To catch a crow

Joe was only 9 years old, but he knew he could train the crow. He knew if he called and showed the bird shiny things it would just be a matter of time before it would come to him. I’ll will it, he thought. Just like he’d willed the shiny new roller skates he got last year for Christmas. Dad had told him it was a pipe dream. That cold, grey, freeze your tongue to the light post morning, there they were. For Joe, with love at Christmas – Mrs. Claus. 

The skates were bullet silver, and probably could go as fast as a bullet too, if Joe hit the sweet spot on top of the hill at Toronto St. Just as he’d tackled that hill on those supposedly elusive skates, he knew he’d be victorious here – it was a burning in his gut that had not yet led him wrong.

Two days in and the crow still hadn’t come to him, but Joe had proof that the bird was following him. He saw him everywhere – on the hydro wires leading out of town, at the school yard, and at the swimming hole. The crow had also left trinket gifts on the side porch of the old Victorian home where Joe lived with his parents, Sam and Mabel. A piece of red yarn, a silver bell and a skate key.

Patience. I just need to have patience. Joe set off again, tin plates in hand, silver wrapping paper and tinsel left over from last Christmas. With nimble fingers, he knotted the tinsel to his bike handles and fashioned a makeshift toolbelt from which he hung the plates. He was a cacophony on wheels and drew out the barber, the florist and the baker onto the main street to see what the racket was about. It was about attracting the crow Joe had discovered liked following him, at a distance at first but then gaining confidence and curiosity about this pied piper that all animals seemed to seek out.

Since it was a Saturday, Joe decided his first stop would be the ice cream parlour. It was never too early for a Knickerbocker Glory and a Coke Float, and the courtyard was the perfect hangout for him and Fred Peters, his best friend since kindergarten and one part of the Toronto St. Troublemakers. They were aptly named because of their penchant for spying on the religious cult that lived two streets over, late night cow tipping and a scandal that involved stealing pies cooling off on the spinster sisters’ kitchen windowsill. Boys will be boys, his mother would often say, but it also meant a long line of neighbours who had become victims to Joe and Fred’s creative exploits. And while harmless, these games sometimes led to the receiving end of his dad’s old belt.

This was no exploit though. This was a spy game of sorts, drawing out their subject, studying it and luring it to come closer and closer. Today is the day, Joe decided. He could feel it. The sky was crystal blue, with no cloud in sight, the wind hanging onto the trees as they swayed to and fro – it was the perfect day to catch a crow.

“What took you so long?” Fred asked. He was already knuckle-deep in his own Knickerbocker, ice cream dripping down his chin and landing on his chino shirt before resting on his flood-length Levi’s. Fred, only a few months younger than Joe, was tall for his age – gigantically tall. His long, meaty fingers tucked into his aged leather belt, now on the last hole and soon to receive a new hole hammered in with a nail. 

“You know how hard it is to get anything past Mabel,” said Joe. “I know it can’t be true but she really does seem to have eyes in the back of her head.” Joe’s hands touched the plates that reverberated off each other, attracting attention to the two boys.

“Keep it down, will you?” Fred said. “My dad’s just around the corner. If he thinks we’re up to something, I’m done.”

“That’s nothing. My dad threatened me with a switch that will cut me right through. Worse, Mom will break her last wooden spoon on my butt, and then I’ll really be in for it,” countered Joe. “Hold my bike while I look for my allowance.” He handed Fred the souped-up old bike that still held his baseball cards in the spokes. Joe slinked into the shop, hoping he wouldn’t draw too much attention and he could get his own Knickerbocker without any questions about what he and Fred were up to. Mrs. Henderson, the proprietor’s wife, had her ears to the ground, and as part-time telephone operator for the town, she had the means to distribute the news in mere minutes.

Success. Joe emerged from the shop with his take-away ice cream, quickly spooning gobs of ice cream into his mouth.

“Okay, here’s the plan. We ride out to the cornfields at Old Highway 109 that separates Markdale from Meaford. We’ll start tying the tinsel to the top of the corn rows – you’ll have to do that since you’ve got the height – and then we will hide in the field until he comes flying by,” said Joe, outlining the plan in a veiled whisper in between bites.

“What about the plates – what will we do with those?”

Joe sighed. “We talked about this before. We’ll set those down just on the outskirts of the field – he’ll come in to investigate, and then we’ll slowly walk out so we don’t spook the little guy.”

An hour and a pool of sweat later, they had arrived, undetected by anyone who would have suspected this was more than a mere bike ride. Fred quickly got to the task of bending the stalks down and tying the tinsel in a staggered pattern, glistening, taunting in the mid-afternoon sun. Joe, meanwhile, unhooked the six swiped tin pie plates from his holster and laid them out haphazardly, noticeable only to those with better than 20-20 vision – and his crow.

It was time to hide. Fred and Joe walked into the cornfield, the height of the corn a foot or more above their heads, even Fred’s. Crouching down, they tried to conceal themselves as much as possible. Joe’s old school trousers had seen better days, which was why he’d chosen them. They were also the colour of the soil surrounding the corn, his hair, eyes, and the freckles that stretched across his nose.

“Did you have to wear white socks, Fred?” Fred’s pant leg had creeped up as he pretzelled his expansive frame into the crouching tiger stance he’d taken. 

Just as Fred was about to readjust, the wind changed, and with it came a muffled sound of wings against the stalks. “He’s here,” Joe whispered, pointing two fingers to his eyes and then to the Cerulean sky.

Landing only two feet away was Joe’s Crow, quick-stepping to the plates before rising to try to pluck the tinsel from the top of the corn. Giving Fred a thumbs up, Joe slowly stood to his full 5 ft. height, moving stealth-like through the rows until he stood just on the perimeter, watching the crow with his treasure. Fred stayed in position, not wanting to divulge his coordinates nor wanting to spook the bird.

Joe stood ramrod still, for what seemed like hours, but was only two or three minutes. Suddenly, the crow’s head pivoted, two beady, midnight orbs linking with Joe’s brown eyes. Neither of them moved. Or blinked. A tether connecting the two. A jump and a sqwauk, an invitation from the crow to make his acquaintance. Joe slowly stepped out, one foot, one leg at a time, with no movement on the crow’s part. He wanted to make friends, Joe realized.

A long line of tinsel still fully entrenched in his peak, Joe’s Crow hopped in closer, one eye on the Indian summer sky and one linked with Joe. He laid the tinsel on the gravel shoulder, seemingly offering up the tinsel as a present. A peace offering. Friendship.

With skillful fingers, Joe plucked the silver thread and clenched it between two fingers before holding it up in the air, a hand length away from the crow, a steady stream of air making it dance. The tinsel stretched out further into the sky, beckoning the bird.

“Look Joe, he’s getting ready to fly off,” Peter said, coming to stand beside Joe. And with that, Joe’s crow opened its wings and soared up, grabbing the tinsel in its beak before roosting on the hydro wires. The crow held Joe’s gaze with razor-sharp focus for a minute, then spread his wings and took off toward town.

It was the start of a friendship that would span years.