A Four-Toot Day Back in Roanoke, Mama hated it when Daddy tooted the horn. When he’d get mad Daddy’s gargantuan forearms worked like a backward breaststroke and his jaw rotated. His mouth sawed air left and right so he couldn’t speak. Mother disliked Daddy’s temper. She believed in pure civility and gentility. “Gentility will save the automobile “ Mama once told him after A Buick blared its horn for no reason. Daddy wanted to blare back. His jimmy jaw cranked and Mama began with the usua l, “Herman.” That was Daddy’s name, but when Mama said it, it spoke volumes. “Herman nothing, that guy is gonna kill someone,” Daddy muttered under his breath. But he did not toot. I guess Roanokers just use d their horn s when a train was coming. Unless the crossing signal rang, streets were quiet enough to hear rain cool the macadam. That was one of the first things I liked about Seattle. Silence on the streets. People waiting at four way stops trying to figure out who had the right away. Even at the six way stop up on Queen Anne, the one used as a major thoroughfare whenever construction overtakes the Aurora Bridge, drivers just waited until the coast was clear or someone gestured, a genteel, gesture, to go ahead. I notice more and more that people toot for no viable reason. I want to ask drivers — why? You thought by tooting I could plough through the RV stopped in front of me? Last week I watched a car full of teens blast and blast their horn for everyone else to accelerate, speed in front of traffic, and race to the on ramp. I can only assume the teens were in a hurry. That they do not know about civility or insurance rates or five-car pile-ups. When I was a teen, a five-car pile up only happened on hairpin curves, and often involved the transport of grain alcohol from one county to another. Horns were not involved. Even as Roanoke city inched out into the county, we still maintained a certain amount of automotive etiquette. So it shocked Mama the day Daddy laid on the horn. We were smack kadab in the middle of the street and out of nowhere Daddy’s big old hand covered the horn. “Herman, ” Mama said. “Ducks,” Daddy answered. “Herman !” Mama shouted mistaking the sound of duck. “ Quackers!” he said and leapt out of the car. All six foot four of him stood in the middle of the street with arms stretched out like the train crossing. Brothers and I leaned over the back seat to see what all the commotion was about and watched Daddy stop oncoming cars from running over a duck family. One fuzzy broke rank and stopped on Daddy’s big black shoe. “Quack, quack, quack,” mamma duck called to the baby fuzzy. A few cars lurched to a stop, but no one rear-ended anyone, and no one tooted. Those too far back, got out to discover fuzzy yellow ducklings waddling behind their speckled brown mom. And they waited, we all waite d, till seven ducklings found safety. Seattle had a recent duck-crossing caper when building the outdoor sculpture park. The museum promised not to hurt any wildlife on the Elliott Bay sit e, so when a mother duck paraded her babies down the hill, over the railroad tracks, across the road, large construction workers and railroad engineers in orange safety vests herded the quackers. It was my favorite part of the urban construction project. All those people helping a duck family get to water. Drivers toot-toot-tooted their horns, not having any idea why traffic was stopped, why the Burlington Northern was stopped, why time stopped in an otherwise unstoppable city. I miss the days when tootless was the daily nor m, and rain the loudest sound on Seattle Streets. Auntmama |
When I first came to Seattle there were no toots. Now it seems everyone has discovered their car horn.
