E. Boyer
Signs of Spring are showing themselves. My desk, which is often visible to all who walk by, is now hidden by a canopy of green that never fails as a screen between me and passersby this time of year. I’m reading last week’s Post and notice that with the exception of home invasions, burglaries, license plate reader debate, questions of fire services outsourcing and college acceptance/rejection anxieties, everything else seems as it should be in Piedmont. Nineteen real estate ads, the White Elephant Sale story, PAINTS Bird House Gala story, requisite
smile-with-head-tilt photos of a pre-Spring Fling event, fifteen summer camp ads and CSL’s House Tour info. Classic signs of Spring in Piedmont. Everything right as rain. It’s no wonder that 50'ish years ago the Bird Calling Contest sprang from Piedmont’s springtime springy-ness. Newcomers, which incidentally is anyone who has been in Piedmont less than 30 years, may not know that in it’s heyday, the Leonard J. Waxdeck Bird Calling Contest was the event of the year. If the only version of Piedmont’s bird calling contest you’ve seen has been in the last fifteen years, then you haven’t really seen The Bird Calling Contest.
We’re living in a time where praise is handed out like peep-show pamphlets on the Vegas strip. Everything is amazing or fantastic or worst of all…funny. I believe the generalized dummying-down is such an injustice. In the case of the birdcalling contest, the dummying-down was an absolute tragedy. When did we start defining funny as someone simply acting ridiculous? Funny is serious business. It isn’t funny to get up on a stage in a costume that involved no thought doing a skit that involved no preparation. Improvisation is one thing, but that requires genuine talent from someone who is skilled at thinking on their feet, not someone who simply forgot their lines and looks ridiculous. That’s called a waste of everyone’s time and money. I’d also like to point out that making references to obscure movie lines with which only three of your friends are familiar is not a good bit. It’s painful at a high school graduation ceremony with grandparents, aunts and uncles in the stands wondering what in the hell you’re talking about and it’s painful in a school production like, say, a bird calling contest when your skit has everyone wondering why they didn’t stay at home to watch Mad Men re-runs. God sakes, kids, step up your game! Your routine for the bird-calling contest should take months of planning! The birdcall should be authentic! Everyone from the President to Tim Lincicum and Alice Waters to Sheryl Sandberg should get an invitation! This is the big time! This is the Leonard J. Waxdeck Birdcalling Contest! I know they’ve changed the name, but they shouldn’t have! This was the event that made Walter Cronkite break down and laugh on air! Tickets were sold-out months in advance! You could hock those babies on the street for triple the face value! Attendees dressed to the nines for the occasion! Strawberries and champagne were served pre-event and of course, with glass not plastic and linen napkins, obviously! This was top-notch stuff, people. The theater was perfumed with an abundance of fresh floral arrangements and t.v cameras from every station lined the periphery of the theater and all of Magnolia Avenue, for that matter! Please, can someone go back and review the history books on this one? Things don’t always stand up to the test of time, but this is something that would.
Unlike the current..ahem..birdcalling contest, the original had no skits. It was strictly birdcalls. Tongue and cheek, the whole affair, mind you, but birdcalls, nonetheless. There are two camps on this topic, but I admit that, if done well, I think the skits add something. However, in recent years there have been very few skits that were worthy of note and in fact most were an abomination. It occurred to me that we’ve become so much a nation of Beevis & Butthead type humor that today’s youth really may not have an understanding of what constitutes intelligent humor. Subjective, of course, but still…bad is bad no matter how many feathers we tape to it. I rather like the addition of the skits assuming they’re actually funny. Funny, for purposes of a birdcalling contest, would be anything that makes the entire audience roar with laughter. The sound of three teenage boys sniggering to an otherwise awkward cricket-silence would indicate that it was not funny. Sadly and horrifyingly, recent years have produced many such moments.
There are plenty of Piedmonters who were actual participants in the original bird-calling contest and let’s face it…they took out 45s of bird calls on loan from the library, wore plaid suits, buckskin shoes and sequined evening gowns..they took this stuff seriously! I’m sure they have photographs and video footage of the event that they’re just waiting to dust-off and share with someone..anyone! That’s right…the blueprint for this event is right here in town just waiting to be unfurled.
Things of the past aren’t always worth resurrecting, but this one really is. There must be at least a few among the current PHS student body suppressing their inner-warbler. Pretty please, release the caged and other-feathered among you and restore this Piedmont tradition to it’s original grandeur! Call out to those who came before you…the drumming woodpecker, the winnowing snipe, the sing-songy zebrafinch! They’ll help you put Piedmont on the map once again! Let’s face it; you need them. How can you be expected to re-produce something that you know nothing about? In essence, you’ve been left at your post, ill-equipped for such a tall order. Maybe, then, this should be a call to arms to those birdcallers of the Leonard J. Waxdeck era to come forth with tutelage for the young and unknowing fledglings. Show yourselves! Quickly! The survival of this once beloved Piedmont tradition depends on you! Cuckaawww! Cuckaawww! Cuckaawww!!
E. Boyer
Unsettling, isn’t it? That a perfect stranger can come into your house without your permission. They can take your things, terrorized you or your family and make you understand in a moment how very little control you have over the “out of left field” occurrences. Fear can take us down a notch. All of my fantasies of squaring-off with an intruder in my doorway in my Annie Oakley outfit and toting a 12 gauge are really just that..fantasy. It sounds so easy in my imaginary version, strutting around town claiming that “If the devil walks down my street, I’ll meet him half way!” daring anyone to make the mistake of rifling through my car or barging into my home. My imaginary version has me sauntering around my lawn John Wayne style, in chaps and ready with a pistol in each hand. Or Clint Eastwood style, taunting all the pimply-faced hoodlums…”Go ahead you little bastard..make my day!” Aaahhh, fantasy. The place where we can be our perfect selves and then…screeeeeeach! Back to reality. That’s the place where I’m more like Mrs. Kravitz than Annie Oakley and more like Dagwood Bumstead than John Wayne. Yep..confronted with an intruder I’d most likely help them pack-up all of my valuables, make them a cheese sandwich and offer them a ride to BART. So, I’ve decided that my goal is to avoid an intrusion rather than endure one. Judging by the alarm and locksmith company trucks that have lined the streets of Piedmont in the last few weeks, there are others in town with similar goals. And, why not? If a six-inch deadbolt and an alligator-filled moat are the only things standing between me and a peaceful night’s sleep, count me in!
I’ve seen another sign-of-the-times popping up here and there. Window bars. Oh sure, they’re the fancy, decorative variety, but window bars, none the less. They aren’t everywhere, but I’ve spotted a few basement and first story windows in town that are newly fortified. Whatever it takes to prevent an intrusion. It got me thinking, though as I passed one such house…what makes Piedmont different from any other crime-rattled city? After all, once the bars go up on the windows, doesn’t that say something about the neighborhood? Many, many years ago I knew a real estate agent, Golda Solowitz, who told me “Oy gevalt, Daahlink, if there are bars on the windows God forbid you should live in such a neighborhood!” I can’t help thinking of Golda these last few months with all the new security upgrades and wondering how Piedmont will justify it’s lofty home prices if the Golda Solowitzs of the world see it as just another town with bars on it’s windows. It used to be that we could tout the fact our police department and emergency services had a very quick response time, but lately that seems to be a topic of debate. Our police department has the good fortune of protecting a town that knows very little of home invasions and such. Thank goodness. But, as a result some are questioning the department’s readiness for such crimes. How prepared could they be when they have so little exposure to this sort of thing in Piedmont? It isn’t a criticism necessarily, but rather an observation. Wearing a uniform doesn’t guarantee a skill set. After all, you can dance around the house in your underwear, but that doesn’t make you Madonna!
I did notice that the Police Department has snazzy new patrol cars. It seems the conservative Crown Victorias have been replaced with Dodge Chargers. Yowza! Well, it worked for the Dukes of Hazard so I suppose it could work for Piedmont. Still, I wonder if it might have been more prudent to consider forfeiting the new round of muscle cars and instead invest the money in investigative skills training for our officers. Or some other kind of training that might be relevant given our current state of lock-down. I know there’s probably an earmark sort of thing for new cars every few years, but drastic times call for drastic measures. Why not take one for the team and re-purpose the funds to better use? I also read in last week’s Post that the City is now considering a million dollar investment in license plate readers at all entry points to the Piedmont. That’s a lot of money for a project that seems a little willy-nilly-let’s-do-something-fast. I was reminded of the haste with which those portable classrooms sprang up on the Havens playground and I suddenly felt a little queasy. Heck, a million dollars combined with the funds from the Dukes of Hazard cars and our police department could get training that would genuinely make a difference. I don’t know about you, but I'd sleep a lot better at night knowing that my police department was at Perry Mason/Columbo/Krav Maga status. It’s too bad because the alligators really aren’t very practical, it takes me 10 minutes to secure all the new locks on my front door and Golda Solowitz would absolutely hate the metal bars. "Oy gevalt, Daahlink...honestly!"
