don’t you worry, Mr. Campbell, mum’s the word.” And with that he sped off into the night.
Oswald went inside the large Knights of Columbus hall and found a sign that said ALABAMA AA with the arrow pointing upstairs. A heavyset man in suspenders greeted him with a big beefy handshake and a pat on the back that nearly knocked him down.
“Mr. Campbell? Ed Krause. Welcome to our little group.”
Oswald looked around the room. There were already six or seven other friendly-looking men sitting in wooden chairs, smiling and nodding at him.
Mr. Krause led him to a chair. “Where’s your instrument, Mr. Campbell?”
Oswald was not sure what he had heard. “I beg your pardon?”
It was only when he looked around the room again that he noticed that all the men were pulling accordions out of the cases beside each chair.
When another man walked by with a big black case and carrying an armload of sheet music, Oswald suddenly realized that he had walked into an Alabama Accordion Association meeting!
He turned to the man and said, “Ah . . . I tell you what, Mr. Krause, I believe I’ll just listen tonight. My instrument is sort of on the blink.”
“That’s too bad,” said a disappointed Ed Krause. “We were looking forward to a little new blood.”
Oswald went over in the corner and sat and listened. He sat through quite a few polkas and one pretty lively version of “The Poor People of Paris” before it was time for Butch to come and pick him up. Outside, Butch asked how the meeting went and he answered, “Just fine.”
On the way back home, Oswald thought about it and wondered which was worse, being an accordion player or being an alcoholic. He figured it was a toss-up.
He was sorry there were no AA meetings around, but Oswald figured he was doing pretty well just hanging out on the dock and meeting with the birds every day. It seemed to keep him calm, and it was certainly interesting. He was not bored. There were plenty of them to see. One day when Oswald was sitting there on the dock busy watching the birds, a great blue heron stared right back at him, and it suddenly occurred to him that they might be busy watching him as well. He wondered what they thought he was, and how would they identify him.
His
Birds of Alabama
book had given him guidelines as to how to identify birds by size and color and by location, so he decided to look in the book and figure out what the birds would write down for him. He searched for himself up under LOCATION:
PERMANENT RESIDENTS: Live in the same geographic region all year long.
SUMMER RESIDENTS: Breed and raise their young in one geographic region, then leave to winter in warmer regions.
WINTER VISITORS: Come to a geographic region only during winter months after their breeding season.
TRANSIENTS: Pass through a geographic region only once or twice a year during their spring or fall migrations.
ACCIDENTALS: Birds not expected in a particular region and, therefore, are surprise visitors.
As he read on, he decided that according to the book, he was definitely a medium-sized, redheaded, nonbreeding accidental. At last he knew what he was, and it amused him to no end. He was a rare bird, after all.
Winter
O N THE MORNING of February 21, everybody up and down the street declared, “Well, winter is here,” and noted with horror that last night the temperature had dipped all the way down into the 50s. That afternoon, Oswald looked across the river and for the first time saw blue smoke curling out of the chimneys of the houses on the other side. The air was suddenly fragrant with the smell of wood smoke from the burning of local pine, hickory, and cedar logs.
Oswald welcomed the cooler weather because in the following days he discovered it brought winter sunsets, and the river sunsets were different from anything else he had ever seen. They mesmerized him. He loved sitting there on the dock in the cool crisp air, the river so quiet you could hear a dog bark a mile
Oswald went inside the large Knights of Columbus hall and found a sign that said ALABAMA AA with the arrow pointing upstairs. A heavyset man in suspenders greeted him with a big beefy handshake and a pat on the back that nearly knocked him down.
“Mr. Campbell? Ed Krause. Welcome to our little group.”
Oswald looked around the room. There were already six or seven other friendly-looking men sitting in wooden chairs, smiling and nodding at him.
Mr. Krause led him to a chair. “Where’s your instrument, Mr. Campbell?”
Oswald was not sure what he had heard. “I beg your pardon?”
It was only when he looked around the room again that he noticed that all the men were pulling accordions out of the cases beside each chair.
When another man walked by with a big black case and carrying an armload of sheet music, Oswald suddenly realized that he had walked into an Alabama Accordion Association meeting!
He turned to the man and said, “Ah . . . I tell you what, Mr. Krause, I believe I’ll just listen tonight. My instrument is sort of on the blink.”
“That’s too bad,” said a disappointed Ed Krause. “We were looking forward to a little new blood.”
Oswald went over in the corner and sat and listened. He sat through quite a few polkas and one pretty lively version of “The Poor People of Paris” before it was time for Butch to come and pick him up. Outside, Butch asked how the meeting went and he answered, “Just fine.”
On the way back home, Oswald thought about it and wondered which was worse, being an accordion player or being an alcoholic. He figured it was a toss-up.
He was sorry there were no AA meetings around, but Oswald figured he was doing pretty well just hanging out on the dock and meeting with the birds every day. It seemed to keep him calm, and it was certainly interesting. He was not bored. There were plenty of them to see. One day when Oswald was sitting there on the dock busy watching the birds, a great blue heron stared right back at him, and it suddenly occurred to him that they might be busy watching him as well. He wondered what they thought he was, and how would they identify him.
His
Birds of Alabama
book had given him guidelines as to how to identify birds by size and color and by location, so he decided to look in the book and figure out what the birds would write down for him. He searched for himself up under LOCATION:
PERMANENT RESIDENTS: Live in the same geographic region all year long.
SUMMER RESIDENTS: Breed and raise their young in one geographic region, then leave to winter in warmer regions.
WINTER VISITORS: Come to a geographic region only during winter months after their breeding season.
TRANSIENTS: Pass through a geographic region only once or twice a year during their spring or fall migrations.
ACCIDENTALS: Birds not expected in a particular region and, therefore, are surprise visitors.
As he read on, he decided that according to the book, he was definitely a medium-sized, redheaded, nonbreeding accidental. At last he knew what he was, and it amused him to no end. He was a rare bird, after all.
Winter
O N THE MORNING of February 21, everybody up and down the street declared, “Well, winter is here,” and noted with horror that last night the temperature had dipped all the way down into the 50s. That afternoon, Oswald looked across the river and for the first time saw blue smoke curling out of the chimneys of the houses on the other side. The air was suddenly fragrant with the smell of wood smoke from the burning of local pine, hickory, and cedar logs.
Oswald welcomed the cooler weather because in the following days he discovered it brought winter sunsets, and the river sunsets were different from anything else he had ever seen. They mesmerized him. He loved sitting there on the dock in the cool crisp air, the river so quiet you could hear a dog bark a mile
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