Learning to Whistle

“If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow," so said the incomparable Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not.

Mom taught me how to put my lips together and blow except that it was a bit more complicated than that. Learning to whistle included curling the tongue and placing the tip on the back of the bottom teeth. It was hard to learn, but, with practice, I soon was able to make the tiniest little whistling sound, and before too long, I could whistle a tune.

We all liked to whistle. Dad would whistle along while listening to Broadway hits like “I Whistle a Happy Tune” from the King and I, “My Favorite Things” from Sound of Music, or “What Do the Simple Folk Do?” from Camelot. It took years of practice before I could whistle complicated melodies like Dad could, but what fun it was when a particular riff was mastered.

While visiting business associates of Dad’s in St. Louis around the time I was 12 years old, we all went to see the St. Louis Cardinals in a game against the Cincinnati Reds. Johnny Bench was the catcher for the Reds at the time so everyone was pretty excited. Everyone, that is, except me. All I could think about was how boring and stupid a stinky old baseball game would be. I sat in my seat trying not to be too antsy, when something happened--the Cardinals got a hit or someone scored--and Dad’s business associate, who was sitting next to me, jumped up, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled long and loud to signal his approval of whatever play had just been made.

“How did you do that?” I blurted out to him, suddenly very interested in this new kind of whistle.

He sat back down and showed me how he had made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. I made a circle with my forefinger and thumb. “That’s right,” he encouraged. He then showed me how he placed these fingers up against the tip of his tongue. I placed my fingers against the tip of my tongue. He then explained that I needed to push my tongue back with my fingers and “bite” my fingers with my lips leaving about the same amount of space open like regular whistling. I studied his mouth, his finger placement, and tried to imitate what I saw.

He further encouraged, “You keep trying. You’ll get it.”

I kept trying. And trying. And trying. And whoa! I little sound came out. I adjusted my fingers and kept trying. A bigger sound came out. Dad’s friend looked down at me and said, “By George, I think she’s got it.” His quoting from My Fair Lady made me laugh. By the seventh inning stretch, I had it all figured out.

When we stood, the man said, “I can teach you an alternate way if you like.” I liked. He straightened out his index and middle fingers on both hands. I did the same thing. He then placed them on the tip of his tongue, forming a “V,” and pushed back on his tongue to make almost exactly the same shape with his mouth over his fingers as the first whistle. He then whistled like you would if calling for your dog to come. This time, it only took me a few tries before a mastered this whistling style as well.

I don’t do it very often, but whenever I whistle in the style I learned at that St. Louis Cardinals game, people look in amazement. I’m pretty sure they’re wishing they could learn how. So, just ask me sometime. I’d be happy to teach you.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Ditched

“Ditch her,” they yelled.

As the only girl on my block, I heard that a lot from the passel of boys in my neighborhood. One moment we would all be playing war—me, the weaponless caregiver to the wounded—and the next moment I’d be watching them all hightail it to the upper dunes screaming triumphantly when I was unable to catch up to them. Dejected as the last remnants of their whoops and hollers reached my ears, I would return home and head to my basement playroom to play make-believe on my own. As an only child, I was used to being by myself, but being ditched by the boys was a blow nonetheless.

It is no wonder, then, that what happened one afternoon at Shopper’s World—a precursor to the Super Wal-Mart of today—forever scarred me with a sort of phobia of being left behind, forgotten, or not included. Ditched.

The Shopper’s World flyer with its brightly colored photos of sales items arrived with the Wednesday New Dispatch. Mom thumbed through it clipping the coupons as she went, and then filed them alphabetically in her metal index card box. The next day she picked me up from morning kindergarten, fed me some lunch, and then hustled me into the car to drive out to the highway where the large store stood. The building seemed enormous to me. There were rows and rows of parking spots, a large sign with the store’s name and logo globe, and what seemed like a mile of shopping carts. It was an overwhelming sight.

Mom said, “Keep up with me and don’t wander off.”

I grasped the bottom part of her slacks in my right hand to try and keep tethered to her. She placed her index card box in the cart’s seat where I usually sat, grabbed onto the cart handle, and off she strode with determined purpose into one of the wide aisles. Up one aisle, down the other she went. Every once in awhile she’d stop and pick up an item to scrutinize closely, read the label, check the price, look at her coupon, and then would either put it in the cart or place it back on the shelf. One time she stopped so suddenly I plowed right into the back of her leg. A scowl and scolding followed and I let go of her slacks so that it wouldn’t happen again.

I stood waiting for her to start moving again, and noticed that there was something very interesting on the shelf right next to the cart. It was a little package of teeny little umbrellas. Each one was a different color. Next to the multi-color package of umbrellas was a package of all pink ones, and next to it a package of all blue ones. One of the packages was torn and a yellow umbrella was poking out of the hole. I took a closer look and pincered the little yellow umbrella out of the hole. The umbrella opened up just like a real umbrella and there was a little piece of wood that would then hold it open. I was enchanted and looked around to see if there were any other colors. But as I turned my head I saw that the cart was gone and so was my mom.

I looked right. No Mom. I looked left. No Mom. I walked to the end of the aisle and looked into the vast universe of Shopper’s World. No Mom. I ran down to the other end of the aisle to look into another vaster universe of Shopper’s World. No Mom. I started to cry. I was sure I had been ditched.

I was in complete despair thinking I would now have to live at Shopper’s World forever when a woman wearing a bright red badge came up to me and asked, “Are you lost?”

I stopped crying for a moment and choked out an answer. “No, I’m at Shopper’s World,” I said.

The woman’s eyebrows scrunched together and she said, “I mean, have you lost your mother?” I thought about this for a moment and reckoned that perhaps that is what had happened. I had lost my mother. So I nodded. She then kindly took my hand and we walked up and down the aisles until we found my mom.

Mom gave me another scowl, thanked the woman, and we continued shopping.

Being ditched isn’t any fun and even today I get anxious about getting separated from someone I’m with. So when in big crowded areas or large space, I usually keep a very close eye on my companions so I don’t lose them.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016