You probably don't know who Yma Sumac was, so I'll help you out. She was a Peruvian woman with a fantastic voice and a range of over five octaves, a rare thing. To dunderheads like me, that means she could go high and she could go low, all with the same vocal cords. Anyway, her name came to me recently when we were driving in Charleston, South Carolina's rush hour. Some idiot refused to acknowledge that both the middle lane and the passing lane were mine, and, as a result, as I glided over from the middle to the left, we nearly swapped paint. At that point, an unremitting screech reverberated from the person to my right. That would be my long-suffering wife, Lisa. I am told that several factories shut down for the day when they heard her response to the near-accident, and two nearby USAF planes began strafing each other about that time.
That sound reminded me of another unearthly emittance from Lisa. That was when, in the dark, I very nearly crashed into a buffalo butt in Yellowstone Park. What started out as a low, creepy, guttural sound quickly became the following praise phrase, "We're still alive! We're still alive!" I thought it was a bit over exultant, but I couldn't argue with the observation. It was a very close call and I was surprised there weren't buffalo chips on the hood of my Accord when I checked it out at our rented cabin.
Lisa's range when startled by my driving skills is a lot more than five octaves, believe me. Yma Sumac, eat your heart out
