ESSAY
Things You Hear at Sunset BY SEAN OF THE SOUTH (SEAN DIETRICH) A brilliant sunset. I’m on the porch. My neighbors are on their porch. We can’t see each other. I am eavesdropping because I am a semiprofessional eavesdropper. The people are talking and sipping. I hear the sound of ice clinking in glasses, and I overhear average people making conversation. And there is a baby cooing. An older man’s voice says to the baby, “Wook at Gwanddaddy’s wittle gull. Hey! You’ve got Granddaddy’s nose!” The voice that belongs to his wife answers, “Give back Granddaddy’s nose, pwecious wittle gull.” “Who’s Granddaddy’s wittle baby gull?” “Jenna! Come outside, quick! She’s got Granddaddy’s nose!” Yes. There’s a lot to be excited about at the neighbor’s house tonight. For me, one of the hardest things about the quarantine was the lack of conversation. I miss it. I think I could endure anything if I had enough chit-chat. But without it my mind starts to worry and I work myself into a frenzy. In the past I’ve interviewed old men who spent their youth in World War II foxholes. Men who didn’t speak about the war until they were in their eighties. Something they said was that during lulls between fighting, it was the gentle art of conversation that kept them sane. One man told me that infantrymen would have conversations lasting six or seven hours sometimes. Maybe longer. Until their voices gave out. Until they couldn’t speak the next day. They would talk about how they missed their hometowns, about their best girls, their kid brothers, their favorite dogs, their childhood sweethearts, their mother’s cooking. They talked to keep from losing it. They laughed to keep from being afraid. My neighbor’s voice: “Who’s Granddaddy’s wittle gull? Are you Paw Paw’s wittle baby gull? 26 Bham Family September 2021
I hear them laugh. I lean my head backward and close my eyes. I could listen to their happy cadence all night. Nobody is talking about a virus, national death tolls, or current events. And suddenly I’m feeling myself worrying less. “Uh-oh, George. I think your granddaughter’s going potty. She’s making a face.” “She is? Well, we can’t have that. Let’s check my wittle gull’s big ole diaper…” Gagging, followed by coughing. “We’re gonna need a garden hose,” he says. You know what else I miss? Walking around in public. It’s not the physical act of walking I miss, it’s the laid back feeling I used to have when in public. I didn’t have to worry about the stuff I do now. I didn’t worry about bacteriainfected door handles. I wasn’t aware of contaminated air, or viral transmissions from unprotected handshakes. I wasn’t keeping my distance from others. I wasn’t disinfecting my UPS parcel with bleach. I also miss going to the local gas station where I would always buy a paper, maybe have a conversation with the clerk, or buy a scratch-off lottery ticket. But you can’t do those things today. Our clerks wear hazmat suits. And I don’t recommend buying scratch-off tickets because you have to use coins to do your scratching. And there is a national coin shortage. Haven’t you heard? We have no coins. Federal Reserve Chairman Jerome Powell says that the national coin shortage is due to the partial closure of the economy, because of the coronavirus, which has led to— Wait a second. There I go again. Worrying about stuff. I’m as bad as anyone. Look at me. Here we are having a perfectly good time and I had to start talking about the U.S. Federal Reserve. I’m sorry. Believe me. I am. I guess I’ve just been cooped up too long. CONTINUED ON PAGE 27
