Today looks like yesterday. It’s dark, overcast and cold. A wind is blowing and even the thickest branches are swaying. It’s a day to stay cozy and close to hearth and home.

My friend had an aunt who used to sit up until 2 a.m. so she could turn her clocks back an hour. She wouldn’t do it do it before she went to bed. Because the paper said 2 o’clock was her reason.

I used to like the sound of a rotary phone when I was dialing. First there was a click then a whirring. The phone really rang when there was a call. I could hear the click-clack of the blades when my father pushed his mower back and forth across the lawn. The clock in my school ticked off the time in minutes. When the class was quiet, I could hear time passing. A  record, when it got old, made crackling sounds. The TV always had a snow sound in the off-hours after the Indian was gone. The card attached to the spokes of my bike made a staccato sound which got more furious the faster the wheel spun. Going downhill was always the loudest. In grammar school, a hand bell marked our movements. It meant line up to go into the building, change classes, eat lunch, go out for recess, come back inside and then be dismissed at the end of the day. A police car’s siren wound in its mount then screamed as the officers raced to an emergency. The town’s alarm rang when there was a fire, and we could figure out from where the fire was. Each street had its own signal.

Those are the sounds from my childhood which have disappeared.