Killing us softly
Caroline Brooks expects noise at her home in Toronto. But after the drive and boat ride to her in-laws’ place on Lake Rosseau, Ont., she wants to hear little more than wind in the pines and the gentle lap of waves against rock. Caroline, a musician, craves quiet. But quiet at the lake, she says, is hard to find.
As I sit in my cottage on Lake Huron—writing this story on quiet and the value in preserving it where we’ve, historically, sought it—I take note of the sounds around me. Yes, there are the calls of throaty tree frogs, which grow more insistent as the sun melts into the lake. There is what my uncle, who’d lived in seven countries over his lifetime, insisted was the quintessentially Southern Ontario sound of wind moving through the poplar trees. But there is also the nasal drone of inboard boat engines, the whine of a distant lawn mower, the subtle slosh of a dishwasher, even the gentle whirr of my computer.
Later, though it’s an ordinary summer Saturday, subtle night sounds are pierced by the pop and whizz of fireworks, driving my dogs to quiver beneath the beds and me to grit my teeth. Because…seriously? Again? We’re celebrating what exactly?
There was a time—can you recall?—when the expectation of quiet at the lake was not only reasonable, but routine. No dishwashers. Often no phones. Rarely even a TV. Fireworks may have ushered
