The Sound of Progress

Driving south along Pyramid Highway the other day, I shook my head at what used to be and what’s become. Now, I try not to turn every drive into a lecture on modern decay, but it’s hard to keep quiet when a place you knew as bare bones and barbed wire now looks brushed over with a suburban powder puff.

Thirty years ago, Spanish Springs was little more than a few hay fields and a windmill that hadn’t spun since Nixon left office. You could see from Eagle Canyon to the Pah Rah Range–nary a stucco wall in sight.

Now, the whole area’s filled out like a young girl, blossoming into a full-figgered woman — shopping centers where there used to be cattle pastures, big houses in tight rows like teeth in a too-small mouth. It ain’t bad, exactly. Just different.

But what caught my attention–what rubbed my fur the wrong way–were the sound walls. You know the kind. Big, beige, stucco-looking fences running along the road like someone’s trying to hide a secret.

Supposedly, they’re to protect the delicate ears of folks living in those new houses. They don’t want the woosh of a passing Peterbilt to upset little Gavin during his pre-algebra Zoom session.

Now, I remember when noise was just part of life. My friend lived right off Highway 101 back in the seventies. His folk’s old single-wide rattled every time a semi went by.

He said it helped keep his heart in rhythm, “That’s the Lord’s metronome,” he’d say, sipping his black coffee with a dash of yesterday’s bacon grease.

His family also kept a goat, which they swore could predict earthquakes, and a rooster that crowed every morning at 2 a.m.–claimed it had East Coast blood. But never once did he complain about the noise.

“Life’s noisy,” he said. “Only the dead enjoy silence.”

But now? We’re so soft we need government-mandated quiet.

We can’t abide tires on asphalt, jogging us into remembering we live in a world that moves. Gotta be coddled by concrete and cushioned by HOA-approved landscaping.

Now, if you listen close enough behind one of those walls, you can hear a thousand folks trying to pretend they’re still in the country while their Amazon packages pile up on the porch.

Of course, maybe I’m being unfair as I’ve grown fond of soft things, a good recliner, a second slice of pie, or a cold beer. And progress ain’t always a bad thing, and I’ll admit, there’s a certain peace in not being jolted awake by a Jake brake at midnight.

But I do wonder what we’re losing in the name of comfort. Noise used to mean life–kids yelling, dogs barking, trucks sputtering to life on cold mornings. Now everything’s filtered and muffled like we’re trying to live in a padded room.

Still, I smiled as I drove past. Because even if the walls keep the sound out, they can’t keep the memories in. And I carry enough of those to drown out any silence.

Lesson? Maybe it’s this–you can soften the world all you want–but don’t forget where the hard edges came from. They’re what shaped us and keep us honest when the remote batteries die–and the quiet gets too loud.