Like My Father

I whistled today! Like my Dad!

Okay, so I've already known how to whistle for a long time; and I think that I can whistle rather nicely. I always enjoyed my Dad's whistling. It seems to me that he was quite talented (as far as talented whistlers go) -- very sharp, distinct, but not shrill. And I like to think that I can whistle a lot like my Dad.

But there's that extra whistle talent: you know that kind of whistle when, as a child, you're three houses down playing at the neighbor's for a few hours, and Dad steps out on the front porch and whistles for you to come home. I've seen some people put their pinky fingers in the corners of their mouth and let 'er rip; but again, my Dad was so talented, he didn't need to use his fingers, ... and boy, could he let 'er rip.

I've always wanted to be able to do that. And I've always told people that I've always wanted to be able to do that. I was telling my children about it again just last evening. But then the thought struck me: while I have tried before, I've never really tried that long and hard. If my Dad could do it, and I'm like my Dad, then I should be able to do it. Isn't it like ... learning to ride a bike? Or is it more like trying to add one cubit to your stature?

So today as I looked out my window and saw my wife getting into the van, I decided to try it. I tried it ten, fifteen, maybe twenty times, reshaping my mouth each time for finetuning. As my wife drove away and I turned back toward my desk, I gave one last attempt, and ... out she ripped!