The first World Listening Day was celebrated on July 18, 2010, and has been observed annually since then. The date was selected because it is the birthday of Canadian composer  R. Murray Schafer, one of the founders of the acoustic ecology movement.

While most people are born with the innate ability to see and hear, interpreting visual cues and sounds—such as recognizing a mother’s face or identifying the bark of a German Shepherd—requires the development of keen visual and auditory observation skills. I consider myself fortunate to have developed such abilities as a latchkey kid who had a lot of time to himself.

I had a favorite hill that I loved to climb, a place where I could lie back in the tall grass, close my eyes, and listen. From that resting place, I could hear the close up sounds of nature such as the rustling grass and chirping insects. Thanks to the clarity of the rural Oregon environment, I could also discern distant sounds from the valley below, where farmland and a small village were nestled. Lying there and listening was a sublime, ear-opening experience.

On quiet days, I could hear insects in the grass nearby— buzzing, clicking, and rattling, each distinctive to its species. I imagine entomologists can identify insects just by their sounds. Personally, I found it easy to recognize bees, flies, and annoying mosquitoes.

I enjoyed listening to the gentle breeze as it swept through the grass, creating a whispering rustle as the blades brushed against each other. At times, it sounded like a soft, continuous sigh. When the wind picked up, it could produce a swishing noise that ebbed and flowed in waves. To my younger self, the sound of the wind felt calming and peaceful.

At times, this serene soundscape would be interrupted by a jet plane preparing to land at Portland International Airport, 40 miles away. The routine was predictable: a blend of mechanical noises would herald its approach, marked by a change in the engine’s intensity or pitch as it began to slow. The sounds of the landing gear lowering and adjustments of flaps, slats, and spoilers transformed it into a roaring machine passing overhead. This cacophony would last for several minutes as the aircraft flew by, gradually fading into the distance until it was out of hearing range.

After the quiet resumed, my attention often turned to the sounds emanating from the valley below. As a rural community, the landscape stretched for miles, offering a crisp and distinct soundscape.

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Many of the animal sounds originated from farms in the valley, including the bleating of sheep from our own farm, which carried clearly through the air. The cows from the neighboring Burney farm added to the symphony with their distinctive mooing and the gentle clang of their cowbells.

The bark of a dog in pursuit of something was a frequent occurrence. A sound of a deep, resonant bark usually signaled the presence of Jameson’s Collie chasing a cat or squirrel. In contrast, a high-pitched, yappy bark often belonged to Marion Brunier’s Chihuahua, often barking at the passing mailman at 10 am each day.

A simple two-lane road through the valley saw minimal traffic. Neighbors could be identified by the sound of their cars’ engines. My best friend drove an Oldsmobile with a modified engine, and his departure from his girlfriend’s house was always announced by a distinctive revving sound. I could track his journey home by listening as he drove.

Within the village, three distinct sounds served as community signals or soundmarks. The bell of the small church summoned worshippers with its deep, resonant tone on Sundays. The school bell, with its clear, bright sound, marked the beginning and end of classes, as well as breaks like lunchtime and recess. The school maintained a consistent schedule, ensuring everyone in the community knew the day’s activities.

Atop the volunteer fire station, a siren served as the third soundmark in the village. Its wail called volunteers to assemble and prepare for firefighting duties. Every Monday at noon, the same siren was tested as an air raid signal, sounding in a distinct pattern indicating a potential threat, followed by a long “all clear” signal.

The piercing sound of the siren always sent shivers down my spine, signaling imminent danger and the urgent need for assistance. Its late-night wail was particularly unsettling.

Otherwise, lying on that hilltop and listening to the soundscape was a delightful experience, especially when comparing it to my current residence downtown in a city, with its chaotic acoustic blend. Nowadays, listening is more intricate, with various sounds overlapping, each carrying its distinct message if one listens closely.

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On this World Listening Day, I encourage readers to close their eyes and listen. What sounds do you hear nearby? What about in the distance? Do any of these sounds convey a particular message? Are there sounds you enjoy or strongly dislike? What is it about these sounds that attracts or repels your interest? Is there a sound that you might identify as a soundmark for your community, like a cathedral bell or foghorn?

What if every day were World Listening Day?

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A version of this essay was originally published on Life’s A Canvas: Essays and Stories on July 14, 2024. See Gary Ferrington’s previous ArtsWatch stories here.