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A short trip to birder’s heaven
Published November 26, 2009
Funny what you think about when they are rolling you down the hall of the hospital to the operating room. “It’s a simple operation,” the doctor said. “Nothing to worry about.”
“That’s great, doc,” I said, “Why don’t you just jump up on this gurney?”
The younger nurse who helped me onto the operating table had a kind face.
“Will I be able to play the violin after this operation?” I asked, a little teary eyed.
“Of course you will,” she purred and patted me on the head.
“That’s funny,” I said, doing my best imitation of Henny Youngman, “I never could play one before.”
“We haven’t heard that one around here in 20 years,” the older nurse said as she adjusted the screw on my plastic tube and I went off to la-la land.
It was then I heard the voice, calling me from somewhere above. I was in a deep dark tunnel with a light at the end.
“You are in birder’s heaven,” the voice said. “Are you ready for the test?”
I was carried to a great white desk piled high with field guides from all over the world. Behind the desk was a man. His eyes blazed red and he peered at me through a 77mm Leica spotting scope and a pair of Swift Audubon 8x40 binoculars swung around his neck. It was Roger Tory Peterson!
He pursed his lips and smiled at me. He read from the little black book in front of him. “Boswell, E.M., birder since 1981, writes a newspaper column on birding, claims to be an expert on birds.”
“Well,” I said, “I never really claimed to the an expert.”
Lightning flashed in the distance.
“Quiet!” he said, thumbing through the book.
“Is it true you told a lady in Lake Jackson the bird in her backyard was a bluebird when it actually was an American goldfinch?”
“I was frustrated at the time,” I whined. “I always get lost in Lake Jackson, the streets have funny names.”
I could feel the heat of the lightning that struck not 25 yards from me.
“Final question,” he said. “How many birds do you have on your bird list?”
I thought for a few moments. Should I count the hawk I saw in Lubbock that I thought was red-shouldered when it was really red-tailed?”
“Do you want my actual list,” I asked, “or the one the American Birding Association would accept?”
I could feel the heat of the lightning that tore a hole in the ground 3 feet from me. Was it really a bridled titmouse I had seen, or just a black-crested? Was it a masked duck I saw at Santa Anna or an immature pied-billed grebe? Was my red-crowned parrot just a pet that had escaped? Had I really seen a thick-billed kingbird in Arizona?
“Well,” he said, “I’m waiting.”
“Four hundred and seventy-six,” I said and cringed in anticipation of a lightning bolt to my head.
Bells began to ring and the sky cleared. A chorus of angels sang psalms of praises and the man behind the desk leaped for joy.
“You are the first birder we have gotten up here that had less than 600 birds,” he said, “and your reward will be to spend eternity on the beach at Rockport, birding all day and eating catfish every night at Charlotte Plummer’s.”
Huge waves came over me and I awoke to look into the face of the older nurse.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked. She tightened the screw on my tube and I drifted off to never-never land.
And the only time I got in trouble in the hospital was when I went down to the cafeteria with my gown on backward.
E.M. “Bosie” Boswell is a member of the American Birding Association and the Audubon Society. Contact him at 6413 Stonewall, Greenville, TX 75402, or e-mail bosieb(at)geusnet.com.
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