"Dad, what do rock collectors gain from collecting rocks?" Ryan asked, while simultaneously chomping on a piece of pizza. "I mean, rock collecting? Please."
I pondered the question and surmised that as his father, I should at least attempt a fairly intelligent and well though out response. "Well," I started. "You see, people who collect rocks... Heck if I know. Seems pretty pointless to me if you want my opinion."
"Exactly!" the boy answered, before washing his pizza down with a rather large gulp of water. "It just seems that people could be putting their time to better use that going around gathering a bunch of useless rocks." I wasn't sure what his point really was, but I was wondering if he sure enough was a chip off the old block. His mother doesn't have much use for rocks either. "Bird watchers are another crowd that bother me," he continued. Before I could expand on the bird watchers, he disappeared into his man cave.
I have watched birds. I guess most people have, but I have WATCHED BIRDS! Like, with bird watchers. How I came to be a bird watcher is of superior story quality.
During my years in the Air Force, I had the unique privilege of meeting a great many people from all over the country and also a variety from around the world. One of those people was none other that George Tackett from Pennsylvania. When one thinks of Pennsylvania, some of that state's major cities come to mind. Pittsburg and Philadelphia along with many others are at the forefront of places people have heard of. Well, George was from neither. He was from a place so remote, that according to him, dirt and tree bark were part of their basic sustenance. I believed him.
George was one of those guys who was country to the core. He loathed the military way of doing things and was occasionally known to kill squirrels around the base with a pellet rifle and fry them on a hot plate in his barracks room. I didn't spend much time with him as we worked opposite shifts, thus limiting our exposure to one another. But, one day, he poked his head into my room. "Whatcha doin' Fix?" he said, with a stubby Marlboro protruding from his lips.
"Oh, just sitting around. How about you George?" I asked without looking up from the comfort of my old, plaid couch.
"Bored to tears. I've killed all the squirrels and it looks like you and me are the only ones here today. I took leave for a week, but my family is away, so I guess I'll just hang around the base," he continued as he plopped his lanky body down on my bed. "I swear, I should hook you up with my older sister, Loretta," he said. He had reached into my tiny dorm style fridge looking for who knows what so I was staring at his back, which was covered with a tee-shirt featuring a woman in a swim suit surrounded by the words, 'we dive at five'. It was widely known that he'd been named for George Jones. His older sister had been named for Loretta Lynn. His younger sister was named Dolly. I don't need to explain that one.
"Hook me up with Dolly! She's the one I want!" I said, with an ear to ear grin on my face. He turned from the fridge and frowned.
"Naw, pervert. She's only twelve."
"Oh, sorry."
George lit another cigarette, and scrunched his face. "I hate this place. There's nothing here but concrete and pavement. Back home we hunted and fished everyday. Gotta drive a hundred miles now just to find a decent patch of woods in this hell hole!" he moaned. He did have a fairly valid point. There surely aren't many places in Washington, D.C. to hunt and fish.
Suddenly, another of our barracks mates leaned into my room. Mike Scanlon lived across the hall. He was a very intelligent guy, who attended the University of Maryland while also keeping up with his Air Force duties. Rarely, he would make an appearance, and simply disappear, rarely hanging around long enough to engage in real conversation. I had a feeling that our conversations weren't very stimulating as far as he was concerned. I doubt that he cared how many empty beer bottles were needed to completely fill a urinal. He apparently came from well to do parents as he was the only person we knew who drove a decent car. I still don't like Volvos for that reason. He also had a girlfriend who happened to be one of he prettiest girls I'd ever seen. I do however, continue to like girls. How he wound up as an enlisted man in the military was a question that has never been answered. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about being bored and longing for the peace and serenity of the outdoors," he said with a wide smile.
George looked puzzled. I figured the peace and serenity bit had confused him. "What?" he asked, while exhaling a perfect smoke ring from his mouth.
"Look fellows, I'm a very avid birdwatcher. My girlfriend and I belong to the Upper Chesapeake Birding Society. It's great fun! Why don't you guys come along with our group sometime? You'd love it!" I could see that Scanlon was joking or was trying to make us the joke.
"Can we shoot them birds after you watch 'em?" George squawked. "The only birds I've ever watched were the ones I blasted with my shotgun."
"No, you can't shoot them! We try to see how many species of birds we can observe in a day. It's great fun and afterwards there's always plenty of food and drink."
"Well, I guess it might be ok. You in Fix?" George asked. At that point, I was sure that bird watching and food had little to do with George's sudden enthusiasm with Mike's suggestion. The drinking? That's a different story. George and Jim Beam were rather cozy friends.
Scanlon continued to stare at us. "Well?"
"Alright, call us the next time you go. If we're not busy, we'll think about it," I replied.
Several days later, I was summoned to the hall telephone. "Hello."
"Fix, it's Mike. My group is going bird watching this morning and I was wondering if you and George would like to tag along!" I was not the tag along type. In fact I especially wasn't the bird watching tag along type. There was no way I was going to be duped into participating in Scanlon's little charade.
"Yeah, sure. Let me see if George is in," I said, as I walked toward George's room. There was never a question of whether or not he was in. There was, however, always a question of whether or not he had sobered up from the previous night. I banged on his wooden door.
"George, get up! We're going bird watching with Scanlon this morning!" I heard a faint groan and then a thunderous crash. Suddenly the door flew open. George was unfit for bird watching. In fact he was unfit for almost anything from the looks of him. His boxer shorts were dangling from his waist, his hair was a tangled mess, and his boots were muddy and wet. He reeked of alcohol. "Good Lord son, what happened to you?"
"I tried frog gigging in the base lake last night and it didn't turn out so well. How the hell did my boots wind up back on my feet? Oh, must have put them on to get some smokes from my car this morning. Damn."
"Well get dressed, we're going bird watching today!"
After what seemed forever, George presented himself at my room. His hair was still the same tangled mess it had been before, and he sported the same muddy combat boots. Thankfully, he did don a tank top and a pair of cut off blue jeans. I stared at him. "You're wearing that?" I asked, incredulously. The words 'bird watcher' did not come to mind unless we were referring to a street person feeding pigeons. "Let's go. Scanlon gave me directions and said to be there no later that ten." With that, we made our way to my 1986 Dodge Omni. George sat for a moment and then he turned his head toward me and spoke.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, looking at himself.
I didn't answer and continued to drive.
Luckily we didn't get lost and found our way to the park in which the bird watching adventure was scheduled to commence and found Scanlon's directions to be perfect. We also found the other bird watchers to be perfect as well. I steered my little rattling car into a space next to Mike's Volvo and observed that we had probably made a huge mistake in accepting his invitation. There were at least twenty other people milling around. Most of them appeared to be of the noble variety. At least two of the men wore safari hats and all of them had khaki shorts on. One fellow was busy adjusting the tripod on his rather large spotting scope, while another wiped the lenses on his binoculars. None of them sported a tank top proclaiming that they always fished with a 'Big Johnson' as George did. "Did you bring binoculars?" I asked, without looking at George.
"Hell yeah. They ain't big as that guy's but they'll do. His looks like something you'd use on a Navy ship. Damn, we looking at a bunch of birds or we trying to find Jupiter!!!" I chuckled but didn't look at him.
"Well, lets go," I said.
We made our way to the group, who were gathered around one of the men in the safari hats. He was handing out something to each person. "These are the species most likely to be observed in this area today. But, often times we will see the occasional odd duck, no pun intended, around this parcel," The crowd erupted in laughter and George obviously didn't get the joke. Maybe the guy truly was trying to be funny, but I felt like George was the odd duck that day. The crowd had been staring at us since we'd parked. It was as though Elvis Presley was along for the day.
I noticed that nobody smoked as my old Pennsylvania buddy did. Apparently, George was the only one who reeked of liquor, but it was hard to tell as the smell enveloped the entire parking lot. I didn't notice anyone else in a tanktop with mustard stains on it. Standing beside him, I felt that at least I wasn't the very bottom of the barrel.
"What's this paper with pictures of birds on it for?" George asked without removing his the cigarette from his mouth.
The finely dressed lady standing beside us stared ominously at us and answered. "If you happen to spot one of these birds, write down where you saw it, what time you saw it, and approximate size of the specimen."
George leaned over to me. "What'd she say? Are we looking for birds or specimens?"
"Both."
Safari hat man, whom I assumed must be the leader spoke again. "Does anyone have any questions."
George raised his hand. "Yes, what is it?" the leader asked with a booming voice and a slight hint of irritation.
"Well, I've seen almost all of the birds on this sheet. Matter of fact, I've killed right many of them. Why are we looking for them again?" Several gasps floated through the air, along with many looks of disgust.
The leader didn't answer George. Scanlon instantly regretted his decision to include us in his bird watching adventure.
With that, we began our journey around the trail in search of birds. Oddly, I didn't notice a single person writing anything on their sheet. Even more odd was the fact that George had nearly run out of room to write on his. "What in the world are you writing?" I asked, trying to make out the scribble that covered his sheet.
"These people must be blind! I'm seeing all sorts of birds. There's one on that branch over there," He said with his arm outstretched and his index finger extended. The guy with the spotting scope spun his contraption around and announced, "A big hand for George, he's just spotted the elusive eastern pine cone bird!"
A huge amount of laughter ensued. I felt bad for my friend, but not really bad. He did, after all have a pair of binoculars that were once commonly given away as prizes in cereal boxes. Suddenly, an older lady with a large flowery hat exclaimed with a hushed voice that she'd spotted an Eastern Mourning Dove.
"Mourning Dove?" George asked. "Hell, we got them back home. After we got done with them, they was in mourning all right!" Again, gasps filled the air.
We continued for at least another mile or so and I simply could not take another minute of bird watching. I turned toward my sweaty, hungover friend and quietly said, "I think it's time to go. You and I are going to head back. I'm tired and I think maybe bird watching isn't our thing." I thanked Mike for inviting us along and to be honest the guy looked relieved. With that, George and I meandered back to the car.
"Those people are hateful. One old lady said she'd never seen a chain smoking bird watcher before and that lady with the flowery hat said that someone smelled like a bar room trash can. Whoever she was talking about probably had their feelings hurt," he said.
"Yeah, probably," I said as I drove away from the park.
We didn't say much on the way back. George slept most of the way, and finally woke up as we entered the base. "I have killed almost every one of those birds at one time or another. No lie."
I haven't been bird watching since. I haven't laid eyes on George for over twenty years. But, one thing is for sure. He was great entertainment that day, and much more so that watching a bunch of birds.
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