The Sounds of Home



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It's been a windy spring here in Denver and at night I like to listen to the wind huff and puff outside my window, thinking to myself, this is what Denver sounds like. Every place has its own sounds, like lapping water, honking horns, or tweeting birds, and in my opinion Denver's sound is rushing wind. There's a whole row of states to our east that are flat as pancakes, which gives the wind a nice running start. It barrels over the plains and when it reaches Denver it smacks against the Rocky Mountains like a dog running into a sliding glass door. 

Sometimes I feel my house shuddering beneath the push of wind and I think about how the pioneers and early settlers were basically camping out in this wind. I feel sure that had I lived back then I would've packed up and walked back to Iowa. I'm not a big fan of roughing it.

I suppose outsiders might assume it's our majestic Rocky Mountains that most influence what it feels like to live in Denver, and inadvertantly that's true because the mountains are what put us so high in the sky. But really it's the thin air. The mountains are just those big rocks a few miles to the west, but the effects of the thin air are pervasive. Whenever I have out-of-town visitors I warn them to drink tons of water and to prepare for sharp, crusty boogers. The latter comment seems indelicate, I know, but it is so true. Denver drys you out, inside and out. My hands have never cracked as easily in the winter time as they do here in Denver. But after three winters I'm prepared now. I know this place and all of its blustering, moisture sucking, high altitude strangeness. And I've come to love falling asleep at night listening to the sounds of home.