‘Jimmy Dunne Says’

The Palisadian-Post presents an homage to Will Rogers’ column, “Will Rogers Says,” with a column by Palisadian Jimmy Dunne—on life in the “greatest town in America.”

The Art of Listening

My 10-inch dog and I took a too-early morning stroll up Temescal Canyon in town.

It’s just stunning as the sun sneaks up over the mountains, whispering the possibilities of a spectacular summer day.

You can hear everything.

You can just imagine the conversations the birds are having with each other. Talking about what they snacked on the night before, how the kids are doing—stuff like that.

It sounded like an old crusty owl had something snotty to say to some critter who was winding him up.

Sounds in the bushes as we walked by let my dog Louis know he was a guest in their home—and he could be somebody’s delightful breakfast if he didn’t mind his Ps and Qs, and stay nice and close.

I found myself doing something I rarely treat myself to. One of the great delicacies of life.

Listening.

So wonderful. I thought about how I have to do this way more often.

Easy-peasy. All I had to do was shove the earphones in my pocket and put the phone down.

And stand still.

And there it was.

The most magnificent, fascinating, complex, enlightening symphony in the world.

Nature.

Well, that didn’t last long.

Phone started buzzing, and beeping, and burping at me. The coward that I am, I gave in.

Next thing you know, I’m sitting on a boulder on the side of the trail, shoved the earplugs back in my ears, with Louis under my legs—rifling through the morning feed of mindless thinking-I-need-to-know news videos.

What a hypocrite I am. I’m doing the opposite of what I was just preaching, yacking like I’m John Muir or something a second ago.

They say the deadliest animal in the world is the mosquito, not sharks, hippos, lions, tigers or bears.

Mosquitoes. They sneak up quietly, suck the blood right out of you. God only knows what they leave in you.

Mosquitoes are a lot like the videos flying by and landing on my screen while I was plopped there on that boulder.

One video was a congressional hearing. A bunch of blowhards were sitting on the edge of their seats, propped up above someone they were just grilling with questions.

They were bullying a well-educated, very accomplished senior judge. These half-his-age punk, far-right or far-left politicians with big, pre-formed opinions were cutting him off before he’d get half a sentence out of his mouth.

It was disgusting. So disrespectful.

I flashed back to Carl Sagan, back in the ’80s, sitting in that same hot seat, trying to warn a swarm of the same kind of lemming dopes that global warming was coming—and how they ought to get ahead of this problem now.

I remembered how they kept cutting him off—with these “Bluto is my favorite actor” kind-of looks.

Pulled off the earplugs.

Took a big breath. My pulse went down.

I looked up at a happy grove of a handful of trees.

Wondered if they were having a little “tree trunk smelling party.”

Maybe one of them was sharing a little “VOC,” some lovely volatile organic compound. Sending over a scent to give a heads-up to its neighboring tree pals about an uninvited nasty bug guest that just crawled up its trunk without even knocking.

Trees.

One of nature’s Rembrandts. Communicates with their neighbors by smelling. I suppose it’s kinda their way of listening.

Louis and I just sat there just looking up at ’em.

Thinking about how they care about their neighbors. How they’re so selfless. How they know their neighbors have their backs, too. How they’re all in it together. How they depend on each other.

Kinda like what a town does.

Maybe that’s the trick.

Maybe for all of us to be a little bit more like our trees.

If we find a hurting neighbor, maybe taking a little more time to listen.

With our kids, maybe spending a little less focus on being a coach—and a little more on being a fan.

Maybe with our spouses, telling them with our eyes—that we hear them. That we respect them.

That we need them.

If you stop by Temescal Canyon, who knows—you may spot that same happy grove of a handful of trees.

Tell ’em what you did.

I’ll bet you they’ll hear every word.

Jimmy Dunne is a modern-day Renaissance Man; a hit songwriter (28 million hit records), screenwriter/producer of hit television series, award-winning author, an entrepreneur—and a Palisadian “Citizen of the Year.” You can reach him at j@jimmydunne.com or jimmydunne.substack.com.