I can’t whistle.
I used to try, when I was a young girl, attempting to imitate my dad. His light-hearted whistle always made my heart jump. I felt happy, joyful, like everything was right in our world.
But I finally gave up about the time I began wearing ‘training’ bras. Whistling was a part of childhood to discard, like my favorite stuffed dog and a 7 p.m. bedtime.
Then, as a mom, I tried to teach my progeny, pursing my lips together, blowing out spittle, never succeeding. My children were just as genetically disabled, so the entire family gave up whistling years ago.
Until the joy of whistling returned to me one early morning this summer, when the boxes had been packed and the furniture readied. The clock struck eight times, and a large moving van arrived with four men to load and drive our possessions to a new place, two minutes away.
I liked the condo my man and I had lived in for two years (lease ended, owner putting it on market), so all the time and effort necessary to start anew at another place was disheartening.
Until the movers arrived.
Except for one wiry man in his 40s, the other well-muscled fellows were 25 and younger. They arrived fresh-faced and attentive, despite the morning hour and the heavy load ahead of them. They talked little, nary a grunt between them all, and worked in a synchronicity that looked balletic.
And then.
A whistle
The dark-haired kid with one earring, a small goatee, and legs thicker than tree trunks began to whistle. You know, like a dwarf in Snow White, whistling while he worked.
Happily!
Gaily!
Loudly!
My spirit soared. This move would be just fine. We’d love our new place, my man and I, and we’d have fun unpacking everything and finding new ways to arrange the sofa and the tea kettle, the family photos and the hummingbird feeder, the computer table and the reading chair.
I smiled, pursed my lips, and ….. couldn’t conjure even the hint of a sound.
But that was okay. Jason the mover brought a whistle into my head, and that’s all I needed to sing happily all move long.
What about you? Do you whistle while you work, even if it’s soundlessly?
roughwighting 
I sometimes sing but I don’t whistle.
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Same with me, but only when I’m by myself- otherwise my voice could be offensive! :+0
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ah – there is that. My daughter refuses to be with me when I sing in public.
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All the more reason to SING loud, sing proud. :+)
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absolutely 🙂
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It is so nice when an unexpected sound brings back such a treasured memory. 🙂
I sometimes whistle, although someone told me I was a lousy whistler. It’s more of a whispered sound than a clear, crisp twitter. My singing voice is better. 🙂
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But yes, I like the way you express it as ‘unexpected sound’ that brings a ‘treasured’ memory. A whistle can be a whisper, yet still so sweet.
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I’m a talker. The worse things are going, the louder I get. Or so I’m told. I’m completely unconscious of the chatter. If the writing is going well, I participate in the emotions of my character; smiling, chuckling, choking up. No wonder I’m tired when I’m done for the day. 🙂 I sure do love to here a good whistler. Like you, it really cheers me up.
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I LOVE the idea of you writing away, chattering and chuckling out loud. The true expression of a creative artist!
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I absolutely love to hear a good whistle. My mom could whistle beautifully, well for that matter, she could sing well, too. Why I didn’t inherit those good things from her, I’ll never know. But I sure got her wrinkles, every last one of them.
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Both wrinkles and whistles tell a lot about the character of a person. Great joy and great years of living….
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My father whistled and I remember that sound today. My brother in law who was like a second father, was a more accomplished whistler and I loved hearing him whistle. I don’t hear people whistle anymore. I could whistle a little bit, but never very well. When I think of whistling, I think of joy and happiness.
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