Last night I awoke about 2:30 a.m. to total silence. The electricity had gone off, the ceiling fan that blew the mosquitos away had stopped, there were no electric hums, no street lights, no alarm clock numbers counting off the hours.

Far away, a faint bark of a startled dog.

Down on the avenue, a car motor grew and faded.

Then, nothing. Only my wife's shallow breathing.

Perhaps the silence had awakened me. On our dead-end street, with our house facing a small woods, we are accustomed to quietness. But this was more than quiet, it was real silence.

Now I know why my dad must like the woods.

Ten minutes later, the ceiling fan starts a low whine and winds up to the proper velocity, with the whoosh-whoosh of the blades daring the mosquitos to show their noses. The alarm clock flashes an ominous 12:00 - 12:00 - 12:00.

By this time, Vicki is awake, we check her watch, reset the time and alarm. After all, one can't be late on Sunday morning.

Things get back to normal, and we drift back into slumber.

On our way to church this morning, a road crew was replacing a light post. Evidently, somebody with too much to drink didn't make the curve. (This is the third or fourth time on this avenue in just two to three years.)

I think sadly that I owed my quiet moment in the night to a fool. And he, too, may be hearing, from this world, total silence.