On the Coast – Families Issue 103 I December 19/January 20 | Page 36

Wardle

S
ure your street has a street name,
clanged to a metal pole down the
corner. There might even be a
particularly weird letterbox that says, ah,
here we are. It could be a tree that says
home, that is as distinct as any of the
houses; or a particularly goofy concrete
statue (you know the one). But if you
close your eyes, would you know where
you are?
Because, chances are, your street has
a song. It’s own song. I’m not talking
sounds – the distinct rumble of the
wheelie bin, say, or the equally distinct
(and annoying) bark of the poodle at
number 15. I’m talking waddle giggle
gargle. I’m talking quardle oodle ardle
wardle doodle.
Welcome home.
You know that song. We all do. But
if what you’re hearing in your head
right now is the classic oogle wargle
from TV and doccos, it could very well
be from some random Smith Street, or
Somewhere Else Boulevarde. To know
the song on your street, you’ve got to
listen. At your place. Mornings are good.
Because a small bunch of researchers
have discovered that Currawongs have
a distinct local dialect (up to a 3k radius),
and the way Currawongs talk is by
singing, by warbling, by chatter-rrrking,
as do their cousins, the butcherbirds.
As do their cousins, the magpies.
Here’s a story:
From a tree across the road: boodle
doodle warble. I had stepped outside to try
and begin learning what our street song
might be. And now, as the boodle doodle
warble continued, an idea seized me.
What better way to learn than to sing it
back?
Boodle doodle warble, I said. Sang.
Sort of.
Suddenly there was a pause in the
warbling. Then:
Boodle doodle warble.
36
O N T H E C OA S T – FA M ILIES
BY PETER SHEPHERD
Me: Boodle doodle warble
Another pause.
Boodle doodle warble gargle
So, me: Boodle doodle warble gargle.
Boodle doodle warble gargle woop!!
Boodle doodle warble gargle – woop!!!!
– I was good on the woop! I thought; I
was really getting up some enthusiasm.
Then. Boodle doodle warble gargle woop
warp goodle brrp....
Um. I tried, I really did, stumbling at
the multi octaves suddenly, fizzing out
into an apologetic, quiet, suddenly self
conscious, um, waaagle. But I got there.
Then again, that entire new riff
from the tree, the whole boodle to brrp,
then, on the end – ah ah ah ah ah ah – a
kookaburra jumping in. Laughing at us?
I stared hard at the trees across the road,
wondering at the comic timing, looking
for this mischievous song-sabotaging
cackler. Until, wearing out my staring, I
realised it was the same spot. The same
odelling choralling bird.
And there he was, suddenly, on this
side of the road, on the phone wire above
the lawn of our place, leaning forward,
smooth black and white head cocked
staring at me, yellow eyes bright. For
a few moments we just looked at each
other, then I smiled, then I laughed, and
he bobbed and flew back to the tree.
Research also says that they stay in
the one street, for decades. They know
all the individual faces around them
and, no doubt, the individual voices.
They can imitate, it’s been noted, at least
35 other birds, along with machines
and (annoyingly) dogs. They raise their
song at dawn, it is reckoned, to mark
their home (much us we might have,
once upon a time, walked out to fetch
the paper on the lawn, waving at the
neighbour in the process). But then, it
is noted, they spend a couple of hours
doodling. Making stuff up. Practising.
Riffing. Jamming. No one knows why,
although practising, playing, and passing
the time seem high on the list. Research
also says (bless you, research) that
magpies like to make friends.
The song holds within it the whole
street – the recognisable faces of a
neighbourhood’s days, from feathered
ones to furred ones to distinct and
seasonal insecty ones to the distinct cars
to the people that drive and passenger in
them. So many possibilities to join in the
chorus of familiarity and connection and
welcome. The way most of us sing in the
shower or car – maybe we should take
that wild indifferent enthusiasm outside
and join in* – like the cicadas and crickets
do, like the tweeters and warblers do.
Stamping a signature on the world that
says here.
For anyone willing to really listen to
what it means to be home.
* (not showering, singing – that’s probably an important difference)
Waddle giggle gargle, is from the Pamela Allen picture book,
Waddle Giggle Gargle Paddle Poodle
Quardie oodle ardle wardie doodle is from The Magpie by New Zealand poet
Denis Glover
Boodle Doodle Warble is from a song by a magpie in Mullumbimby, whose name
I don’t know, but, if I did, I doubt I would be able to pronounce it with much grace.
Though, I have to admit, I would try.
Peter Shepherd facilitates the Heart & Place creative writing courses on the Central Coast and beyond.
He and his wife own The Book Forest in Niagara Park.