Loading...
HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1997-10-22, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1997. PAGE 5. Birds on the brain I have a confession to make. The time has come for me to come out of the closet. It’s my duty to alert my faithful readers as to my true nature. I've already told my family. I've tried to explain it to the few friends I have left. I can only hope that our relationship can, however battered, survive, based on a platform of mutual respect untainted by the poison of judgmental prejudices. But I'm not sure it can. Not after I tell you that I am a practising....Birdwatcher. It's true. I realize now, looking back, that I have always been a birdwatcher, albeit a furtive one. As a kid I sucked in my breath as I watched the aerial antics of barn swallows and bats. I marveled at the impossibly elegant, gravity-defying nests of orioles; thrilled to the explosive thunder of a ruffed grouse taking flight from cover just inches ahead of my hiking boots.... I was watching birds, sure, but I wasn't a — you know — birdwatcher per se. I was still normal. Not one of those goofy fanatics you see in tennis shoes and Tilley hats, creeping through the raspberry canes with a International Scene By Raymond Canon Off to Europe The first years of my journalistic career saw all my articles written while I was domiciled in Switzerland. About the only time that I used English was when I wrote my articles and I had to pay special attention to what I wrote so that my English did not get too stilted. When I read today what I wrote then, it is very obvious to me that my language was a bit wooden, as if I were writing something that was not really native to me. That was a long time ago and, since I live in Canada now and use English most of the time, I do not have that problem. I can, therefore, go off on my latest venture without worrying too much about any deteriorization in my command of the language. The fact is that for the next four months I am working in the Czech Republic in a place that I never heard of until a few months ago. The city is Frydek-Mistek and it is about as far away from Prague, the capital, as it is possible to get without crossing a border. It is, in fact, about 30 kilometres from both the Polish and the Slovakian borders, four hours drive from Vienna and six hours from Budapest. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be learning yet another language to go with the eight I already have, I would have laughed. But here I am now busy learning Czech. Not that I expect to make any major Peterson's Field Guide in one hand and a pair of Bushnell 7X50s in the other. True, some of my most vibrant memories seemed to revolve around birds. I remember the otherworldly experience of hiking out on a cliff high on the Niagara Escarpment in southern Ontario and seeing a pair of turkey vultures soaring at eye level, so close that I could see their beady little eyes and red neck wattles. I remember sitting on a beach on the Caribbean island of Antigua, tracking white pelicans as they circled lazily high in the sky only to suddenly hurl themselves into steep, kamikaze dives right into the ocean. They hit the surface with such force it didn't seem possible for them to survive. They did — and surfaced with a crawful of fish more often than not. Oh, I can see it now — Birds Are Me! My favourite sight: arrowheads of Canada geese etched on a spring sky. My favourite sound: the eerie ululations of an unseen loon at dusk. My favourite smell: roast turkey on Thanksgiv— okay, a little cruel, but you get my point. One way or another, I’ve been 'birdwatching' for years. And then, a few years back, I moved to the west coast. We get most of the regulars out here — robins, chickadees, starlings and crows. But there are also bald eagles and speeches in it but simply to have enough to do shopping, ask directions and carry out simple explanations. Depending on whom I am talking to, I will be using English, German and Russian. Somebody who should know gave me the advice that, when I have to use either German or Russian to a stranger, I should make it very clear that I am a Canadian. The Czechs don't seem to like the Germans or the Russians too much and a review of their history over the past 60 years should give ample explanation why. Canadians are liked just about everywhere and this includes the area where I will be located. A few Canadian flags and stickers are on my shopping list. While I am there I will be lecturing in the local college on foreign trade and tourism. At the same time I will be trying to arrange trade between our country and their's and, even with the assignments which I already have, I should be kept quite busy. The current rate of exchange favours the Czechs so, for example, if you want a new place in which to ski, the Czech Republic should be an ideal (not to mention cheap) spot. When you have been doing business under a communist system for close to 50 years, you lose touch with the outside business world. All directions are handed down from the ministry in the capital and few, indeed, are the decisions which you make on your own. If you were fortunate enough to be competing with other countries, as some Czech firms were, you retain a bit of the great blue herons, stellar jays and rufous­ headed towhees. Not to mention eight dozen different kinds of seagulls, none of which I'd ever seen before. I’ve arrived in Birdwatcher Heaven. That's why I decided the time has come to 'out' myself. Mind you I plan to take it one step at a time. I wouldn't want to make the blunder of British birdwatcher Neil Symmons. Mister Symmons managed to attract a tawny owl to his garden — no mean feat, considering that he lives in downtown London and tawny owls are notoriously shy. Nonetheless, each evening for 12 straight months, Mister Symmons has gone into his garden at dusk and 'called' his owl. And each night for 12 straight months he's heard the unearthly, unmistakable hoot of a tawny owl answering him. Symmons wife Kim was so proud of Neil. She mentioned his evening pastime to her next-door neighbour. "That's odd" said the neighbour, "my husband Fred spends his evenings out back talking to an owl...." You guessed it. The two enthusiasts had been 'hooting' to each other every night for a year. Birdwatching. No one ever said it would be easy. competitive edge but not too much. For this reason I am looking forward to seeing what improvements have to be made. My wife considered coming with me but, given that housing conditions are very much an unknown quantity in that part of the country, we decided that it was best that she stay at home until the situation has clarified a bit. She would be the first to admit that she is not in my class as a world travellers and even a trip to Switzerland seemed to throw her somewhat. When, and if, she does go with me, she will not be idle. She is, in her own right, a highly qualified instructor in English as a Second Language and, given that English is without a doubt the language of international trade, she will have plenty of opportunity to instruct. The Czech military, having just been accepted into NATO, is busy learning English and this is right up her alley since it was at NATO that I first met her when she was instructing NATO pilots in the fine art of aviation English. Needless to say, I am looking forward to the trip. For the next few months you will be reading a number of articles on life in that part of the world. I hope that you find them both enjoyable and informative. A Final Thought Be careful how you live — you may be the only Bible some people read. The "It comes down to this. What's more important — a beautiful home or a child?" These words spoken by Doug Smith during an interview last week certainly caused a brief alteration of perspective. Doug and Lynn Smith's farmhouse kitchen is a workplace, clean, but with more of a business-like clutter than that of a typical home. There are charts depicting various stages of everyday activity. There is a work station in one comer, a rest area in another. It has to be this way. For the past eight years the Smiths have been foster parents, with most of those years being dedicated to the nurturing of special needs children. Lynn has been the principle caregiver, who attacks the task of tending to four youngsters, ages five to 13, in addition to having raised three of her own, with the efficiency of any professional. She also offers her charges, all diagnosed as suffering from attention deficit disorder, stability, affection, patience and above all, a place in a world where they have perhaps so often felt out of place. What Lynn does for these children is not a nine-to-five job. There is sacrifice (unacknowledged on the family's part, I must add), dedication and hard work involved. The compensation is not monetary, but rather in making a difference. For many less special people, it wouldn't be enough. Being a foster parent, or rather being a good foster parent, is not for the selfish. It is about giving, about strength and commitment. I learned this firsthand, early in life. As a young child, I was introduced to the foster parents program through family friends. For several years these people opened their home to troubled teenage girls. As I grew older I recognized the frustrations and heart-aches that came with the responsibility. I heard stories that, as girl secure in a nuclear family, were almost otherworldly. However, I also learned about a new sense of family, a new level of caring for people beyond the bonds of family. One girl in particular, I grew quite close to. She was like a rebellious older sister, who, for better or worse, dazzled this naive child with colourful tales of forbidden romance, and of trying to pull yourself up when others were constantly knocking you down. She also let down her lough guard many times, to acknowledge the second chance she was being given, the gift of a fresh start in a fresh place by living with my friends. Appreciative though she was, her time spent with them was not always easy. Nor was it with any of the others. They came with baggage and unpacked it recklessly in an otherwise orderly household. Yet, the people who had opened that home to them were prepared to have their routine upset if, by reaching out to these young people they could help them develop into responsible adults. That is what foster parents do, quietly, with little to show for it, try to make a difference in someone's life. It is heartening to know that in this often narcissistic, materialistic world there are still people like the Smiths.