The Reluctant Twitcher (13 page)

“The Ruff? Oh, probably not,” I reply, not entirely truthfully, as I already have my scope in the car and a printout of the exact location near Stratford. “Oh, I might give it a try if I can find the time, but we'll be pretty busy what with seeing two plays and everything.”

The next afternoon, September 19, Felicity and I, as planned, drive straight to Harrington and I knock off the
Ruff
(279). Yes! But I can't help feeling guilty. “Margaret's not gonna like this,” I say out loud.

“Nonsense. She'll be thrilled for you,” says Felicity innocently.

Some sixth sense nags at me, however, suggesting otherwise. This is decidedly uncharitable of me and I finally take myself to task. Margaret is a very generous person. Of course she'll be thrilled.

The next evening I call Margaret. “Hi, Margaret. I'm back from Stratford. The plays were awesome. You must try to see Graham Greene as Lennie in
Of Mice and Men
. He was brilliant.”

“Did you see the Ruff?” asks Margaret, never one to beat around the bush.

“The Ruff? Ah, yeah, actually I did.”

“Oh, I
knew
you would,” says Margaret bitterly. Then recovering herself, she adds, “I'm very glad,” like we aren't in competition or anything.

“I didn't get that good a look at it,” I say weakly, trying to put a better face on things. “Just a juv, you know.”

“I'm glad for you,” repeats Margaret icily.

Oh, dear
, I think.
What have I done?

Fortunately the whole issue blows over in several days because Margaret has to go to Toronto to perform grandmotherly babysitting duties, and while there she “slipped over to Harrington and got the Ruff.” (I don't like to ask how long the children were alone and under what circumstances.)

I am genuinely happy for her until I realize she has pulled even again and might even pull ahead of me.

And that “Oh, I
knew
you would” nags at me. Margaret was not full of sudden pure childlike joy when her old birding buddy got his Ruff. Yet Margaret is my friend. Friends revel in each other's success, don't they? I ponder this mystery for the better part of a month.

On October 22, when Margaret and I are tied at 290, I am working at home quite at peace with myself. There is nothing that has to be chased, and I can finally start getting caught up on some of my household duties in which I have been signally derelict. And I know for a fact that Margaret is so far behind in her work that she is perforce devoting all this day
and
the next two to clearing her desk, and there can sadly be no question of chasing any bird, no matter how good. I know this because she herself has told me so, categorically. Anything good shows up, I'll be on my own.

At 2:55 in the afternoon I notice the grass in our backyard is almost waist high. Didn't Felicity say something about my cutting the lawn if it weren't an imposition on my valuable birding time? I believe she did. I will surprise her. I tackle the lawn.

When I am about halfway done, I remember that I am supposed to take the lamb out of the freezer to thaw.

I rush inside and take out the chops, and only as I turn to go back out do I notice the red message light on the phone flashing.

I pick up the phone. “Oh, hello. It's Margaret. It's, ah, three o'clock. I presume you have already left for the Ross's Goose at Reesor Pond that Stan Long has just posted. I thought we could go together [a note of bitterness?]. Perhaps I'll see you there. Hold it for me.”

Photo by
Jean Iron.

Ross's Goose. Reesor Pond. This attractive little goose is a welcome visitor
in Ontario in the spring and fall migrations.

Oh, my God. My thrice-accursed computer has been down and I have not been able to check my email. Margaret tried to alert me. I look at my watch. Four forty-five. I could perhaps just get there in time, but would have to fight the traffic all the way back to Cobourg, miss supper, leave the lawn half-mown, and spoil Felicity's evening.

I agonize. What to do? What would Coady do in such a situation? I ponder this for several seconds, but the answer is clear. Then I think of all the consequences and decide not to go. I'm not even a real twitcher. I am bogus.

I go back outside and begin fitfully mowing again.
Two-
ninety-one for Margaret
keeps going through my head. I knew she'd pull ahead. And there's no way that bird will hang around until morning. But I'll still have to head out at 5:00 a.m. to be there for first light to maybe see a few white feathers where it will have taken off. I should have gone today. Any real birder would be on the 401 at 130 kilometres per hour right now. What a loser. Bet it's a nice adult, too.

Margaret will be pleased. I try to tell myself how glad I am for her, but my joy seems oddly limited and even disingenuous.

Yet, I must be pleased for her. I am her friend.

At 6:00 p.m. the phone rings. I look at the call display. It's Margaret calling to gloat. I can't pick up the phone. Felicity picks it up.

“Hello, Margaret. What?” Pause. “Oh, dear. Oh, how disappointing. Yes, he's right here. I'll give him to you.”

There is a god. Margaret has dipped on the goose. My heart soars up like a skylark uncontained.

“Hi, Margaret. Did you get the goose? Oh, no! Oh, I'm so sorry. Bummer, eh? No sign of it? Oh, dear, what a disappointment. And all that driving for nothing! Yes, I know how busy you were. This'll really set you back.”

Heh-heh.

We're still even. I haven't missed anything and I don't have to get up with the hens tomorrow. I can relax and have a little glass of something red with my supper. Live a bit.

Everything has worked out for the best.

Only something is bothering me. What could it be? Deep down I know. It's because I'm glad Margaret did not get the goose. I didn't really want her to be disappointed, but I am pleased, well pleased, that she didn't get the goose.

Whence all my
schadenfreude
(the malicious enjoyment of another's misfortune)? And what kind of a person would experience such feelings for a friend's misfortune?

The answer comes through with great clarity: not a very nice person — in short, a scumbag. What a time to discover that I am a knave. I'm sixty-bloody-five! I'd always pictured myself like the kindly, grandfatherly Lenin, smiling at the young cherubs gathered round his feet in my favourite Socialist Realist painting. Then, suddenly, you discover your imagined persona is a fiction and your real one has near Hitlerian proportions. Hitler didn't love the competition either, you know.

I'm just beginning to enjoy retirement and I have to make this discovery. Oh, eschew the
annus mirabilis
, my friends.

Eschew it like the plague. It brings with it unsought revelations and self-knowledge troubling to the carefree soul.

I take myself severely to task. I have my dark night of the soul. Compared to my lowliness, Margaret's “Oh, I
knew
you would” is a piddling venial sin. I resolve to never again allow myself to rejoice in Margaret's or
any
friend's failures, especially Hugh's. Away
schadenfreude
, unworthy temptation. Hello true compassion. From now on I shall be a better person, kinder and more understanding, quick to help others and revel in their successes. I shall bathe Carley in brotherly love and stress how wonderful it is that he got the Chuck-will's-widow. I shall begin to kiss my rivals' cheeks. Let them think what they will. I was blind, but now I see!

Only, dear God, just don't test me on a Wheatear or Fieldfare or something.

12
The Big Sit

Patience, Jackass, patience.

— D
AME
E
DITH
S
ITWELL TO
C
HAIRMAN
M
AO

M
Y WIFE AND
I
HAD
a good laugh on Pelee Island back in May.

I came back from Fish Point around 8:00 a.m. for breakfast on our back porch, from which you can see the whole point. We stay in the southernmost building in Canada. I put my scope on the end of the point and asked her to have a look.

“There's some madman sitting out there all by himself,” she said.

“Oh, did I not mention it? It's Tymstra,” I replied, referring to our birding friend and island stalwart, Rob Tymstra. “He's doing a Big Sit.”

“A what?” asked Felicity.

“A Big Sit,” I explained, as if there was nothing the slightest bit odd about it. “You choose some place and go sit there for the whole day and record all the birds you see.”

“Don't you get hungry?”

“You take food with you and chairs and stuff, though I must say Rob didn't seem to have too much food with him. He said something about people bringing him coffee and doughnuts from Tim Hortons.”

“But there is no Tim Hortons on the island, or any doughnut shop for that matter.”

She had a point.

When we checked Fish Point later that afternoon, there was no sign of Tymstra. He probably got lonely or terribly hungry. I never did find out.

Anyway, the mere idea of a Big Sit seemed highly risible and mainly for weirdos.

In September, when Doug McRae suggests that he and I do a Big Sit at Presqu'ile Provincial Park, it seems eminently sensible. Funny how things change. I am still stuck at 279 and a Big Sit will surely bring in a new species or two, especially with Doug's eyes. I will, of course, have to be very canny to make sure I don't make a fool of myself and have Doug find out just how deeply bogus I am. Let McRae call 'em, and keep the old gob shut. Don't be suckered into a quick misidentification of some easy bird.

“Only one thing, though,” I say to Doug. “Is it okay to ask Margaret along? I think her nose might be out of joint if I don't at least ask her.”

“Margaret? Of course! It would be great to have her along.

What a blast that would be.”

McRae is an enthusiast.

I call Margaret and give her the “I'm sure you won't be interested, but” line. She is interested. Big time. I don't know why I tease her.

The date is set for October 3.

I figure we will meet at the end of the campground and walk to Owen Point and select our viewing spot. Probably begin around 9:00 a.m., then see how we are doing in the afternoon before deciding how soon to knock it off. I call Doug to discuss details.

“Do you think if we meet in the park half an hour before sunrise it would be too late?” asks Doug. “Might get Great Horned or even Saw-whet before first light.”

“You mean meet there around 5:00 or 5:30 a.m.?” I ask.

“Yeah, 'less of course you think that's a bit late,” says Doug.

“Well,” I say, “five-thirty's okay, but I wouldn't want to leave it any later.”

Five-thirty in the morning on October 3 finds Margaret and me in full rain gear staggering along the trail to Owen Point in the blackest darkness carrying chairs, scopes, and huge hampers of food. With Tymstra in mind I have gone heavy on the food, but I completely forgot a flashlight. Margaret and I stumble along in the dark, the halt leading the blind. My heart soars when I see a light out on Owen Point and it appears to be coming our way. No mugger in his right mind would be out at this ungodly hour. It's Doug, who has already gone out and got set up and is now coming back with a powerful flashlight to see if we need a hand — he quickly realizes his mistake.