Silent Spaces—Part 2

In my noise-reduction career I had many opportunities to see that most machines generate far more noise than necessary. When these machines first were designed, noise was not a priority, so it was therefore pretty much ignored. Thus my colleagues and I were able to bring about dramatic reductions in noise levels of the machines that we studied. When manufacturers were shown how to quiet their products, they usually were pleasantly surprised and even quite willing to incorporate our suggestions (especially those who made the noisiest machines and who sensed that the EPA would soon come knocking).

Indeed, those were the heady days. We noise acousticians were excited about the prospect of a future freer of humanity’s din. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Other priorities interfered—the oil shortage shifted priorities in another direction. Shortly after Reagan came to office, EPA’s office of Noise Abatement and Control was first gutted of capable personnel and then closed down in the early 80s. I guess the reversal of the noise tide contributed to my hanging up my sound level meter and migrating to the quieter rural Shenandoah Valley.

Since setting down roots here some 30 years ago, I have come even more to treasure the quietude that surrounds me. But it’s all relative. It may be far quieter here than in the city, but one becomes more sensitive and I find that interfering noise is still far too common for me. In the city I expected it to be noisy, while out here I expect it to be quiet—but that’s not always the case. When I recline in my outdoor tub in the evenings, I especially treasure the quiet. I find airplanes and distant barking dogs irritating. I also am aware that, without the lower background noise around here, I’d not even hear these disturbances.

Despite my annoyance with noise, I am aware that without the much quieter environment that I now live in, I’d miss so many precious aural events. The gentle breeze drifting across the hollows would be missed. The chatter of a distant squirrel or the distant response of an owl to a local’s call would fade into background chatter. I’d never hear the soft swish of the titmouse’s wings, as it glides down to the feeder. These are hushed happenings I’d otherwise miss. I love them.

Like the light pollution that prevents city dwellers from seeing but a few of the brightest stars and keeps them ignorant of the 4000 or so stars they would otherwise see in a dark country sky, incessant noise can inure us to these irritants and disguise the subtle delights of nature. Until that masking visual and aural interference is reduced, we don’t know what we are missing. The loss is tragic. I am deeply grateful that I can see and hear what my rural site allows.