The art of listening

Like most kids, we had to do a lot of listening while we were growing up. Some of us did it better than others. Mom used to say we needed to listen twice as much as we talked.

“That’s why God gave you two ears and one mouth. You can’t learn anything if you’re talking.”

It was just one of many hand-me-down-advices, jewels of wisdom my parents gave me that I’ve tried to pass down to The Boy. So far I’ve been unsuccessful.

Take it from someone who talked all through two years of pre-algebra and one of Colonel Baker’s tenth grade chemistry class, you’ve got to stop talking before you can start listening and learn something. Some of our politicians really need to learn that lesson.

Unlike most kids nowadays, we even listened to our dad. We had to. If we didn’t, he’d yell at us and pop us on the head with his college ring. We listen to Mom also because – well, she was Mom. And if we didn’t, Dad would pop us on the head with his ring for being disrespectful.

“Son, will you just listen?” was a phrase heard around our house almost daily. It was always directed toward the one being obstinate at the time and came with something else — a few reminders with dad’s ring.

It wasn’t long before we all became good listeners and good duckers. Fact is, I got so good at listening during the daytime that I would still be listening when I went to bed. I listened to the sounds of the night.

Sounds like the little green tree frog with the sticky webbed feet stuck to my bedroom window croaking to his brothers in the nearby trees – a sure sound springtime wasn’t too far away.

I listened to brown, long-legged crickets — the ones we used for fishing up at the lake just below the haunted forest – singing as they rubbed their legs together. They told everyone that fall was near.

And sometimes, if I lay perfectly still and listened really hard, I could hear the cold winter wind as it screened through the tall pines down by the swamp, causing the frozen limbs to rub together, bend and break, then fall into murky waters below. A sure sound we were in for a harsh winter.

Growing up on Flamingo Street, we even heard things we weren’t supposed to hear — like loving parents arguing.

There were arguments about lack of money, the high price of gas, how to raise five kids and prepare them for college. The most common argument they had? The best way to discipline one of us — an argument I was the root cause more than I care to remember.

All of the arguments took place from behind closed doors, so we couldn’t listen. Aha, but listen we did, for Dad had taught us well.

Arguments weren’t the only things we heard beyond my parents’ door. We heard something else. A love and respect two people could have for each other while working through difficult times. Something just recently I’ve had to pause, remember, and give thanks for. Back then our parents taught us well, but even they weren’t aware they taught us when they argued.

Many years have passed since Flamingo Street. The night sounds are different to the child who’s now a parent.

Now I listen for the train whistle as it announces its arrival at some distant location and wonder who’s going on a trip.

On stormy nights I listen to the sound of rain as it pounds the roof and washes the leaves down the gutters much easier than I can wash away the fear of receiving a late night call. A call which would notify me a friend or loved one is in need. Dad taught me that any call after midnight is never good news.

I listen for the green tree frogs, but their sticky webbed feet have yet to find their way to our new house and our bedroom window.

And the creek’s too far away for us to hear the brown, long-legged cricket’s song.

Night’s sounds have indeed changed for me; however, the lesson I learned about the importance of listening twice as much as you talk never has.

You can learn a lot of stuff from your parents – no matter what their age. That is, if you only listen. I got a lesson from my father just last month.

He was at our house and took time to help organize the basement with me and The Boy. After an hour of arguing about what goes where and how things should be done, Dad turned to me and said, “Just be quiet and listen.”

The Boy laughed so hard I thought he was going to pass out. I turned to him trying to regain some of my manhood back, and smugly said, “See? And you thought I make this stuff up. Now you know where I get it from.”

At 21, listening is something we’re still trying to get The Boy to do. Unfortunately, he still talks twice as much as he listens. That’s why he’s gone to Florida with his granddad for a week.

If anyone could get him to listen, it’ll be my dad. But just in case he doesn’t, I’ll send him with a large bottle of aspirin.

I’m sure Dad’s college ring hasn’t gotten any softer over the years.