Whistle while you work and Galloping Gertie

Confession.

I cannot whistle.

I know how. I know what is “supposed” to happen. I know what it is supposed to “sound” like.

But. I simply cannot whistle. A happy tune. A sad tune. A loud tune. A soft tune. A creepy tune. An excited tune. Doesn’t work if I add one finger or two. Blow hard or soft. Still does not work.

I have to face the truth. I cannot whistle.

As hard as I try.

No matter how I “pucker” my lips. Blow a kiss, blow smoke, blow air. nothing comes out. Gratefully, nothing comes in either. I simply cannot do it.

Nothing comes out. IE. No sound. No beautiful melody or song. As long and as hard and as much as I practice. No kisses coming or going your way.

Sorry.

Nothing. Nada. Nuttin’.

Weirdly. I know it when I hear it. I do hear it though. The piercing. The high pitched annoyance of the sound. Makes my skin crawl and I can feel my blood curdling. A whistle. The high pitched piercing sound that indicates a start or a stop.

As in: Start to run as in run for your life on the track of endless circles. Or stop chasing the tail of mass confusion. Sometimes. It is hard to decipher the friend from the enemy. Especially if and when.

We cannot see them for who they really are. Issues and all… Look deep into their eyes and see the soul.

A “new” dimension” has been added to all our lives. Pandemical isolations, tears, mental health pile-ons and more. Tacked on to our already below the surface boilings. Staying hidden by the current and opportunistic game of screen-time cat and mouse. And Lord only knows what else. Marriages. Births. “Partnerships.” Hastily founded and built on those rocky foundations just to move along. Keep the reputational narrative moving along.

In the name and game of so called “non-profiting” on your health, mentally, physically or otherwise. The unknown “sharing” of profits gives pay to play it forward whole new meaning.

Circles, baby, circles. Reputational circles. We all got ‘em. Some are stuffed away. Some are rinse, recycled, repeated. Dealt with. Slowly. Methodically. Finally.

No worries though. In the meantime, quiet whispers are building a connection and a bridge. And not whistling all the way to the “bank”. Maybe.

Whistling all the way to the “beach”. Throwin’ down the towel and takin’ in all that sun and water. Arrived. Where’s the boat, ship. My floaties? My noodles.

Believe me. I have lost my noodles in more ways than one. Not cryin though.

Nope. Not yet. Time has a way of straightening things out for us. Bringing out the truth of the matter. The organic, the plastic, the fake. Why we think we can continually cheat death is kinda ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

To lessen my stress. I would whistle a quiet and happy tune. but as you all remember at the start of this writing, this essay, this confession:

I cannot whistle.

Prefer instead to make loud noise. So everyone can “hear”—clap, snap my fingers, wack myself upside the head—do almost anything else required of my good ole “fine motor” skills because they are already and indeed. Fine. And strong and adept at building strong bridges of here to there so the strong bridges can be used., walked across and on and lived by all for all and years. To connect anyone. And not restrict anyone.

Anyone.

Bridges that are strong are made to withstand any wind, rain or baloney that comes across its way. Any truckloads of baloney.

Had the unique pleasure to walk across a few notable bridges in my short life. The Colorado Bridge comes to mind, in California. On a journey to serve and “hang out” with the local “less than” community. Walked across to and fro hopeful on the way to and deeply saddened on the way back.

Because the circumstances did not seem to really change. There was a strange force of circles, circles, circles. Looking deep inside the eyes of a person actually living, existing on the streets does something to your soul.

Or at least it should. Encourage you to get off the ole duff and do something to help. Something. Anything.

And a “snazzy” website is all well and good, but it says more about you, then the holey boots on the ground. And the holey boots on the ground care not so much about your snazzy website. No matter how they may have happened to end up on the streets, halfway across the bridge or on the steps trying to get up. They are struggling and they hurt.

And. Even if and when you “show” up. It hurts to see the hurt. It hurts to know that you cannot do MORE. Like……

Sitting behind a screen and fibbing the fibs of all fibs either means you are fibbing or afraid to tell the truth. And hoping it will all “go away”.

Another notable bridge I hope to see someday is the 1940 Tacoma Narrows Bridge, a suspension bridge in the U.S. state of Washington that spanned the Tacoma Narrows Strait of the Puget Sound between Tacoma and the Kitsap Peninsula.(Wk)

It opened to traffic on July 1, 1940 and dramatically collapsed into the Puget Sound on November 7, 1940. The other name of this bridge was “the Galloping Gertie. Named such because when construction began in September 1938, it began to move vertically in windy conditions. (WK)Rocking like a baby. But this baby did not survive.

Sad. But a life lesson to explore explore over and over. To someday, get it right.

Speaking of bridges. I have the pleasure of exhibiting strong traits of a “different” Gertie. One who lived a good, honorable and long life. Like a strong bridge was this other Gertie.

Head down. Get to work. Raised a family after her own mother died (9 plus kids) Cooked, cleaned, disciplined, no nonsense, no excuses. Prayed every day. For her bridge-like ways to keep connecting those she cared for and those she loved. Raised three kids of her own. Never complained. Always restrained. Worked hard to serve.

A joy to be around.

And could drink a beer.

Pull her weight.

She never cracked. Never wavered. The rest of us crack from time to time, collapse under the weight of our weight of mind and or body—hoping to get back to something, anything we consider “normal” when the bridge may collapse. Sometimes on our hands and knees we intend to crawl back to our “safe”place.

And. For so many, too many. That is still on the streets. Worried not so much about the color of their “comforter”, whether it matches the awesome curtains, but about whether or not they will live to see another day.

Their feet guided by the sun with no where to go and all day to get there.