Scenes from Childhood: Whistling

At dinner time or bedtime, our parents used to call us in from play by
whistling a two-note descending phrase that meant, "All Johnson children
come home now!" In pitch, it was a descending fourth.

I am essentially whistle-less, though that isn't quite true. I learned to
whistle when I was ten and a half. I was walking from home down to Riley
Park to take part in some summer activity organized by the town to keep the
school kids out of mischief.

I was wearing shorts and a shirt (an ironed sleeveless shirt with a collar,
since this was well before the days of the ubiquitous t-shirt). The warm and
humid air promised a scorcher later on, but it was still pleasant enough in
mid-morning.

The whistling was a conscious undertaking. I couldn't whistle. Siblings,
older and younger, could whistle, so it was clear that there was no genetic
deformation of the tongue/teeth/jaw. That summer morning I was determined to
learn to whistle.

I passed the Hannas' big house at the corner of Main and Monroe and then,
crossing Main Street, I went along the little-used street that curved around
the edge of the downtown, bordered on one side by the wooded hill leading
down to Deer Creek.

W-w-w-w, I went. W-w-w-w-w-w. I moved my tongue. Re-pursed my lips. W-w-w-w.
Nothing but air would come out.

In those days I was ever-hopeful, unaware of the possibility of failure, so
I persisted. At a later age, I might have given up and resigned myself to
being a non-whistler. But at ten and a half, I knew I could do it if I just
kept trying, forcing the air out through those pursed lips, moving my tongue
to new positions behind the teeth, closer to, then farther from the pursed
lips, tongue curved, pointed, broadened-all possible configurations.

At the place where that little back street-the curved extension of Monroe
Street--met Washington Street, there was a set of pedestrian steps that led
down, down, to the bridge over Deer Creek. The steps were broad, maybe eight
feet across, in two flights of sic or eight steps each. The hand rail was
made from two-inch iron pipe.

Just as I reached those steps, I made a whistling sound! From my pursed lips
came a peeping piping tone that was a whistle. I was ecstatic. It was only a
beginning, but I knew it would progress. I could become a fluent whistler, a
professional purser of lips.

During the rest of the trip-across the bridge and along the path into the
park, walking beside Deer Creek toward the big oval that was our combined
track and football field, I practiced. I expanded on my piping sound until I
had two, then three notes in my repertory. What an accomplishment! I had
taught myself to whistle!

But no matter how hard I tried, that day and for months after, I never went
beyond those three notes. Three feeble little notes, not loud enough to call
a dog or express my appreciation for a concert. Barely worth the title of
"whistling."

In compensation for my own deficiencies, I later married a man whose best
parlour trick was to whistle "American Patrol" with his best friend, in
perfect harmony. The marriage didn't last, and these days I still can
whistle only three feeble notes.

Copyright 2007 Ann Tudor
http://www.anntudor.ca/