I found the following news report interesting:

“Police in Amsterdam responded quickly this week when they received an emergency call from a man who said it sounded as if his neighbor was being beaten to death.  The neighbor said he heard a terrifying scream from the house...They dispatched officers to the scene of those screams.  The police heard them, too.  They knocked on the door, but there was no answer.  So Amsterdam police began to kick in the door.  A life could hang in the balance.

“Then a man came to the door.  He was wearing headphones.  It turns out the man in headphones had simply been listening to an opera and singing along to the tune—tunelessly, apparently.  Amsterdam police say their officers, the neighbor who was the tipster and the screeching opera singer all had a good laugh about the incident.  ...The police did not release the name of the man or the opera.”

This unfortunate man’s account reminded me of a situation of my own.  I like to whistle.  I like to whistle as I work.  I especially love to whistle in a closed area with good acoustics.  One of the best that I’ve found was the basement of the county court house where my son and I were installing trim one day.  It was an all day job, but a very pleasant one for me because of the way that the walls echoed with my whistle.

I recall having a popular tune on my mind at the time recorded by the group “Alabama.”  The tune had a fine range of high and low notes, and was perfectly suited for the setting.  I was so enthralled with the beautiful results that I whistled the same tune over and over and over again all day long.  Since I was alone, I turned the volume up as high as it would go.  I only hit the pause button if someone entered the basement.

I think my son was working on another floor.  Late in the day he was in the elevator with a man coming down from the third floor.  As they made small talk between them, the man commented, “We sure have a happy worker down in the basement today!”

My wife likes to dance.  She loved the dance classes that she took in college.  She is able to watch people doing complicated dance routines, and jump up and join them.  I’ve always felt sorry about her misfortune in marrying a man who can only do the waltz if she’s his dance partner, and is softly counting in his ear.

If there is music playing it’s difficult for her to keep still.  Her feet have to start moving.

My parents worried about the heavy burden my wife carried as every other year another baby arrived in our home.  Would she get depressed?  Would she be overworked and worn out?

One day while in the advanced stages of pregnancy, Marjorie had music playing as she worked in the kitchen.  The music masked the sound of my father’s pickup as he pulled into the driveway.  My father got out, and walked up to the house past the kitchen window.  Marjorie had no idea that she had an audience as she danced around the kitchen while she worked until she suddenly looked up and saw the enraptured face of my father watching through the window.  He was impressed enough by what he saw that he told my mother they need never again worry about Marjorie in her pregnant condition.