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March-April 2007
SOUVENIRS, BLESS ‘EM!
By Valerie Cooley
This morning as I made coffee, a crack in the filter cone pinched my finger. I felt a stab of sadness more than pain. It would break soon and be replaced by a shiny new one with no attendant memories, no daily reminders of happy, long ago camping trips.
I got it on my way to Malibu for the Santa Monica Folk Club’s first
camping trip. I was so excited about the forthcoming blend of
mountains, music, friends, and campfires that I was walking on air when
I stopped at the Safeway for instant coffee. That’s probably why I fell
prey to an attractive marketing ploy – designer-colored mugs packaged
with matching filter cones, coffee, and filters. “How silly,” I
thought. “Why should they match?” But my hand was already reaching for
the light green set, never dreaming that it would become the best of
souvenirs.
I lugged my stuff into the group campground
at Leo Carrillo State Park alongside other campers toting a promising
array of musical instruments. I settled next to my birding buddy,
Marcia, and her husband, Bill. I placed my cultural contribution
proudly on our table next to Marcia’s guitar.
“How cute!” said Marcia.
“Some people will buy anything,” said Bill.
After dinner, we sang around a big campfire,
accompanied by guitars, fiddles, autoharps, and banjos. Such bliss!
When we were done, coyotes loped to the ridges and sang their songs.
Early next morning, Marcia started the coffee water and scanned the
chaparral with her binoculars. Soon she began a low chant, audible only
to another birder: “brown towhee, song sparrow, hummingbird, scrub jay,
kinglet, raven. . .” beguiling me from my tent. We guzzled delicious
designer coffee and checked off more birds: spotted towhee, American
gold finch, wrentit, red-tailed hawk. We’d been quiet, we thought, but
when Bill got up and saw my coffee ensemble, he mimicked us perfectly.
“Look!” he said, “the Gaudy Coffee Dripper is back!”
The day was as rich and satisfying as I’d
hoped. There were instruments and songbooks everywhere, with people
jamming, singing, and getting to know each other outside the monthly
song circle. We hiked and we prowled the tidepools. We feasted on
potluck fare, lit the campfire and sang Carter Family, Altman, 1960s,
traditional, and other songs, accompanied by the distant coyotes.
On Sunday morning, as we birded, Bill greeted
us with, “I’m sure I see two Wide Eyed Babblers at our table.” Marcia
excused herself. I felt the need to make conversation so, knowing that
Bill had hiked every inch of the Santa Monica Mountains, I asked him
about the Bee Tree Trail. Just as he started telling me, a black bird
with bright orange patches landed on the ground seven feet away. I
gasped and signaled Bill to stop. He didn’t; he began describing where
the creek forked. While the bird displayed all his orange markings as
flamboyantly as if I were a female bird, I leafed madly through my
field guide. Then he, the bird, lifted his wings and flicked his tail
to display his white belly. Birds are never this helpful. They skulk in
bushes, hiding their bills, spots, and stripes behind branches. If they
have diagnostic spots on any part of their bodies, they stand so you
can’t see them. This guy was a blatant exhibitionist and I prayed for
Marcia to get back in time to see him. But no, while Bill was
describing bee habitat, she was jawing in the restroom with friends and
I was yelling, “See the rare bird, Bill?” and “Look at it, dammit!” The
bird stayed about ten minutes, another thing birds don’t do unless
they’ve hidden themselves in dense foliage. The ones you see clearly
depart while you’re still dazed, but not this one. He stayed till a few
seconds before Marcia trotted back up the trail.
“An American Redstart just flew away,” I said.
“Oh rats,” moaned Marcia. “Did you see him, Bill?” she asked.
“How could I miss?” he replied amiably, “he was five feet away.”
After breakfast we sang gospel songs, jammed,
hiked, and walked on the beach. Friends who’d loved singing together
were now bonded in other ways. We lunched on leftover potluck food and
exchanged phone numbers, then slowly drifted away, already planning the
next trip.
All Columns by Valerie Cooley |
