A number of years ago, the bird population of Illinois and other Midwestern states was nearly devastated by West Nile virus. For reasons I never quite understood, crows, jays and magpies -- which are all part of the same family -- were particularly hard hit.
When I was a caddy, one of the things I loved was the pugnacious behavior of Blue Jays -- and also finding their feathers on the golf-course, that other-worldly blue of the tail feathers that you'd find on the ground after the annual spring molt.
It was like finding small treasures; other caddies would pick them up for me when they spotted them, knowing how much I liked them. The idea of the Blue Jay population being damn near wiped out made me immensely sad. They've come back some since -- but not like they used to be. When I caddied, if a golfer got too close to a Blue Jay nest, the female would dive-bomb the poor fucker and peck at him. I laughed my ass off many times watching grown men run away from these birds -- while trying to shield their heads with a putter.
The females are the bad-asses of the species -- fool with them at your peril. They are busybodies, loud-mouths and bullies, little gangsters who muscle other birds out of their nests.
They also love shiny objects: bottle caps, foil, keys -- all of these things have been found in Blue Jay nests. They are born thieves.
When I was a kid, this was my favorite bird to draw -- I enjoyed the black, blue and white lines -- they were fun to draw and looked nutty in my renderings. I often drew women's heads onto bird bodies and this made my teachers crazy. One time in 7th grade, one of my dip-shit teachers told me to only draw birds with bird heads. Sister Elaine. When she turned her back I muttered, "Maybe you ought to mind your own fucking business. . . ."
My mom was always sending peace offerings to the nuns. Homemade bread, little bottles of Jean Nate, which I told my mom was like putting socks on a pig. My mom thought she could make the nuns like me.
They would tell me they knew it was me -- and God help me if they caught me. I'd tell them -- if they didn't catch me -- I didn't do it.
The brides of Christ looked upon me with a jaundiced eye. My philosophy was -- return fire -- if they were going to make my life miserable -- I believed I would share the pain.
I started referring to Sister Regina as "Reggie" or "Slappy." When she would sarcastically say, "Good Morning Mr. Fitzpatrick, nice of you to grace us with your presence."
I'd say, "Glad I could be here Slappy -- How's life in the Mental Home?" Then she would go bat-shit and send me home with a note -- which I would ditch -- and I get suspended for a couple of days -- how's that for punishment?
"Oh -- you can't come to school for three days"? Boo-Hoo. Wow. . . hurt me.
In early folklore, Blue Jays were thought to be hand-servants of the devil because of their noisy and boisterous nature.
I remember them as a pleasant and mysterious part of childhood -- the mystery being -- you would see them every day for a while -- a week or so -- and then they would disappear for six months --until I'd almost forget about them and then they'd be back -- I was always wondering where the fuck they went? They were the Houdinis of the natural world.
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