You just put your lips together and ... shhhhh...
I don’t really remember anymore who did it, but I do have a very clear recollection of the whistle flying end over end through the air until it landed on the carpet and cracked completely in half. Not from front to back, but precisely horizontally, top to bottom. It must have been along the formation lines of the artist who had made it. There was a deep silence as we all stared at it, the boys and I.
“Can we glue it back together?” came the question. I didn’t know.
The Bird Whistle, as it’s referred to, is round, globe-shaped and nestles easily within the cradle of your two hands. It is carved from terra cotta clay, hollow on the inside, with strong lines painted in white and black slip on the outside. The designs make it look bird-like: huge eyes painted on either side that are slightly carved in outline to accentuate the lines. But the shape is not perfectly round – it pouts from what is the front, and sweeps down and then up at what it the tail. That’s where the slit is cut, on the flattened end that is the tail. That’s where you blow, and that’s what makes a ‘whistle’.
The sound is more of a cooing in the key of A. As you blow, the air swirls around inside and against the interior walls and for some reason of physics I don’t know and probably could not comprehend, it croons for you. I was told it is a ‘Good Luck Whistle’ from the Yamaguchi province of Japan, but you never know about these things.
I found it the same day I found The Green Sofa. I bought it secretly so my husband wouldn’t know I had spent the bulk of that week’s food budget on an oddity without purpose. I had already convinced him to buy the sofa, which we could barely afford – how could I ask for more money for this little trinket?
I liked the way it looked, and the way it sat in my hands. I liked the huge, round-eyed innocence and the bird reference in the design. It felt cool even on that hot July day. It looked and felt ancient. An artifact.
But it was the sound. The slow cool sound of a dove or a mournful owl. When you blow softly it coos, it ‘hoos’ at you and you feel calm, peaceful. When you blow hard it raises pitch to B and has an urgent, demanding voice. If you barely blow at all it is breathy as if not to disturb the forest dwellers with its demands. It is hard to stop blowing once you start because the lack of its voice leaves a hollow emptiness behind. And when you blow, it resonates and warms your hands, hands that have become another kind of vessel for the sake of the whistle.
I brought it out for the family after it had been stowed away for a few months, explaining that I had just found it at thrift store for a few dollars.
“Isn’t it cool? Listen…” and the boys were transfixed, just as I had been.
They took turns blowing and changing the pitch, holding it and rolling it in their hands. My oldest son, already showing signs of being an artist was intently examining the designs. “It looks like a bird… or a fish… but it sounds like an owl…” he mused. It was something I had noticed as well. A beak like a bird, a sweet little bird, but the call of an owl, a masterful bird of prey. Still, the huge eyes… it was hard to put a finger on it.
My younger son was much more interested in the call of the “bird”. He blew this way and that, hard and soft, trying to control the pitch. He rolled it in his hands while I held my breath. It was a very old, very unusual piece, and it was fragile. This son was not so good with fragile.
After they had used up their curiosity it was stowed on a high shelf, visible but not necessarily retrievable unless you were determined. My husband got home later in the week - he was going back and forth between Reno and Chico for work most of the week. After the kids settled in to his return, the youngest ran to show him the new thing.
He didn’t know what to make of it. He looked at me as if to say, “Now what?” But then the youngest said, “Look!” and blew into it.
My husband was mesmerized. His face, which had been tired and worn from work and traveling, melted into a peaceful, thoughtful gaze. He reached for it, but my youngest was not so inclined to give it up. He blew again, harder to force the pitch to the upper range of the B. “See,” he exclaimed, excited. “You can change it!”
Finally he gave it up to his dad. I watched to see what would happen next.
My husband took it gently from my son, turning it over in his hands, examining the lines, curves, flattened bottom, and then the slit in the upturned and flattened tail. He ever so gently began to blow. The whistle hummed lowly, and then began to slowly rise in pitch. He never pushed it to its highest reach, knowing somehow to keep it within its comfort range. It was so musical suddenly, not the strident cries the boys had elicited and not the breathy mid-range I had generated, but something new, something graceful and melancholy and hopeful.
Well, I was stunned. He made the whistle into a woodwind, an instrument, much more than a novelty. It became a treasure, a family heirloom. When the day was lovely and fun, someone would go grab the whistle from its perch in the tall shelves and blow gleefully, filling the house with its happy voice. When the day was gloomy and sad, someone would blow a bluesy lilting tune that somehow brought us all into a brighter frame of mind. It was endlessly varied and subtly enduring.
It lives now on a high shelf in my living room. Like the sofa, it was an object of contention in the divorce: who would keep the whistle? I did, as I also became the keeper of the oldest Christmas tree ornaments and, ultimately The Green Sofa. I pick it up often and blow to hear its voice again, but now it only makes me sad, and sometimes a little hopeful. I see the boys, their father, in the early years of our lives together, as a young family. I remember the day The Bird Whistle came home, and the day it was broken, and I cannot help but notice the glue lines where it was carefully repaired, never harming its voice, its tune, or its call.
I don’t know if it is a good luck whistle, or just a whistle to remind us of all the voices we hold within the cradle of our hands as we walk our paths. And I don't know who I will leave it to, once it is time for me to move on.
I don’t really remember anymore who did it, but I do have a very clear recollection of the whistle flying end over end through the air until it landed on the carpet and cracked completely in half. Not from front to back, but precisely horizontally, top to bottom. It must have been along the formation lines of the artist who had made it. There was a deep silence as we all stared at it, the boys and I.
“Can we glue it back together?” came the question. I didn’t know.
The Bird Whistle, as it’s referred to, is round, globe-shaped and nestles easily within the cradle of your two hands. It is carved from terra cotta clay, hollow on the inside, with strong lines painted in white and black slip on the outside. The designs make it look bird-like: huge eyes painted on either side that are slightly carved in outline to accentuate the lines. But the shape is not perfectly round – it pouts from what is the front, and sweeps down and then up at what it the tail. That’s where the slit is cut, on the flattened end that is the tail. That’s where you blow, and that’s what makes a ‘whistle’.
The sound is more of a cooing in the key of A. As you blow, the air swirls around inside and against the interior walls and for some reason of physics I don’t know and probably could not comprehend, it croons for you. I was told it is a ‘Good Luck Whistle’ from the Yamaguchi province of Japan, but you never know about these things.
I found it the same day I found The Green Sofa. I bought it secretly so my husband wouldn’t know I had spent the bulk of that week’s food budget on an oddity without purpose. I had already convinced him to buy the sofa, which we could barely afford – how could I ask for more money for this little trinket?
I liked the way it looked, and the way it sat in my hands. I liked the huge, round-eyed innocence and the bird reference in the design. It felt cool even on that hot July day. It looked and felt ancient. An artifact.
But it was the sound. The slow cool sound of a dove or a mournful owl. When you blow softly it coos, it ‘hoos’ at you and you feel calm, peaceful. When you blow hard it raises pitch to B and has an urgent, demanding voice. If you barely blow at all it is breathy as if not to disturb the forest dwellers with its demands. It is hard to stop blowing once you start because the lack of its voice leaves a hollow emptiness behind. And when you blow, it resonates and warms your hands, hands that have become another kind of vessel for the sake of the whistle.
I brought it out for the family after it had been stowed away for a few months, explaining that I had just found it at thrift store for a few dollars.
“Isn’t it cool? Listen…” and the boys were transfixed, just as I had been.
They took turns blowing and changing the pitch, holding it and rolling it in their hands. My oldest son, already showing signs of being an artist was intently examining the designs. “It looks like a bird… or a fish… but it sounds like an owl…” he mused. It was something I had noticed as well. A beak like a bird, a sweet little bird, but the call of an owl, a masterful bird of prey. Still, the huge eyes… it was hard to put a finger on it.
My younger son was much more interested in the call of the “bird”. He blew this way and that, hard and soft, trying to control the pitch. He rolled it in his hands while I held my breath. It was a very old, very unusual piece, and it was fragile. This son was not so good with fragile.
After they had used up their curiosity it was stowed on a high shelf, visible but not necessarily retrievable unless you were determined. My husband got home later in the week - he was going back and forth between Reno and Chico for work most of the week. After the kids settled in to his return, the youngest ran to show him the new thing.
He didn’t know what to make of it. He looked at me as if to say, “Now what?” But then the youngest said, “Look!” and blew into it.
My husband was mesmerized. His face, which had been tired and worn from work and traveling, melted into a peaceful, thoughtful gaze. He reached for it, but my youngest was not so inclined to give it up. He blew again, harder to force the pitch to the upper range of the B. “See,” he exclaimed, excited. “You can change it!”
Finally he gave it up to his dad. I watched to see what would happen next.
My husband took it gently from my son, turning it over in his hands, examining the lines, curves, flattened bottom, and then the slit in the upturned and flattened tail. He ever so gently began to blow. The whistle hummed lowly, and then began to slowly rise in pitch. He never pushed it to its highest reach, knowing somehow to keep it within its comfort range. It was so musical suddenly, not the strident cries the boys had elicited and not the breathy mid-range I had generated, but something new, something graceful and melancholy and hopeful.
Well, I was stunned. He made the whistle into a woodwind, an instrument, much more than a novelty. It became a treasure, a family heirloom. When the day was lovely and fun, someone would go grab the whistle from its perch in the tall shelves and blow gleefully, filling the house with its happy voice. When the day was gloomy and sad, someone would blow a bluesy lilting tune that somehow brought us all into a brighter frame of mind. It was endlessly varied and subtly enduring.
It lives now on a high shelf in my living room. Like the sofa, it was an object of contention in the divorce: who would keep the whistle? I did, as I also became the keeper of the oldest Christmas tree ornaments and, ultimately The Green Sofa. I pick it up often and blow to hear its voice again, but now it only makes me sad, and sometimes a little hopeful. I see the boys, their father, in the early years of our lives together, as a young family. I remember the day The Bird Whistle came home, and the day it was broken, and I cannot help but notice the glue lines where it was carefully repaired, never harming its voice, its tune, or its call.
I don’t know if it is a good luck whistle, or just a whistle to remind us of all the voices we hold within the cradle of our hands as we walk our paths. And I don't know who I will leave it to, once it is time for me to move on.
RSS Feed
