Crows

It’s been over five years, since old Willie Odemann’s farm underwent development, but the crows keep coming—hoping the corn will come back, I think. When I was trying to take a shortcut a few weeks back, I saw some strawberries growing wild alongside that sixty-some apartment complex where mostly corn used to grow.

   But you can’t really take shortcuts no more. Everyone’s has to fence their little piece of land these days. Stingy folks really. Unless you can jump and climb like a kid, you can’t take shortcuts no more. At my age, you got to go around the fences. Truth be told, I know darn well that I could make better time going the way they want me to go. It’s the principle. Don’t like being told where I can go any more than I did when I was younger. Eight or eighty, it don’t matter. Once you are a rebel, you will always be a rebel. You just might look ridiculous sometimes, when you are my age and standing up for your principles.

   Like strawberries. Strawberries grow like weeds. They don’t care if apartment complexes try to get in their way. So, I’m thinking, that is why Willie Odemann’s strawberries keep on growing long after he is dead and buried. I learned about these rebel strawberries, taking my soda pop cans to the can-crusher. Yup; there isn’t a lot of money in pop cans anymore, and mechanic can-crushers are going extinct—but it’s the principle. I do my best to keep Mother Earth tidy and make an honest penny whenever possible.

  Some of these crows were larger, uglier, and more aggressive than in previous years. I noted that they seemed at home in the flock but could turn on their smaller brethren in the blink of an eye, resorting to cannibalism. 

  I had been studying the birds, since tulip time. At the end of June, I found a little brownish kid, his homely little dog and a gaggle of crows, including four giant red-faced ones, eating strawberries that were pushing cowlick-straight between the sidewalk cracks. Then, I saw berries growing everywhere. Next day, I set out to pick a pail for myself. Had my heart set on some strawberry-rhubarb pie. What a great deal, I thought, having rhubarb and now some strawberries too. But--dab burn it! —if there wasn’t a single scrap left. I never suspected the crows. Not right away.

   Crows just ain’t happy without corn. I wish I had a big backyard. I’d grow some corn. I wouldn’t take pot shots with Daddy’s old BB-gun neither, when the crow came calling. I’d say,

“I know what it is like to get the short end of the stick; I know what it is like to have the rug pulled out from under you. Eat up, Crows!” 

  I love all God’s creatures, but Odemann’s crows are cantankerous creatures—smart and mean too. Bigger than most. Mutants, I suspect. A striking difference from those outside the Valley.

  Like any self-educated person, I get teased by people who think that I spend too much time on my subjects. That is where being a rebel helps. You get used to people thinking that you’re up to nonsense. Best thing is you don’t care very much. A self-taught mad scientist that is what I am!

   When I was a girl, I dabbled in everything from making ant poison soup to shaking a jar of bees to see how mad they could get. Like a lot of people back then, I didn’t think animals knew pain or had emotions—like revenge.

   I tried to catch a crow specimen to send down to Madison. That is what people do, when they find some freak of nature. I don’t care if it is an ugly caterpillar or a two-headed toad, people will advise you to send it down to the state lab for identification. Then I found out it costs money. Maybe this time I will charge them!

  I do have some background with crows. I remember Willie Odemann’s grandson Manny took a baby crow under his people-wing one year. Taught it all kinds of tricks, but I knew they were more mannerisms. Natural tendencies. Blackbeard the Crow would steal things out of men’s pockets and ladies’ purses. It could bark like and a dog and say “hello” in Manny’s voice. Too bad Blackbeard’s dog bark didn’t scare the barn cat that struck ’im down in his prime.

   I know crows are omnivores, but I never saw them hunting rabbits and squirrels until now.  When I saw the migrant boy again, he was alone kicking a soccer ball around that place where the strawberries had grown.  Speaking slowly and implementing rudimentary sign language, I asked him if the apartment people ate up all the fruit.

   “Crows—they ate the berries! And,” he started to sob, “Charley, too! The big ones. The Kings took my dog,” young Luis wailed, strangling the air with clenched fists. “Oh, Charley! Nobody believes me.” 

  “I believe you,” I tried to console him, but I could tell that if only one person in the world believed him, he wondered why did it have to be the strange old pop-can lady?  “Like a flock of bullies, those crows,” I told him. “Mad about their cornfield disappearing. Corn was kinda their God. The center of their world. When they saw that the land isn’t being planted, they got mighty ornery.

  “Put yourself in a crow’s place. People can go to the store to get corn any ole time. Get it on the cob, in a can, in a freezer package. We take it for granted that we can eat corn 365-days a year. Three times a day, if we wanted to. Not crows. These mutant crows ain’t afraid to get even.”

   The boy, Luis, had stopped crying. I was throwing a lot of words at him, and it seemed like he understood. I imagined the puzzled look on his little dog, as the hunter became the hunted. I think Charley may have been just as surprised as Blackbeard the Crow was when his bark didn’t scare the barn cat many years ago.

   It isn’t right for crows to be eating little boys’ dogs. I promised Luis that I would do what I could to put an end to their carnage.

   I tried to warn folks. The five o’clock news had recently reported that a kid on garbage detail at the Burger Boy was badgered by a flock of crows.  Around July 4^th, the fireworks and commotion sent them into a lull of inactivity for nearly seven days. A welcomed reprieve for those of us who knew about them.

   I never finished high school. I married and started a family, when Earl got back from the War. But I have always read a lot and did my best to know about world affairs.  I, particularly, enjoy nature, and I have been keeping notes on these mutant crows—Odemann’s Urbana Corvus. That’s what I named ’em. Luis and I plotted to trap a live specimen, but we had to be selective. We needed to zero in on what we dubbed the King Crows. The ones that we knew had taken Charley.

  Soon after our plans were drawn, a respectable man of science conveniently came to town. Ornithologist Dr. Jefferson Early from the state university was here to advise city government about a mysterious die-off of Canada geese on our part of Lake Winnebago. 

  My nephew Russell drives me once a week to get groceries or sometimes more—if there is a funeral or a special research fieldtrip. Good thing for me that Russell still isn’t married, because I don’t know what his wife would say to this. Russell is a dentist. He just hasn’t found the right teeth-cleaning girl to settle down with. I told him there is no rush. I had two husbands. They’re both dead already. 

   So, because he is so nice and because he has his own business, Russell agreed to make an extra trip to take me down to city hall to see the bird man. I had not told him about the bird man, but Russell snickered a little when he saw my knapsack overflowing with my field notebooks, camera and binoculars. I promised to take a taxicab home this time. He seemed to believe it, but I would never waste my money on a highway-robber. I would worry about getting home later.

  Betty, the city government desk clerk, told me that the mayor was at the Senior Citizen Center for breakfast. “Helen,” she added, “have you tried the Center?” She knew the darn answer. “You should give it a try? They do lots of fun things there.”

  I bit my tongue. I always thought that Russell and Betty might make a good couple. But line dancing, chatty luncheons and rummage sales weren’t my thing. 

  “I’m here to see Dr. Jefferson Early,” I told her.

  “I believe he’s at Grant Park,” she said, checking her desk calendar. 

   “Dab burn it! Russell’s gone. He just dropped me off. Did you see, he has a convertible now?”

  “Really?” Betty sighed.

   “Yeah, a topless car. Messed my hair. Don’t you just hate riding in topless cars?”

  “I would love it,” said the thirty-something divorcee. “It would be fun.”

  “If you really think so,” I winked, “I could ask Russell to take you for a ride.”

   “Oh, I don’t think he’d take a stranger.”

  “You’re no stranger,” I said. “If I’m not talking to you about Russell, I am talking to Russell about you. “Betty blushed. “You know I think that you two would make a nice couple. You probably admire a man who takes care of his kin. But right now, I need to get to Grant Park because I don’t have a ride.”

   “One of the park-and-rec guys can take you,” she offered, flagging one down.

  Pete was never happy about acting as my personal chauffeur. Truth be told, he isn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. He asked me if I was still chasing crows. I didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. At the park, Pete barely came to a stop. He mumbled that he had more important things to do.  

   “That’s Early over there,” he said, stabbing the air with his finger. “The tall, skinny man with the health department guys.” 

  Pete cleared his throat, waiting for me to gather myself and my things but didn’t bother to help expedite the process. I thanked him and thought about making him some special laxative-laced brownies for his trouble.

  “Doctor Early,” I called to him.

  He was a skinny man with a boyish face. 

  “With whom do I have the pleasure?”

    “Helen Leavens Hochholzer.” I could see that it was a lot for him to digest, so I added, “You may call me Helen.”

  “Helen,” he nodded. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi. Rick!  Hi, James! ”  I waved to the health department men. “Doctor Early, I know that you are here to study the Canadian geese—“

  “Canada,” he corrected me. “Canada geese. Most people call them Canadian, but that is not correct,” he softened the blow.

   “Canada geese,” I submitted, oddly in wonder that I was in the majority for once. “This kill happens every now and again,” I offered. “It’s the dandelion poison. Every now and again the summer help doesn’t read the directions right, and our city, accidentally, thins the flocks. I told the city hall folks about it. I wrote the editor. I even wrote you people in Madison. “

   “Really?” Jefferson Early raised his brow.

    “What’s even more interesting,” I advised, “is the crows here.”

  “Crows?” exclaimed Early, the furrows in his brow suddenly aging his face.

   “We grow ‘em big here, sir. Big as turkeys—they could feed a family of four! Mutants. Maybe they’ve been eating fish by the nuclear plant. I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, retrieving my red stenography pad. ” I’ve been keeping a journal. I have some feathers comparisons. These are the ones belonging to the largest of the Odemann Urbana Corvus—this new sub-species.”

   I thrust forward the drawing that I had made in the field. 

   “These birds have lips and a beak?” Somehow, I had missed this embarrassing drawing mistake. “Purplish crown, yellow eyes—lacking pupils? According to this measurement scale, they are nearly two feet tall?”

  “That part is right. Forget the smile and the eyes with no pupils. Look I’m no artist, but the yellow eyes and the size is true to life.”  I fumbled through the pad. 

  My gnarly left hand was in a hinderance, and the Walgreens photographs fluttered to the ground. The scholar quickly retrieved them, scanning them with his eyes as he stood.

“These are ravens,” he uttered.

  “No, sir. I thought that at first too. Look at the beak, the neck, the tail! All of these are characteristics of the Common Corvus. Not a large Corvid or a giant Turdus Merula?” He seemed impressed, looking closely at the photographs.

  He examined the plums inside a clear plastic freezer bag. “Some of these feathers interest me,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps if you give me your name and number...”

   “Please, Doctor!”   I directed to him to a picture of one of the King Crows. His jaw dropped. “Put the Canada Geese and the dandelion poison to bed, and I will share my find with you. We will march to Madison. We need to squelch their numbers while we can.” I could feel my hot-headed German ancestry coming to the forefront. “These crows are wicked, dog-eaters!

  “Dr. Early,” I insisted, “these birds are killing family pets as we speak. Please, I can take you to them. You can see for yourself.”

   “Helen—you have found something extraordinary. These definitely are not ravens,” he nodded his head, and directed the health department people to drive us to what remained of the Odemann homestead just north of the city limits. 

  This was extremely convenient, because my home was in one of the four units that comprised Willie Odemann’s farmhouse. Near remnants of an old apple orchard, we happened upon the scene of Luis with his new friends, from the apartment complex, throwing sticks and stones at the birds. Luis was sitting on a squawking cardboard box.

“These aren’t ravens,” Dr. Early said in a soft, far-off voice.

“Exactly!” I agreed.

“They’re not common crows.”

“Precisely!”

“These are black Caracaras!” he shouted with glee. “Remarkable!”

  It was a case of gross misidentification, and I was a little embarrassed. I had not considered comparing the King Crows to the Black Caracaras of northern South America. Turns out, Luis and I had found four of six glossy black falcon birds that had unceremoniously escaped from the Milwaukee Zoo. It was pandemonium and publicity, securing our birds. The other two were never reported found, and surely would not survive a Wisconsin winter.  

  While I did not find a new mutant sub-species of crow, Luis and I made the front pages of many national newspapers. We even were flown to the Big Apple to guest star on early morning and late-night TV shows.

  When the story had run its course, the thrill of the experience lived on in both Luis and me. The next spring, fewer crows came back to roost in what was left of an outbuilding that stood in ruins on the remaining  Odemann acreage marked for development. Like us, the Corvus diehards likely remembered the excitement of the King Crows.