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The Dickcissel
by
Harry Buschman
Anyone can be a bird watcher. There are bird watching clubs everywhere, even
in Westlake Village where few respectable birds can be found.
Bird watching 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 here 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 hold their
attention.
The same might be said for the people who live here ... 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. Moreover she was an expert,
and she made every fledgling feel vulnerable, stupid and insecure. But that's
the way experts are in many fields, and none of us in the bird club resented
her obvious patronization. Ms. Wunderbar, like cream, would always rise to the
top in any competitive endeavor.
She 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 a short tempered shepherdess, her constant prodding drove us forward and
we labored 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 just 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 me back up a bit ... 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 anything you say. 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 few 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 touch down. I will not bore you with their physical appearance,
but they are sufficiently unique to distinguish them from what a bird watcher
in our part of the country 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 had missed?
She was edgy.
"Do 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 victim. 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.
So I turned to another absorbing and frugal pastime: 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
(1150)
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