Rattle And Hum

Sound-sleuthing has solved a riddle in New Zealand:

Those with exceptional hearing have long been plagued, but so few people could hear the mysterious low rumbling sound that their complaints fell on deafer ears.

Now Tom Moir, a Scottish engineer and signals processing expert living in New Zealand, has succeeded in recording the hum — finally validating the complaints of many affected people from New Zealand to England and America, some of whom believed that they were losing their minds to the noise.

“People are deeply troubled by this sound,” said Dr Moir, of Massey University Institute of Information and Mathematical Sciences. “It is not just a little thing. It is really quite a major thing in their life,” he told The Times.

It turns out the range of the hum is so low, most people can't hear it. There's a recording of it included in the article. I couldn't hear it: not surprising when my former occupation had me with earphones on my head, rolling through loud static all day. Still unknown is whether the Kiwis will be given the same advice offered to hum-sufferers in Bristol, England -- a good, old-fashioned tinfoil hat.

I completely understand these people being driven mad by mysterious phenomena no one else is experiencing, as several years ago such events began occurring right here in this very house.

Secret, illegal blasting had been a problem in the region, with people's homes getting cracks in them from the vibrations. They blast for dirt to use as fill in construction. It hadn't been done in my town, but later I came to conclude they'd started up, as late one night as I was drifting off to sleep, I was shook with such a vibration that at first I thought I was in an earthquake. I had to grip the bed, such was the strength of the temblor. When morning came and there was no news of an impossibly freak quake in South Florida, I knew those illegal blasters had set up shop nearby. Right I was, as they were back with their nocturnal criminality at my next bedtime. I complained to Mr. Cracker about them, but he said he'd felt not a thing.

So it went on. Sometimes I'd think they'd been put out of business, but back they were the next week, with never a word about it in the newspaper. I adjusted to the irritation as best I could, and was always grateful when they used less dynamite than usual. I'd spread my arms out to anchor myself before attempting slumber; I slept in various parts of the house in an attempt to determine which room was farthest away from the blast radius; I slept on the floor, thinking that perhaps mattress springs and couch cushions were exacerbating the effect with conduction.

As bad as things were, things changed for the worse several years later when they got a permit and began daytime blasting. After losing so much sleep at night, I naturally required the odd nap when I could get it. On the couch and cozily drifting off to sleep one afternoon, I suddenly found myself sitting bolt upright, being shook almost until my teeth rattled. Diurnal torment! It was a startling experience, and my heart raced from the adrenaline. I cursed Alfred Nobel. He did deserve to feel guilty about his invention, the jerk. I began making new adjustments. One couch has extremely high and padded sides, and I determined it gave me the best protection from their activities. It turned out that sleeping sitting up was the best solution all around, as it allowed me to catch my breath during those terrible moments, first of being shook awake by blast-vibrations just as I was falling asleep, then the minute or so it took for the vibrations to subside. It didn't help my poor heart, though, as it flapped in my chest like a cat-watched bird in a cage from the startlement of it all. I'm sure many of you have been rudely shaken awake as you were dropping off and know just how I felt. The only bright spot for me was that while the blasts could come night or day, they were effective in displacing enough dirt to keep the crew busy scooping it up with bulldozers and hauling it away with dumptrucks, allowing me to many times fall to sleep unmolested. Also, after all this time, the daytime blasting would finally give the awake Mr. Cracker a chance to experience the phenomena I'd become so familiar with.

His first chance came, but he failed spectacularly. He was working in the next room, and I had settled in for a nap. The blast-vibrations reached our house, just as I was almost asleep. I squeaked through clenched teeth for him to come in. He did, and when I had recovered I said to him, "There! They're blasting!" He looked at me blankly. "You didn't feel that?" He said he didn't. He walked back to his den, leaving me to marvel at his total disconnect from his environment.

A better chance came several weeks later when I sleepily closed my eyes while we were watching a movie. The vibrations reached our house. I looked over at my husband, who was amazingly still watching the film, with only a glance or two in my direction. I squeaked and squealed to draw his attention. They'd used extra dynamite in that one! The validation of my suffering would be forthcoming.

He came over to look at me. "Now do you feel the blasting?" I asked. "No," he answered, "there's no blasting." He felt the couch, but the couch doesn't conduct the vibrations very well, which is one of the reasons it made such a good slumber-pad. I knew that would be no good. "Feel my arms and legs!" I yelled. He performed his examination, and with a bedside manner so shoddy it would make even the most egocentric brain surgeon jealous, said, "They're not vibrating," and sat right back down in his chair to resume watching his ridiculous movie.

My mind, along with my heart, was racing. Clearly some new experiments were in order. At the next occurrence I would attempt to gather empirical evidence on my own. What could I use? Pieces of paper might work. Every time I lay down to snooze I'd simply put sheets of writing paper on my legs and torso. A blast would undoubtedly make them visibly vibrate and I would show myself not only to be a better scientist than my scientist husband, but a better person as well, for having endured so much with no few words of complaint.

Thomas Edison said that genius was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. Unhappily I came to the conclusion that all that great man and I had in common was an ability to sweat: my experiments were failures. Though I shook from head to toe, the papers did not vibrate. The papers did not vibrate! Suddenly the pieces fell into place: it was internal.

Keyser Soze, pass me the estrogen.

Posted by floridacracker at November 20, 2006 02:53 AM