Laura Erickson’s For the Birds

Ludwig thrived. But being raised by a human instead of a within a Blue Jay family meant his education was different from what a normal Blue Jay would have. The first time he took a bath in the kitchen sink, he soaked himself so thoroughly that each flight feather became a sodden, stringy, heavy mess. He hopped up to the edge of the sink with no problem, but when he tried to fly across the room to the table, he dropped to the floor like a rock. I picked him up on my finger and he stayed put while preening to dry off. Even with me patting him with paper towels, it took half an hour to restore his feathers to flying condition.

I learned that there was no way I’d qualify for state and federal permits to keep Ludwig permanently, so as soon as he started to take short flights, I started taking him outdoors to help him learn some of the skills he’d need to become independent. I was terrified the first time I set him in the branches of a bush—what if he flew off and I never saw him again? How would he survive? I realized that parent birds easily keep track of their fledglings and can reach them even in the highest trees, but I was a mere human. Fortunately, fledglings also keep track of their parents; the first week or so, Ludwig never strayed far from me.

For the first few days, when I couldn’t stay out with him, he’d happily come inside with me. As he got more independent, especially after he discovered mulberries in the back of the yard and delectable fruits further afield in the neighborhood, he’d spend minutes, and then hours, on his own.

In the evening or when rain was imminent, I’d call for him from the yard. Once I noticed my neighbor staring at me, making me feel like Samantha on the show “Bewitched,” when she’d call, “Mother! Mother!” into the bushes. Calling “Ludwig! Ludwig!” seemed even more bizarre.

Sometimes I couldn’t wait for him and went inside. When he was ready to come in, he’d look through our basement apartment windows until he saw us and peck at the glass to catch our attention.

By this time, he also was also starting, at long last, to make Blue Jay vocalizations. Now when he wanted my attention, he’d make a squawk that sounded like “Ma! Ma!” which I of course found hilarious.

Late one afternoon, a huge storm blew in while Ludwig was outside. As ominously dark clouds built up, I searched for him and called, but he didn’t come. This was the kind of rainstorm that starts out with a huge cloudburst, so I gave up and went inside. Every lightning bolt and blast of thunder made me more anxious.

When the rain finally stopped, I ran out and called for Ludwig. I couldn’t find him in my own yard or nearby, so I hopped on my bike and started riding through the neighborhood, calling his name. Finally, a few blocks away I found him, sitting on a telephone line directly above a bus stop, feathers so plastered against his body that he didn’t look anything like a Blue Jay—just a gray, sodden mass squawking “Ma! Ma!” A dozen or so people were waiting for the bus as I pulled my bike to a stop. That was back when I still clung to a shred of a sense of dignity, and I felt my face grow hot as I called, “C’mon down, Ludwig!” He dropped like a rock, fortunately onto the slim strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. He hopped up to me yelling, “Ma! Ma!” as the people stared and laughed.

Thanks to this spunky little Blue Jay, what was left of my sense of dignity was fading away. That internal radar system so desperately focused on any sign of disapproval or ridicule makes it hard for many people to follow their own lights; we can get so wrapped up in self-consciousness that we forget that absurdities are part of everybody’s life. We need to outgrow that to become our genuine selves which, intriguingly, means to become more like Blue Jays. That was one of the important lessons I took from those magical days with Ludwig.

One morning when pouring out my Rice Krispies, out of the box came a little “prize”—a bright red rubber-band-powered propeller. I wound it up and the propeller glided off through the dining room. For a few seconds, Ludwig was spellbound as it floated through the air; suddenly he took off and grabbed it in midair. I called, and he brought it to me. That’s how we learned to play a fun game of fetch. It was even more fun in the backyard without walls or ceiling to get in the way. Over and over I’d shoot it up and he’d race after it and bring it back. One time it landed on our apartment building’s roof. He flew up to retrieve it, but the moment he landed on the hot roof tiles, he keeled over on his side. His crest went up, one wing and his tail spread out, his beak opened, and he froze. I thought he was having a seizure.

I called but he didn’t move. In a panic, I rushed to the basement where our landlord kept a ladder, lugged it out, and climbed up to the roof, not even thinking about how scared I am of heights as I rushed toward him. But as my hand reached out to grasp him, he shook his head, stood up, grabbed the propeller, and flew onto my shoulder as if nothing had happened.

I called Malcolm about that, and he laughed, explaining about how birds sunbathe, especially on hot, sunny days. This innate behavior raises the temperature of a bird’s skin and feathers, probably helping to banish some parasites. I’d read about that in my ornithology text books, but was still shocked to see it in real life. I really thought Ludwig was dying.

Ludwig kept his collection of toys—some shiny buttons, a rubber band, that Rice Krispies propeller, and an old ring—in a ceramic cup. Now and then he’d take out his treasures one by one, arranging them in a line, and then put them all back into the cup. Once in a while, he’d fly off with one and hide it somewhere. Once he wedged a button in the crevice between the dining room window frame and the sash, and we had to work the button out with a knife before we could open the window.

One day I gave Ludwig a few sunflower seeds. He tucked them away with his other toys, not realizing they were food. A day or two later, I bit one open and ate the seed in front of him, then cracked open another and gave him the seed. He was thrilled! Years later, when we gave our toddler Joey his first Starburst candy, he especially loved the colorful wrapper, calling it “present candy.” That reminded me of how Ludwig loved sunflower seeds as much for the packaging as for the seed within.

A family of Blue Jays lived somewhere near us, and whenever Ludwig found himself on their territory, the adults would chase him off, sometimes following him a ways. He quickly discovered that they were afraid of me; then when I was outside, he’d occasionally taunt them, getting them to chase him into our yard; he’d alight on my head and turn to face them as if saying, “My mom’s bigger than your mom!” As their own babies grew more independent, the adults grew tolerant of Ludwig.

By summer’s end, he was spending most nights outside somewhere—I’d see him just once or twice a day and he no longer wanted to come indoors. The last day I saw him was the last day of summer vacation. Through that fall and winter, whenever I saw a Blue Jay, I wondered if it could be Ludwig.

The next year, when Russ and I were in Chicago during spring vacation, a warm breeze floated into Madison. Our next-door neighbor was out sunning herself when she spotted a Blue Jay alight on each of our apartment windows, peeking in and tapping on the glass. He landed on her lawn chair and studied her a bit, and then tried the windows once more, and finally flew off. I felt so sad when she told me I’d missed him, but so joyful to know that he’d survived the winter. He had a whole rich life ahead of him. Five decades later, I still feel a quiet joy knowing that even as he was leading his life as a proper Blue Jay should do, he kept in his mind a little memory of me.