“What’s the greatest concert you’ve ever been to?” came the question and I might as well have been asked which of my two children or soon-to-be-three grandkids is my all-time favorite.
Truth is, all five have their own color in my I Love You Most Rainbow. Similarly, I had to answer with a handful of hues in my Rainbow Of Concerts: The Who, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers…
… and The Birds — not to be confused with The Byrds — who performed outside my bedroom window the other morning as dawn and I yawned ourselves awake. This concert began as a solo act, although I could not see the performer because the shutters were shut and I was too comfortable beneath the covers to get up and open them. Instead, I was like an orchestra judge listening to blind tryouts taking place behind a screen.
Mixing tweets and trills, whistles and chirps, sometimes repeating short melodies and other times seemingly creating long jazzy patterns on the fly — on the perch, rather — she sang and I listened. I say she, but of course in equal likelihood it was a he singing to attract a mate or claim territory. However, so beautiful and upbeat was this birdsong, I imagined it came from a common “swift” family member — specifically, the uncommon Taylor Swift.
My friend Scott, who wrote a book titled “Raptor Quest” about his successful pursuit to photograph all 53 species of raptors that fly in American air space, can identify most feathered friends with his ear ever as deftly as with aid of binoculars. I, on the other hand, could not tell if my winged warbler was a common Ventura sparrow, St. Louis Cardinal, California thrasher, Atlanta Hawk, American robin, or Philadelphia Eagle.
Nor could I help but wonder about the lyrics. With the morning recital coming on a Friday, maybe she was a loyal reader of my column and was complimenting that day’s 600 words? More likely, she was singing, “Time to rise and shine!” Or, perhaps, she was crowing, “Guess which early riser caught a worm! Would you like half?”
“No worm for me, thank you,” I wanted to say while offering, “Would you like some coffee?” But I didn’t know how.
I do know this: It is nearly impossible to start your day in a foul mood when a fowl sings good morning to you in a voice bright as a kindergartener’s first-day smile.
After a short while, the opening act ended — probably she had run through her complete repertoire, or else had to wing-pool the kids to school — and a different bird, with a different pitch and different rhythms, took center stage in a different tree and her (or his) song was equally beautiful.
In turn, she (or he) yielded to another solo serenader, then three or four more joined in to make it a jam session, and now I was fully transported back to summer days of yore; of running barefooted in my backyard chasing butterflies and grasshoppers; of summer vacations at a lakeside cabin in Ohio when I was a boy; of fishing at a pond with my Grandpa; all while the surrounding trees were alive with birdsong.
Too, the birds on this morning made me think of The Byrds and their song “Mr. Tambourine Man” and its lyrics “…play a song for me / I’m not sleepy and there’s ain’t no place I’m goin’ to…”
Yes, I was no longer sleepy as I enjoyed a memorable morning concert with no better place to go.
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
In fifth grade, in springtime, in the afternoon, Mr. Hawkins, one of my all-time favorite teachers, grounded me from recess and instead gave me an assignment as a small punishment for talking in class.