Loud Talking Theories

                Loud talkers.  It’s difficult to avoid them.  They often mean well, but just can’t control those loud voices.  I encountered two of them this past weekend.  I am ready to offer two theories about why their voices are so annoying.

                We hauled our little travel trailer up to Silver Lake for the weekend.  We found a beautiful sot on the farthest loop, and settled into the fir and pine tree forest.  The sky was incredibly blue, the air crisp, and the sounds of nature relaxing.  I set up my chair in a bit of shade and just leaned back and took in my surroundings.  Then I heard it.  The couple next to us had a small travel trailer about 100 feet away.  They were standing maybe five feet from each other having a conversation about someone else.  I would not have known the topic of discussion had I depended on the woman’s voice alone.  I could tell she was talking, but I would have had to concentrate to make out what she was saying.  The man, on the other hand, was easy to understand without out trying at all.  In fact, I was so disinterested in what he was saying that I tried hard to ignore him.  I couldn’t.  It was as though he was standing six feet from me instead of 100 feet.

                Later in the day a few friends or relatives of theirs arrived.  They talked a lot, and loudly, as friends do in those kinds of circumstances, greeting one another, kidding around, catching up on each others’ lives.  But one man’s voice stood out.  Once the initial louder-than-normal conversations subsided, their voices faded to that kind of low humming that indicates speech but which is too imprecise to discern the actual words.  Except for that one man.  Every word was a clear as Silver Lake on a windless day.  Then it hit me.  It wasn’t just the volume of the man’s voice that made it stand out from all the others.  There was a tone I can’t describe, but which I associate with the resonance of the peel of a bell that can be heard for miles.  It’s that tone, along with a cranked up volume, that was making this camping neighbor so clearly understood from so far away.  If I was going to be tone deaf, I’d like to choose that tone.

                My second encounter was Sunday at the River Cats game.  What a great way to spend a Father’s Day!  My son, his wife, their two oldest children and I arrived at the front gate at 1:05 P.M.  Being a punctual organization, the national anthem was just beginning.  I couldn’t hear the singer, but the big screen in center field was visible, as were the words displayed on that screen.  The line had stopped.  That’s one of the many aspects of attending River Cats’ games I enjoy the most.  When the Star Spangled Banner begins, everything else stops.  I mean everything.  I once was in the middle of purchasing a hot dog and soda, but the cashier would not complete the transaction until the last note has been sung.  And the ticket takers stop taking tickets.

                We walked inside and headed for our seats in section 113, almost directly behind home plate and about twenty rows from the top.  “LEMONADE!  ICE COLD LEMMMONNNAAAADE HERE!”  I don’t care what they’re selling.  I just love the sound of it.  I don’t normally enjoy being in a crowd, but there is something different about a baseball crowd.  The announcer’s voice is easily heard above the happy voices of thousands of fans.  The children look around in awe, some clutching their baseball gloves, sure they will be going home with a foul ball that landed in their mitt.  It was a sunny day, the temperature pushing 90, and not a breeze to be felt.  The smell of sunscreen almost, but not quite, overwhelmed the aroma of garlic fries and beer. 

                We settled into our seats and watched as the red shirted River Cats pitcher hurled that white orb  past the Tacoma batters.  It wasn’t long before the Cats were up.  The first batter was announced and then the beginnings of a song he had chosen were played as he sauntered to the batter’s box.  He used his right shoe as a kind of shovel to dig into the red dirt.  He got into his customary crouch, his bat raised a little over his right shoulder.  Then it happened.  “LET’S GOOOOOOOO!  C’MON RIVER CAAAAAAAAAATTTTTS!”  It was definitely a woman’s voice, but with more gravel in it than one would expect.  That was just the beginning.  Just the first inning.  At first, we all thought it was kind of cute.  Just another bit of Americana at a ballpark that defines the term.  But by the fifth inning, it had lost most of its appeal.  I turned around, scanning the stands to find the owner of that huge voice.  I didn’t see any likely prospects, and as soon as I turned my attention to the game again, she let loose with another, “LET’S GOOOOO, RIIIIIVERRRRR CAAAAAATTTS!”  The man behind me could see that I was trying to find the enthusiastic fan.  “She’s sitting next to the guy in the yellow Hawaiian shirt.  Not what you would expect for that voice.”  Sure enough, this time I watched the petite blond bellow her admonition to the next batter.

                I have already attributed an indescribable tone to the loud talking campground man, theorizing that the tone along with the volume was what made him a loud talker.  I have a different theory about the River Cats woman.  With her it was volume and beer.  You see, I realized the reason we thought she was more irritating as the innings passed was because she was.  What began as baseball fan behavior, slowly degenerated into inebriated baseball fan obnoxious behavior.

                It was still a wonderful weekend, canoeing, playing games, reading, roasting marsh mellows, and watching the River Cats beat Tacoma, all with some of the people I love the most.  I would shout that out like the man and woman who were a part of my weekend, by typing in all caps, but I have already overused that symbolism, and I don’t want to annoy you any more than necessary.