Whistler's Mother

I can't whistle worth a darn. I can't just blow out air and casually whistle the theme to "The Andy Griffith Show" or anything. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but we've trained Carter to come running from the neighbors when he hears a whistle.

I learned the two-finger method awhile back and I've been quite proud of how loud I can whistle. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, when I whistle for Carter (yes, he's our son, not our dog), he doesn't come a-running.

I summon Jim to the front deck and his shrill whistle does the trick. I hear the neighbor boy say, "Carter, it's time to go home." It's just that easy. Carter can whistle a tune, too, just like Daddy. It's not super loud but I'm sure that will come in time.

I must be whistling into the wind or something. I hate to admit it, but when Jim isn't home, I have resorted to using my old lifeguard whistle.

Yes, that does the trick, and no, no one drowns.

Perhaps women aren't engineered for it. On a recent long trip up north, we stopped at one of those truck stop-convenience store-gas station-potty break places. I am in a bathroom stall when I hear the door open and someone walking in, whistling.

My first thought: Women do NOT walk into restrooms whistling!

And I was right. Sure enough, as I am standing at one of the sinks washing my hands, one of the stall doors opens and a young man steps out and says "Oh (insert expletive here)!" I just calmly said, "That's OK." I just couldn't stop chuckling about that for days.

Maybe it's a good thing guys can whistle so we can keep tabs on them!