Two Jays and a Friendship

May 12, 2011

I spot the jay fearlessly entering my yard, land perfectly on my fake-redwood fence and listen to it chatter.

“Hello, Mr. Jay,” I say encouraging his visits, excited that a beauty, such as this royal blue flapper, chose our garden to plop down for a breather, even if for a short time.

I don’t know if my amiable welcome brought him back, but the jay returns now as soon as I walk out in the backyard, whirling by me and again landing on the fence, then the pine tree and finally swooping by as though he too wants to say hi to my waves and smiles.

“Whaa --hack…whahack…whack,” he seems to say with a screech. “Whaaaaaaack…. Whaaack.”

Days go by and I happily go out to garden in the warm sun with my two dogs, just to see if the jay will return. He does, time and time again, but because he has no crest like the mountain jays I’ve witnessed, I begin to wonder what type of bird blesses us with his presence.

Finally, I settle on the stunning Western Scrub-Jay and discover jays in general have a complicated family life, mating system and that females have the carbon-copy plumage of males! This is a rarity in the world of feathers, where the males seem to get the handsome, colorful tints and hues while the females land more drab shades – at least to us.

Later, I learn on a crisp, cool morning with mist threading its way through the yard  that I’m not seeing one jay but two as they land on my rooftop and raucously squawk at me, their azure blue silhouettes cocking from side to side. They are telling me they are making this their home: a nest.

One of the jays flies down from the rooftop and settles on my porch railing, peering at me and screeching: “Whaaaaaaaaaaackahacka….Whacka!”

I can’t believe it when he – or she – lands on our porch railing where our big cat, Buddy, lies curled up just a few feet away. Buddy is aggressive, to say the least, and the main reason we have so many tailless lizards in our yard.

Buddy appears not to care, and neither does the jay. It might not be the jays that need to worry – it might be the cat.  Jays and their relations, like crows, will mob creatures that try to attack them – or their nests.

I can’t help but worry about the soon-to-come chirping babies, but it doesn’t matter what I think.  The mom and dad like it here in the yard, shadows stretching in the morning over an abundance of unwanted crabgrass and other weeds. Most of our regular plants must make do in the shadows of our cypress and pine.  Some of them seldom catch the sun’s warming rays.

I know my husband won’t like it (he says nature takes care of itself), but I set out a few nuts for my new buddies – acquaintances that certainly show their appreciation by squawking with more “whaaahacks…” and returning the next morning with precious hellos.

I still haven’t discovered where their nest is – but that doesn’t matter. I know they are planning a home, and that brings me great pleasure.

“Hey!” my husband shouts excitedly into the yard. “Have you noticed we have a blue jay visiting?”

Saturday, March 26, 2010

Two Eggs and Two Lies

By Diana L. Chapman

I peered down at the pinkish-champagne, colored eggs plunked in the grass by an apparently not-so-motherly peafowl.

They had sat there now for two days in my backyard, lonely and cold, on wet,  crab grass. The peahen must have forgotten her chicklets needed nurturing and warmth. Another theory -- a ravenous raccoon raided a nest in our Monterey Pine, which doubles as the Peacock Inn.

Every night, peacocks by the scores swoop into the tree so boisterous with screeching life that of course there has to be the other side – death.

Picking up the eggs, they were rock hard and dead. Still, I rinsed them off gently and carried them inside. For some reason, the two eggs reminded me of the two lies I had made on the secretlifeinmybackyard blog, which has gone long ignored for months.

In the beginning, I was so excited about plunging into that world, revealing the life-and-death struggles that exist in this rectangular plot of land at Los Angeles’ most southern tip, one that if you ventured much further you’d plunge into swirling, white-capped Pacific.

When starting this blog, I promised readers that I’d make daily visits to my backyard to bring stories filled with the simplicities and complexities of life from land blessed with visitors, the green lizards streaking across my home’s mustard colored walls, licking and punching their air with silvery tongues to the whispering winds whipping through the Australian ferns.

I believed I could bring the serene scents of the sweet pine into your home, the moisture of the cool air and the descending sense of peacefulness that cloaks me like a thin veil when I’m out there.

But over the last few months, instead of being out there, I’ve been inside. My blog has sat virtually empty of posts. My other writing interests took up so much space that I barely had time to even think about the secret life.

I am sorry to say I lied. I can find a marvelous number of excuses for what happened. First the intense rains came, bearing down with ungodly showers, right after I posted my other lie – that it never rains in Los Angeles.

Of course, it rained – and did so profusely – as soon as I published those very words.

It showered and turned so chilly, even my dogs quit venturing much outdoors.

I don’t know why the two eggs, which sit perched  next to my laptop, reminded me of all I had lied about, all I had not done. But they did.

I stare at them now, listening to my chorus of barking dogs, knowing it’s time to toss the eggs into the garbage. But I don’t want too because that very act saddens me.

But time rests her gentle hand on my soul, telling me it's time. A brazenly-cold winter has left, bringing on a chilly spring. And even though the eggs are dead and my lies have been confronted, I too must be ready to move on.

In just a few weeks, something fresh will happen. A new crop of peacocks shortly will arrive with spring’s bloom. Tiny tufts of feathers and fuzz will amble behind their mom’s up and down in a parade of dots on our hilly streets and onto our roof tops where they will practice the art of flight.

Spring has cast her spell; And if I’m not unwittingly telling another lie, I will soon be wandering again in my backyard.