The (Old) Birds: An Epic Tale of Music Boxes and Betrayal

A couple of years ago, when I drove my youngest to summer camp in Santa Cruz, California, I decided to kill two birds and allow my oldest to make the long return drive home. She was still learning to drive and that kind of open highway can be a great final test. I made the unfamiliar drive up the coast and she made the drive home. On our way back down the coast we decided to make a small detour and visit the tourist town of Solvang. For those who don't know, Solvang is an "authentic" Danish village in the heart of California where you can get too many delicious snacks and intriguing trinkets for too high a price.

We pulled into town a little before five o'clock that evening and while the sun was still bright most of the shops in these types of towns close-up around that hour. The streets were quite literally abandoned as all the tourists had either moved on, or stumbled back to whatever local wine-tasting facility they had wandered off from. It looked disturbingly like a ghost town. I was disappointed she wouldn't get the full experience but since we were trying to get home before traffic got bad in the LA area, and we were really just taking a stretch break, it seemed to work out ok. She could get the gist and then return one day on her own for the full "bells and whistles" show.

We wandered through a shop or two, looking at healing crystals and other bohemian/ new age merchandise and bought some kind of chocolate in a shop which was just closing up. Luckily (or not) we discovered one of my all-time favorite shops in Solvang was still open. This particular establishment stockpiles the most superb music boxes (and other similar paraphernalia) in all the land. We'll call it Ye Olde Music Box Shoppe, for lack of wanting to get sued. This is my candy store. Everything tinkles and glitters and ticks and winds and rotates and performs on demand. It's a magical wonderland here and I was going to get to share that with my first born. A momentous occasion to be sure. A mother and daughter moment in the making. Perhaps the start of a tradition-- Years from now, both our children grown, we would return on our annual excursion and reminisce about that first time we made this journey together.

We entered the shop, stepping from the bright sunlight into the shaded entryway. Much like a Hobbit hole, this treasure chest seemed almost nestled into the earth. Immediately upon entering we were greeted by the lower temperature that comes from living in the shadow of an "authentic" Danish windmill and the smell of something trapped in time. There is a constant soft ticking from the wall of handmade cuckoo clocks, all with little figures which come out and dance or sing a happy little tune to announce the hour. This is no small shoppe either. It's jam packed with dust gathering tzotchkes for the most rabid collectors. Want to know what to get the woman who has everything? Ye Olde Music Box Shoppe has it! The walls are lined with glass and mirror shelves best for displaying these kinds of goodies. Nothing is crowded. Each item is displayed in its full glory with plenty of space around it for you to better appreciate its special qualities.

For the most part the place is empty. There are less than a dozen other patrons still wandering leisurely through the shelves, mostly some elderly folks probably reliving the glory days before radio. It has the quiet air of a library, making us want to whisper respectfully instead of speaking openly. An older woman is browsing near us and overhears our whispered conversation. 'They're really beautiful aren't they?' We nod appropriately, exchange a few niceties about what a lovely place this is, what fond memories etc, as we continue to browse through this first set of shelves. Granny is hanging to us pretty tightly and I'm a little concerned she may think we came in here together. She's sweet and all, but there's no room for her back in the car. I turn in an opposite direction and draw my daughter's attention to another item, figuring the woman will continue passed us on her own journey, but she sticks with us like arm-fat after a third baby. We pause around the second or third set of shelves to admire a musical guitar in a snow glob. Isn't it lovely. Wouldn't that be a great gift for your brother. (Yeah right. I'm sure that's what every 15 year old boy dreams of for his birthday!) Suddenly the old woman reaches out and snatches the music box off the shelf, winds it, shakes the snow, and places it back before us as it spins and plays.

I am dumbfounded. Typically I'm a bit of a klutz so I tend to avoid the handling of fragile items, especially if they are expensive and I don't want to own the broken pieces. When I do decide that I like an item enough to actually touch it I'm very cautious, protecting it as I lift it, replacing it gently and slowly. So I am still reeling from the shock of her caviler attack as she begins regaling me with information about its music selection and the nature of its origin. I smile and nod and walk backwards away from her shoving my daughter along behind me. A few steps away is a small set of stairs leading down into a deeper display area and as we descend these two or three steps we seem to lose the old gal in her own revelry.
I give my daughter the face-- the look that says "Oh my god. What the hell was that?" And she gives me the "I know. Can you believe it?" eyes in return. We shake our heads and giggle softly and move to the next set of music boxes. The first area had been filled with beautiful traditional pieces-- The simple music boxes with an ornate scene or item that spin in a little circle and play a song that matches the theme: "Love Me Tender" plays as two porcelain doves, exchanging a kiss, rotate on their little axis; "Fur Elise" tinkles away on a little player piano; a toe-shoed, pink ballerina twirls in perfect balance as the notes of "Music Box Dancer" plink from beneath her. But this section houses the truly elaborate and unique. My favorite piece, the reason I return over and over again to this shoppe, sits at eye level on the first shelf you encounter when you step down the stairs-- a full working carousel. About a foot tall the whole carousel rotates and the horses, with their miniature cotton-candy bearing riders, rise and fall as they revolve. Small lights flash and tiny mirrors reflect the joy of the viewer as it plays a carnival-esque melody. I could stand here all day, hypnotized by the whole routine, but there are so many other treats to behold I drag myself away.

Similar to the carousel there's a much smaller town fair going on in the first row of shelves. There's a Ferris-wheel and a tea-cup-ride and other various related pleasures. My daughter stops in front of a fascinating piece only slightly smaller than my merry-go-round. It's a small stage. The curtain is closed and it is labeled "The Nutcracker in Three Parts." She flips the switch and the curtain opens. As the music plays a pair of dancers spin onto the stage, dance for a moment, then leave as the curtain closes. The curtain opens again on an entirely new scene. More dancers enter, perform, and exit as the curtain closes. Finally the whole thing happens one more time before the show ends and the curtains close for good. Exquisite. We can hardly contain our applause. My daughter marvels at how much her best friend, a dancer, would adore this. I marvel at the craftsmanship... and the price. Fair to say I have diamonds that cost less (although their quality and "authenticity" may be called into question.) As we stand there admiring, an older gentleman approaches from my daughter's left and comments on the music box. Still lulled by our fascination we exchange a few brief words about its beauty and move further down the row. I think he may still have been talking.

At the end of the aisle is a display of items pertaining to "The Wizard of Oz." We quietly begin discussing the Children's Theater organization we are involved with back home-- how this reminds us of doing that show, how wonderful one of these would be as a gift or silent auction item. The older gentleman, who has managed to wander back up to us, uses our exchange to strike-up a conversation with my daughter-- Oh she does musical theater? For how long? What a wonderful opportunity. She is chatting up a storm selling the program's greatest strengths. He begins telling her about the local Karaoke night here in town. He suggests she should go. They need some strong singers. She mentions that we are just passing through. They continue to exchange polite conversation and I pull ahead, endeavoring down an aisle with more pop culture items. Less to my liking than the carousels, Ferris-wheels, and theaters, but still pretty to look at. (I am the Queen Mum of literal window shoppe-ers.) When I pause to look at a "Lord of the Rings" set I notice a giant crystal dragon perched on a mountain top, wings spread, ready for flight. Something I imagine my other son would enjoy. (Because he's only 13 and there still may be a chance to turn him.) I ponder there a moment too long. A man coming down the aisle in the opposite direction catches up to me. He makes a comment about the Harry Potter statues. I nod make an "mmhmm" sound and turn sharply to my left, cutting back, circling behind him and heading the rest of the way on to the final aisle in the lower section.

My daughter has fallen behind as the man I ditched closes in on her from the other side like a Velociraptor. I am keeping my eyes on the situation as I pretend to examine a wall of Anniversary Clocks like the one my parents had. Some hang on the wall and some sit on a low counter, but they all share the commonality of some sort of revolving, spherically shaped pendulum pieces that spin below the clock's face. The ones on the counter are like my parent's. The clock face stands on pillars with the balls twirling beneath it, closed in a glass case like the Enchanted Rose in Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." The ones hanging on the wall are a bit more contemporary, still spinning but with a more modern twist of one sort or another. Nothing I like as much as the one I grew up with.

While I am peripherally watching my daughter trying to extract herself to my left, an older man silently appears to my right, as though he has risen from the floor or appeared from vapor. I am completely unaware of his presence until he speaks, "These ones here light up." He immediately reaches forward and begins pushing buttons and turning knobs. Each clock begins to whir and spin and one begins to glow neon and sing an Elvis tune. My mouth agape in awe. Where the hell did this guy come from? I look at the spot on the floor where he magically appeared for only the briefest moment, trying to find the answer, before panic sets in. I speak not a word. I quickly place my left foot behind my right, calling upon my long unused dancer's skills and pirouette around a half turn into a leap. I make my break and as I do, two things occur to me: One, no one in the store with us is under the age of 70. Two, we are the only two not employed here! Everyone we assumed was a fellow browsing customer is actually a sales person, confined to a certain area. Plants! In slow motion I see myself sprinting passed the aisle my daughter is trying to maneuver. The man who wants her to do Karaoke has stopped at the boundary of his section, but he still continues to try and entice her back stretching with zombie-like arms in her direction. The Harry Potter man is hot on her tail, doing his best to keep up with her, but slowed by what may have been a hip replacement. Her eyes are a mirror of mine. Sheer panic. I suddenly feel like Tippi Hedren in "The Birds." Everywhere I look there is a calm old person, confined, waiting, watching, silent but for the sound of their pace-maker regulated breathing.

I am instantly determined to get out of this creepy place. As I approach the stairs Granny hovers at the top, perched by the handrail which divides the up and down sides. I slide passed her as she extends a claw and offers some sort of discount. At the top of the stairs I look down the aisle. There is a counter on either side. One is in front of the wall of clocks and contains trinkets and jewelry. The opposite side contains Pet Rock figurines. (Little polished pebbles and stones, with googley eyes glued on them and placed in peculiar situations-- sitting behind stone desks in "the office"; one big googley-eyed rock looking over several baby googley-eyed pebbles; a googley-eyed rock with a fishing pole and miniature fishing hat glued to it.) At the end of this row of counters I can see the door. Bright light struggles to break the barrier, pushed back by the impending darkness and gloom of Ye Really Olde People Shoppe. Each countertop is manned by an elderly woman. How can this place afford to employ one old person per 5 square feet? Maybe they can't. Maybe they are trapped here in some devilish, time-ravaging, soul-stealing trap. Maybe I'm next!

I spare the briefest thought for the fallen. My daughter. I can always mount a search and rescue after my escape but one of us has to make it out alive to warn others. It's our civic duty. Besides, it's her own fault. I told her a million times, "Never talk to strangers." She knew the mission was dangerous when she took it. Well, maybe not, but its every woman for herself now and I know she can out-sprint me. May God save her soul. I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me. I hope it's her, but I can't be sure.

I begin my advance on the door. The two women behind the counters hobble parallel to me. One falls behind almost immediately but the one to my left is spry. "Would you like to see some earrings?" she howls as I pull ahead. The light assaults my eyes as I close-in on the door. Suddenly, a large figure looms in the lighted doorway. An aged Lurch-like figure is running interference for the cronies. There is a loud whirring sound all around me. Is that helicopters? Do I smell Napalm? (I'm too young for Vietnam flashbacks!) No. Wait...I think that's Bengay. The whirring abruptly explodes into a array of chimes, crows, bells and other various racket as the Hell-Wall of cuckoo clocks bursts into a menagerie of noise. (Maybe hearing this every hour is what drove these poor souls over the edge.) I tuck my purse up under my arm and hunker down for my end-run around Lurch. He attempts to place a curse on me as I barrel, shoulder first, passed him. The spell sounds something like 'Have a nice day. Come again,' but I'm not sure because it was drowned out by someone's high pitched scream of "You'll never take me alive!"

I'm blinded by the light as it washes over me. I turn just in time to reach for my daughter's hand, clawing her way out of the darkness. As I pull her to me the door closes and the sign flips to read "Closed." I think I heard cackling. We stood clinging to each other in the fading sunlight, panting but relieved to have escaped with our good looks and young skin. She turns her head and looks up at me, her face awash in horror and says, "I can't believe you tried to ditch me!"

So much for that magical Mother/Daughter experience.

(Note from the Author: I have awakened one too many nights, amid a pre-menopausal hot-flash, to the screaming of the cuckoo; the resonating, "Would you like to see some earrings," still hanging heavy in the air. As you can tell the vivid details of my experience have never left me. Like all good horror stories, there must be a sequel and so, for your benefit I am embarking on my first trip back to the dainty Danish village of my nightmares. I feel it is my duty to unearth more of this mystery. The story must be told. This time, for safety sake, I will be heavily armed. I'm taking the whole family (including my seventy something Mother-in-law!) If things go well I'm considering the titles: "Return of the Old Birds ...This Time It's Personal!" OR "The Hills Have Googley Eyes!" If things do not go well, and you don't see any more of me, it's important that you know...I WANT YOU TO COME AND GET ME!)