"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" is a philosophical thought experiment that raises questions regarding observation and perception. [Wikipedia]
A few minutes past 8 A.M. and the sun peering over the hedgerow trees of the eastern boundary, already spilling heat onto the front porch steps. Son Howard has delivered his three dogs into my keeping for the day, collected J. and they are off to a carpentry job in the next county.
The dogs often accompany H. to work, waiting in the back seat of his truck for the breaks when they are let out to run, do their business, have a drink.
Mid-summer weather is too hot for that, so the dogs stay with me during the men's work hours.
I take them out about every hour and a half, trudging around the lower meadow with them, up the lane, back across the meadow.
Dixie, the middle-aged Aussie-mix bumbles slowly along behind me--unless she spots a squirrel at the edge of the north ravine, when she forgets her old lady status.
Mudgie, the lovely Great Burnese, alternately gambols ponderously through the grass or goes on an intense round of sniffing out unmentionable tidbits I'd rather she didn't ingest.
Smallest and youngest of the trio is Boo-Bear, less than a year old, a rescue shelter adoptee.
Intoxicated by the great outdoors, Boo doesn't always turn around when called, so she is usually on a retractable lead, for her safety and my peace of mind.
We walked this morning through heavy dew. The dogs headed for a hickory at the tree line where the ground begins to slope into the depth of the north ravine. Last week they noticed a squirrel there, yapped hysterically at it until it disappeared up the tree. There's always the chance it might reappear to entertain them.
We trailed down the slope of the meadow, giving the dogs opportunity to accomplish necessary deposits on a line that I can later avoid.
Past the small barn we call the 'snake shed,' no snakes in sight nor the painted turtle whose presence sometimes brings me to a quick halt, one booted foot suspended in avoidance.
The shade is still deep here, the grass wet. Here and there a clump of purple violets rises undaunted by mowing, the first heads of Joe Pye weed thrust up against a fire-seared hybrid magnolia.
Dixie-dog is resting under the hickory that supposedly houses the fox squirrel; Mudgie sniffs at the base of every tree and shrub. Boo-Bear is at the extent of her lead, delicate ears flattened straight back, nearly touching her pink collar.
The laboring growl of a chainsaw throbs from another ridge, the sound rolling through the convolutions of hills and hollers, background to the more subtle swish of my booted feet, the rustle of leaves.
The sun has moved high enough to beam a shimmer of light down the meadow, sending fingers of warmth into the shaded rise of ground that rims the south ravine. Sunlight catches the fine threads of three spiders' webs delicately suspended from the low hanging branch of a maple. The webs drift, trembling in the breeze, floating in and out of focus.
Boo-Bear steps forward on dainty paws brushing against an invisible anchoring thread and the nearest spider web disappears.
Skirting the remaining two sticky orbs we start back up the slope toward the back of the house.
The whine of the chainsaw is cut off; for a second the air throbs with fresh stillness, then comes the wrenching creak of a tree losing its final attachment to the stump from which it has grown.
Did I really feel a faint tremor run through the ground--or did I merely imagine it as the tree slammed into the ground with a reverberating crash, followed by the rustle of settling branches and twigs ?
Boo-Bear scuttled to my side, flinging herself onto my booted feet, leaning her slender bones against my legs.
I stood in the quiet meadow, young dog quivering beside me until the sound of the chainsaw again hummed through the summer morning and I could envision a man clambering among the branches of the fallen tree, beginning the process of 'limbing.'
I recalled, in the way of memory unexpectedly jogged, the long ago tenure of a student teacher at our small town high school. He was likely only 20 or 21 years old, almost ready to graduate from the nearby college which had been churning out teachers for decades.
He seemed almost arrogantly in charge, undaunted by a roomful of 14 and 15 year olds, taking in his stride the too obvious 'crush' of Janice, a blushing young lady known for her skill on the basketball court.
His major was in science, so we were told, and he would be with us for several weeks presenting a unit on 'sound.'
He had brought with him stereo equipment which was state-of-the-art for its day; he spoke of sound waves, radio transmission, inventors, possibilities.
One day--perhaps the only class I really remember--he stunned us with the old question: 'if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear, did it really make a sound?'
He seemed to be pushing the premise that without a human interpreter, there was no sound.
With that, I can never agree.
My brain doesn't lean toward the intricacies of math or science, still I have seen wind moving through trees at a distance that doesn't allow me to hear the roar of its passing.
I've watched as my cats, dogs, horses, come to attention, hearing what it will take me a few more seconds to discern.
I can watch Willis the barn cat running toward me, his mouth opening and closing, but I can only hear his catly voice when he reaches the foot of the steps.
I heard the crashing fall of a tree this morning, a fall planned and carried out by a man with a chainsaw. Had the tree succumbed to wind and storm, fallen at midnight with no human to declare, 'I heard a tree fall!' there would still have been a sound!
Boo-Bear; safely away from crashing trees, but cringing at the tiny click of the camera shutter.
