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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Dickcissel
Anyone can be a bird watcher. You will find bird watching clubs everywhere, even in Westlake Village where few respectable birds can be found. It is a poor man's hobby, all you need is a bird book, a note pad, a pencil, and a cheap pair of binoculars. On the other hand, I know people who have spent fortunes on photographic equipment or golf clubs with nothing to show for it. So if you are looking for a healthy hobby involving a minimum of equipment and a fair degree of excitement, you won't find one more rewarding than bird watching.
Bird watchers are called "Birders," much as people with a bag of golf clubs are called "Golfers." Those new at the birding game are called "fledglings," just as new golfers are called "duffers."
Not having a fortune to spend I decided to join the Westlake Village Bird Watching Society. Westlake Village, I soon learned, was a town that first rate birds had no time for. They did not nest there nor did they stop by for a day or two on their migratory voyages in spring and fall. You really can't blame them. There is little in Westlake Village to attract them or make them want to stay. The same might be said for the people who live there .... but as we all know, people will live anywhere.
Angela Wunderbar was the president of our local Bird Watching Society. She was stout of limb, strong of wind and keen of sight. She was moreover an expert, and she made every fledgling feel vulnerable, stupid and insecure. But that's the way experts are, and none of us resented her obvious patronization. Ms. Wunderbar, like cream, would always rise to the top in any competitive endeavor.
She would lead a group of us gasping and puffing fledglings into the woods every Saturday morning, our binoculars at the ready and our note pads poised. "Mind the barbed wire, Mrs. Sims .... I believe you've caught the tail of your coat .... and Mr. Pomeroy, please try to keep up. The birds won't wait for you."
Like an short tempered shepherdess, her constant prodding would drive us forward and we would labor through underbrush and thicket heedless of the hip deep poison ivy. Each of us was afraid to be left behind or accused of being laggardly.
Although a ponderous
woman, Ms. Wunderbar was amazingly cat-like in the field. She never crashed
through the brambles and briars as we did -- never cracked a dead branch underfoot.
She would push on indefatigably, pointing out in a breathless contralto, the
rare ornithological specimens that always seemed to vanish before we got there.
"Oh! What a treat," she would exclaim, "a Bar-Tailed Godwit,
the last known
sighting was in Moriches Bay in 1937!"
I dutifully opened my note pad, "Is that with two "t"s, Ms. Wunderbar?"
"Oh no you don't, Mr. "B" (to my everlasting embarrassment she
insisted on calling me Mr. "B") you didn't see it, you don't write
it down, it goes in MY book!" That's how it is with experts. As a fledgling
I had to be content with the sparrows and grackles underfoot while Angela Wunderbar,
alone, was privileged to spot the rarest species of the bird world.
Let's get one thing straight .... bird watching is a scouts honor pastime. By that I mean that the head honchos in the bird world take you at your word -- if, (and only if) you're the president of a bird club. If you are only a member they will ask you some pointed questions designed to trip you up. If you're a nobody like me, they probably won't believe you at all. They may even heap ridicule upon you much as the doubting Thomases of the world guffaw at the poor souls who claim to have seen strange lights in the sky over Lubbock, Texas.
I have been both
blessed and damned with a doubting disposition, one that has
rarely led me astray, but on more than one occasion has led to the loss of a
tooth or two. I cannot abide people who claim to have abilities I suspect they
don't have. Here in this run down town of Westlake Village, where no self-respecting
bird with his picture in a book has ever stopped to nest or feed, I had grave
doubts about Angela Wunderbar's integrity.
So I studied up on Dickcissels. Dickcissels have rarely been seen by anyone. . . anywhere. A few have have been spotted in southern Ontario in the summer but the pitiful handful that still exist spend the greater part of their year in Mexico. Westlake Village would be the last place on earth a self-respecting Dickcissel would appear. I will not bore you with their physical appearance, but they are sufficiently unique to distinguish them from what a bird watcher normally encounters in the field.
It was a fine
spring afternoon. There were abundant robins and more grackles
than I could shake a stick at when I informed Ms. Wunderbar I just identified
a Dickcissel.
"Ridiculous!" she exclaimed, "there's never been a Dickcissel
in Westlake Village .... don't write it down .... it was a robin, just a robin
.... nothing more." I could see the panic in her eyes, had I seen something
she hadn't seen? She was edgy.
"You know what a Dickcissel looks like?" She asked me.
I was ready for that, and I explained in great detail its multi-colored appearance,
its aggressive behavior and its bewilderment at suddenly discovering it was
in Westlake Village. "It's gone now," I gloated, "Too bad you
missed it Ms. "W".
There is a cold impersonal light in the eyes of the great white shark as it opens its jaws for the kill, an expression of utter disdain for its prey. A protective membrane closes over its eyes as though they were no longer needed to kill with. A chill ran down my spine as I recognized that same shark like look in the eyes of Angela Wunderbar.
I had delivered
what I thought was a crushing blow to an expert bird woman,
and instead it appeared as though I might be torn to shreds for my audacity.
Although she recovered quickly and turned away, I knew I would not escape
unharmed. As I expected, my name was not included on the membership list of
next year's Westlake Village Bird Watching Society. It could have been far worse,
and in retrospect I considered myself lucky.
Another absorbing and frugal pastime is creative writing. Pencil and paper are required, but binoculars are not usually necessary. Be careful however, hovering over your shoulder will be Erato, that golden Greek Goddess of the written word. Angela Wunderbar was a pretty intimidating woman -- but she can't hold a candle to Erato!
©Harry Buschman 1997
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