyard fence eventually meant removal of their ‘hanging’ branch.  Sadly, I searched for a new home for the chimes.  I chose a spot inside the fence and looped them over their new hook, a bit reluctantly.  As an afterthought, I tugged and pulled until they hung crookedly, just like before.  In no time at all, I heard the clear bell-like tones floating on the breeze and I knew I had miraculously pulled and tugged to the correct degree of lopsidedness.    

Last night, a friend called and mentioned the inclement weather. “They say the rain and wind is moving your way.  Has it reached you yet?” they asked.   I moved closer to the window and listened, knowing I could rely on the wind chimes.  A car passed on the nearby main road, traveling much too fast, I thought, and, from miles away, the long, lonesome wail of a train pierced the night.  But, mostly, I heard the hush, the kind of night stillness that seems to come in waves.  Turning my attention back to my caller, I replied, “No…it isn't here yet.  There’s not even a breeze.  The chimes are quiet.”

 Copyright 2006 Patricia Paris
Contact: patriciaparis@gmail.com.
Patricia Paris is an author/columnist from East Tennessee.

Member:  Tennessee Mountain Writers, Int’l Women Writers Association, Tennessee Writers Alliance, Chattanooga Writers Guild