There Are So Many Sounds ...

The school at which I teach has one self-contained classroom for students with special needs. There are about a dozen children in the classroom. One child has been here two years. He is a very pleasant boy, but had a habit last year that, for reasons I did not understand, caused an inner distress to me. He was learning to vocalize, and frequently would sing out on a single pitch. My office is just off the cafeteria and he would do this frequently and for extended times during both breakfast and lunch. If one only heard him, you might think that he was distraught. But the fact was he was happily enjoying the sound of his voice. And in spite of my knowing this, it bothered something deep within my soul. It took me almost the full year to place the origin of my discomfort.

The summer I turned 15, my older brother and I had gone to visit my mother’s parents for two weeks. My grandfather had led a colorful life. In the late 1930’s he was a forest ranger in New Mexico. By 1940 he was ranching outside Dolores, Colorado. Then toward the later 1940’s he’d become a carpenter on large construction projects such as McNary Dam and Chief Joseph Dam on the Columbia River, and other dams on other rivers in the Northest. When we went to see them that summer, he was working on the Oxbow Dam on the Snake River, just upstream from Hell’s Canyon. My grandparents lived in a little town called Halfway, Oregon. In my teenage wisdom I was sure they’d misnamed the town. It wasn’t halfway to anywhere. Anyone could see it was all the way to nowhere!

As it happened, the union laborers at the construction site went on strike while we were visiting, so our grandfather was free to go places with us. He’d heard that the ranches in the region of Burns, Oregon were overrun with jackrabbits, and the ranchers were pleading for people to come shoot as many as they could. Hunting was one of my grandfather’s greatest pleasures, so he gathered us two boys, my grandmother, several changes of clothing and some 22-caliber rifles into the pickup and off we went. He figured we could make our destination in about four hours. Alas, that was not to be.

He’d gotten my brother and me baseball caps to wear, since we’d be riding in the back of the pickup and he wanted to keep the sun off our faces. I’ve never really like baseball caps, so I wasn’t too concerned when the wind blew my cap off several times. The problem was I didn’t tell my grandparents when I lost my hat. By the time one of them noticed it was gone, we’d be several miles down the road. I remember us back-tracking at least twice, looking for that light-blue head adornment. After the second time, I was strongly encouraged not to let it happen again. So, because of me, we only made it as far as Vale, Oregon. There, while getting gas, my grandfather learned that the sage-brush covered ranches in that area were also plagued by jackrabbits. So we quickly pulled into a motel, and after a brief supper, went out to start shooting.

When teaching my kindergarten ESOL students, I’ve used a song that begins “There are so many sounds that you can hear, down on the farm.” As we work through all the typical farm animals we go through the sounds each makes. When I bring up the rabbit, I ask the kids what kind of sound a rabbit makes. And I get blank expressions, because none of them have ever heard a rabbit make any sound. Nor have any adults I’ve asked.

Between us two boys and my grandfather, we probably killed upwards of 300 rabbits in a little over two days of shooting. I didn’t say hunting, because the rabbits were so thick, you could turn in almost any direction at any time and probably see a rabbit within shooting range. And that is when I made a discovery that was to haunt me for many years. You see, rabbits can make sounds. When they’re badly wounded, that is. It sounds like a mid-range pitched wail, unwavering, unnerving. I never enjoyed shooting animals after that. And that was the sound that our little student was bringing back to my memory. To him, it was a joyful noise; to me it was a sound of inward sorrow.

When Christ approached the Temple mount that week before his crucifixion, the children sang out in joy, welcoming the Son of David. When the religious leaders asked Jesus to make the children stop, His response was that if he did, the very rocks would cry out. Who’s ever heard a rock cry out? Probably as many people who’ve heard a rabbit cry out. But this old earth is waxing old, and nature is beginning to cry out for deliverance. All of creation is looking forward to the end of sin, for relief from the terrible burden. There are so many sounds that we can hear, especially if we listen through spiritual ears. May He come soon.

Have a great day!

Dr. G