Harold Hill Wouldn't Like It Either

Several nights in a row I have found myself in the middle of the parade scene of “The Music Man” marching down the Main Street of River City pumping a baton and singing “thundering, thundering all along the way.” When I awake, the only part of the dream that remains is the bass pounding in my ears. Pounding.

As a matter of fact, the bass is what wakes me. You know those cartoons where the character is trying to sleep and some noise starts a rumba beat? Everything in the room moves in sync to the rhythm. Well, it turns out that cartoon has roots in reality. The beat of that bass coming from a neighbor’s house at 11:00 PM seems to shake the bed.
(All right. I KNOW it’s only 11:00 and we’re in bed…have been since 10:30… we’re old.)

I could be wrong, but isn’t that much volume injurious to one’s hearing? I SAID isn’t that much volume injurious to…oh never mind. I see I’m talking to the wrong crowd. When I was a teenager. I figured the best place at a concert was next to the speakers. I was wrong. But fortunately I didn’t get to that many live concerts. And the main injury to my health from loud noises has been my recent loss of sleep.

I played my music loud. But then, I had good taste in music…stuff I knew the neighbors would want to hear. And I offered variety. Lots of nights I would play my organ until bed time and then close out the concert with “Taps” on harmonica. (This may sound like tongue in cheek, but it is sadly true.) And I either stopped or turned down my music by 10 or so. If I hadn’t, my parents would have cancelled all future performances. They figured that other people’s rights should be considered too.

My parents had a crazy idea that my rights stopped where my neighbor’s nose started. The notion that my rights should not infringe on the rights of others made sense to me then, and it does now. We have the right to kill ourselves with tobacco smoke, to drink ourselves to death, to let our “butt cleavage” hang out and to deafen ourselves with our music. But here’s the thing: that right is not greater than the next person’s right NOT to be subjected to us. Many of us choose not to inhale poisonous smoke, not to drink until we vomit and not to watch someone’s bare behind jiggle when they walk or spread on a bleacher when they sit down. And we enjoy nature sounds and silence, especially late at night.

Which brings me back to my dream. I can’t get restful sleep when I spend the entire night marching behind Professor Harold Hill. I wake up tired. Cranky, too. And I’m apt to voice my ire in grouchy tirades such as this.