Somewhere in the seventh or eighth block of either 23rd or 22nd avenues in Texas City, there is a dog who barks all night, every night.

I will no longer be around to hear him, and my only regret is that I never figured out how he managed to do that and still stay alive.

I know for sure that I can no longer hear him, but I know he is still barking.

When I was checking out the available apartment at the Morningstar, some of the people passing by said, “You will like it here. It is very quiet.”

And that is a fact. Quietness is a noticeable condition.

Back on Ninth Street, which is a fairly major thoroughfare, the ambulances and the fire trucks used that road to get to where they were going. Sirens blaring. Horns honking.

Big trucks rumbled. The guys with the two big trucks who picked up the big brush and swung it up into confinement traveled a lot of Ninth. I decided since lots of people traveled up and down the street, the city fathers, and mothers, wanted it to look nice. Hence the city cleanup trucks traveled there more often.

Ordinary nightly traffic was noticeable to anyone who spent the night in my guest room, which faced the street.

So we had more than our share of noise.

No more.

There’s a dumpster within walking distance of my new little home, but I have never heard the folks who come to dump it.

Frequently, I do hear the lawn mowers and the weed eaters going, because they keep this place meticulous.

But if I am inside my new home, the only thing making noise is my television set. And, according to my children, it is too loud. They insisted I get hearing aids so that I would have to turn it down when they are around to watch. I have nice children, but snippy.

One interesting noise occurs when I am using my oxygen machine.

I have it in my mind that it sounds like an iron lung. Except for movies and television programs featuring iron lungs, I have no real idea of what they sound like. Because I came up in the era when people were getting polio, I am vaguely familiar with iron lungs. Anyway, I have pegged this as a sound in my house.

Once in a while, both the computer and the cellphone make little dingy sounds. It’s as if they are telling me “I’m here if you need me.”

There was one sound that completely baffled me. Though there are strong deadbolts on both doors, I was convinced I had a prowler.

There was this peculiar sound, coming from somewhere in the kitchen.

When my son heard about my fears, he laughed and laughed. He knew what it was, because he and all my other children have had ice makers in their fridges.

I never owned one.

But this is what I am hearing. The icemaker is delivering delicious slices of ice into a waiting receptacle.

It’s a delightful sound.

I love it.

Cathy Gillentine is a Daily News columnist. She may be reached at

(1) comment

Lois J Carelock


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