For Cryin' Out Loud

"That means that an uncomfortable truth of rural life is that we can't thoughtfully live a thousand-acre lifestyle on a ten-acre lot," Angus says. "Living on ten, twenty, even one hundred acres does not provide us and our neighbors with much insulation against sound--incoming or outgoing. For example, the sound of gunfire can be heard at least one mile away. Even two miles, if everyone else is minding his manners. If people--possibly dozens of people--within that radius hear your gunfire, ol' hoss, you just made yourself their neighbor by disturbing their peace. Are you really that important? Great knobs and cobs! It seems obvious that the cherished rural practice of shootin' guns and the cherished rural principle of 'keepin' to yourself' are in diametric opposition. Disturbing the peace ain't 'keepin' to yourself.'

"I know far too well that when folks fire guns within a half-mile of a neighbor, that neighbor can sit in his shack wearing both of these devices but still hear every shot:

"Now, a loud muffler on a pickup or motor-sickle," Angus says, "that can be heard three-quarters of a mile away. Even one mile, if everyone else is minding his manners. The pickup or motor-sickle that can be heard one mile away is downright deafening at two hundred feet. Which, I reckon, is the whole idea.
"Do you like that deep, throaty rumble of your exhaust?" Angus asks of such drivers. "And how about the folks you inflict it upon as you pass them, who cringe and tsk-tsk, 'That little boy is just seeking attention'?"
Those folks don't matter, right?
"By Gawd and GMC, I have a right to . . .," Angus Brangus can hear such drivers thunder (sorta like their exhaust).
To which Angus replies: "And some drivers feel they have a responsibility not to.
"And the dichotomy of them there two attitudes about rights and responsibilities," Angus says, "sums up the condition of this here world today."
Angus Brangus has a motor-sickle license; he knows that a motor-sickle does not have to be loud, does not have to disturb the peace.
For example, listen to two big motor-sickles, one driven by cyclist A and one by cyclist B.
Which is the thoughtless Texan?
"When a motor-sickle of one hundred horsepower is four times louder than a Mack truck of four hundred horsepower, then you got yourself the mathematics of bad manners.
"Same with pickups and SUVs," Angus says. "I've been with Old Blue now for twenty of its twenty-seven years. I know that a pickup doesn't have to be loud. In fact, the last time I had my muffler checked at Day Tire and Automotive in Mabank, mechanic Roger told me that his quietest Chevy muffler is also his least expensive.
"Roger said the loud ones cost more.
"In more ways than one, I'd say.
"Think about it: The noun muffler comes from the verb muffle, which means 'to quieten,' not 'to louden.' So a driver with a loud muffler makes a conscious decision to disturb the peace, to set himself above common courtesy and Texas thoughtfulness. That's a 'me' choice. On the other hand, most folks drive vehicles that are quiet. That's a 'we' choice."
"And because a loud muffler is mobile, a rolling rudeness, after that loud muffler is beyond my hearing, it's within someone else's hearing. That means that during a trip of just a few miles, a driver can disturb the peace of perhaps hundreds of people. Now that's efficiency, yessireebob!"
Again, listen to two pickups, one driven by driver A and one by driver B.
Which is the thoughtless Texan?
Angus Brangus remembers from his high school days that loud mufflers are a measure of machismo among some young males who fancy themselves "men." But Angus reckons that a "man" is, by definition, "a mature male." And that a mature male is one who is thoughtful of folks around him--even those he can't see.
"Roarin' around with a loud muffler doesn't make a male a man," Angus says. "Behaving like a man makes a male a man.
"It's the 'T-for-Texas, T-for-Thoughtfulness' thang to do."
After twenty-seven years, here's what Old Blue sounds like.
Ol' Angus is not even anatomically correct, bless his plywood heart, but even he knows that when men get all macho in the crotcho and start measuring their manhood in decibels, we all come up short.
"Same with music. Music from a car or home can disturb the peace for a quarter-mile away or more," Angus Brangus says. "If Neighbor A can sit on his porch and identify the songs that Neighbor B is listening to, well, as ol' Possum sang, 'That ain't right/Uh-uh, no, ev'rything ain't right.'"
But Angus Brangus is happy to report that acoustic scientists, working tirelessly around the clock in secret government labs buried deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, have invented a space-age device that allows music to be listened to quietly enough that neighbors or other drivers are not forced to listen.

"That device is called a 'volume control knob.'" Angus Brangus says it's standard equipment on thoughtful people.

"The test is obvious," Angus says. "If your source of music is two hundred feet from your neighbor's house, you step off that distance and see if you can hear your music. If you can hear it at two hundred feet, so can your neighbor." Like most folks, Angus Brangus loves music. And whether he's tappin' his toe to Bill Monroe or Uncle Dave Macon or Hank I, II, or III, Angus loves his music loud. He wants to feel it in his plywood bones. But he knows that his neighbors didn't appoint him deejay for the entire dadburned rural route. So when ol' Angus plays his music outdoors or in his pickup, he uses a portable mp3 player and headphones to ensure that he bothers no one else:

"And then there's barking dogs," Angus says. "Some folks keep a whole passel of dogs. Now dogs is good people. And like most four-legged critters, dogs make better neighbors than a heap of two-legged critters, largely on account of how a dog ain't got a trigger finger, a boom box, or a driver's license. Still, when a committee of dogs gets to discussin' a rabbit that just skedaddled by or a lady dog who's, you know, in the mood, well, them dogs can flat out disturb the peace for a half-mile around."
Angus also has noticed that when some folks come a-callin' they choose to announce their arrival to the entire neighborhood with a car horn honk rather than get out of their car, walk a few feet to the front porch, and knock on the door. A car horn honk can be heard clearly for a quarter-mile. And it's not a pleasant sound. It wasn't designed to be. A car horn is an emergency traffic device, not a calling card.
"The way I see it," Angus says, "unless you're the archangel Gabriel announcing the sure-'nuff Second Coming, your arrival ain't of much interest to the rest of the neighborhood.

"Besides, I don't reckon Gabriel is gonna show up drivin' a Chevy half-ton.

"My own self," Angus Brangus says, "being able-bodied and able-brained, I get out of Old Blue and ring the dadburned door bell."

Of course, Angus Brangus understands that we all have to make noise once in a while. For example, maybe the shack or the still needs mendin'. The 'mater patch needs plowin'. Hammers and saws, maybe even a tractor, are needed for a limited time. Not all forms of noise can be made quieter.
"You can't put a volume control knob on a hammer. You can't put a muffler on a circular saw. And if you try to 'Shush!' ol' John Deere, you'll just pull back a nub."
But when ol' Angus does have to make some noise, he tries to pick a time when neighbors are most likely to be away at work. And if the loud work can be done in the shop instead of in the field, well, less loud leaks out.
"Gunfire, loud mufflers, loud music, honking horns, and barking dogs are lifestyle choices," Angus says. "And those choices send a loud message to neighbors near and far: 'We'uns be better'n you'uns.'"
At this juncture you might ask, "But, Angus, what about the adage, 'Live and let live'?"
"Exactadiddlioso, ol' hoss!" Angus says. "Thought you'd never ask. Those folks who don't consider how their actions affect the rest of us pervert that adage into 'I'll do the living, and the rest of you do the letting.'
"Loud ain't proud. It's a rude 'tude, dude. And loud is no accident. Nor is quiet. Both are the result of choices. A neighborhood is only as quiet as its loudest resident. And every neighborhood has a loudest resident," Angus Brangus reckons. "If you think in terms of 'me,' you take pride in being loud. But if you think in terms of 'we,' you take pride in being quiet.
"It stands to reason that those who value peace preserve peace.
"Remember: No one ever found fault with his or her neighbors for being too quiet. But you can't spell 'quiet' without 'u' and 'i.'
"Why, when folks are being thoughtful," Angus says, "you can hear all kinds of purty sounds in the country:"

a bee buzz at 10 feet as it whispers the facts of life in the ears of wildflowers

a hummingbird hum at 20 feet as it tries to remember the words

raindrops fall on a stock tank at 75 feet, raising goosebumps on its surface

a crow flap its wings as it flies 125 feet overhead, measuring the shortest distance between two points

a squirrel who woke up on the wrong side of the limb scold at 150 feet

a startled deer wheeze at 175 feet

a creek running at 200 feet, every drop of water eager to ride the Gravity Express south to the coast and on out into the Gulf of Mexico to see the world

a hawk screech 300 feet in the air, as if God himself were scraping his fingernails down the big blue chalkboard of the sky

a breeze approaching from 500 feet as it two-steps through the treetops

a stilt-legged pony gallop across a pasture at 750 feet

two owls tell each other ghost stories 1,000 feet away in the woods

a bullfrog (King Croak) hold court on a pond 1,200 feet away

a coyote chorus sing "yip-yip-yippie-yi-yo" 2,500 feet away

You also can hear:
Morning
Mockingbird
Fox
Chuck-will's-widow
Cranes migrating
Painted bunting
Pond life
Screech owl
Woodpecker
Locust
Tree frog