W is for Whistle

My mom was a whistling sort of woman.  She could emit a piercing sound that could round up stray dogs and stop misbehaving children in their tracks.  Yes sirree, her whistler was a real show stopper, an attention getter.  And when I was 13, that's what I thought I needed--attention--from one particularly tan, shaggy blond haired boy who worked across the street at the farm, usually with his shirt off.  Man could that boy drive a tractor.

I spent most of my summers drooling at him from my bedroom window, or from my horse when I galloped past him with my hair flying behind me, or from the bushes across from his house when I was stalking him. 

Yeah folks, I had the jump on stalking way before Facebook even thought about it.  That's why I needed an attention getter or maybe a life or perhaps a therapist.

So I spent half of the summer of 8th grade learning how to whistle.  I spent the other half of the summer whistling.  At the guy with the sexy tractor.  Or the sexy guy on the tractor.  It's all a blur now. 

In case you're wondering, I did not marry the shirtless boy on the tractor.  In order to marry someone you have to converse with them at least enough to say, I do which happens to be two words more than we ever shared. 

I don't whistle at farm boys on tractors any more mostly because I would get arrested, and I don't live by a farm or a tractor.

But I do break out the "whistler" to get the attention of a dog or two and hush a room full of 7th graders, so my 8th grade summer wasn't a total wash, right?