By Ed Staskus

   Oliver was watching a black-billed magpie eat worms, beetles, and caterpillars. It was a three course dinner. He had seen magpies forage for berries and grains in the fall before they went away somewhere. He didn’t know where they went during the winter, but he knew they always came back to the wild garden his father had planted in the backyard.

   It was the last week of March. The month used to be a cold month in northern Ohio, but lately it had turned into a warm month. Everything was budding and going green sooner than ever. The magpie’s better half was building a nest in a tree next to the garden. The nest was cup-shaped and lined with grass and mud. Sticks were sticking out all over it. There were two entrances to it.

   “Just in case,” the lady of the nest said, enlarging one of the entrances. She wasn’t a licensed carpenter, but she knew what she was doing. She was going to be laying six or seven eggs soon enough. When that happened, she would keep the clutch warm. Once the eggs hatched and came to life she would be more than busy keeping them in line and fed. In the meantime, she would take care of her incubating chores.

   Magpies are one of the world’s most intelligent birds. Like people, and unlike almost everything else, they can recognize themselves in mirrors. They make and use tools and work in teams. They play games and can imitate speech. They are particularly well known for their squawking and singing, especially ‘Three Little Birds’ by Bob Marley and the Wailers.

   The man of the nest, who was snacking on mayflies, looked at Oliver. “Is that maniac still living down the street?” the bird asked him.

   “Yes,” Oliver said. “Dad said he probably will never move away.”

   “We appreciate your father talking to him.”

   “He’s a man of few words. I think he just told him to stay out of our yard.”

   Their neighbor was a man by the name of Gilbert. Oliver and Emma, his sister and right-hand man, called him Sour Head. He was always complaining about something. He was married but hardly anybody ever saw his wife, except when she was mowing the lawn or washing the car. She did the grocery shopping and Home Depot shopping, too. They had children but nobody ever saw them. They lived in another state. Gilbert had been a businessman but was now retired. He watched FOX News day and night. “In this corner, still undefeated, is Gilbert with his long-held beliefs.” He had nutty opinions up the wazoo. He didn’t like magpies, among other things.

   Magpies are black and white birds with long diamond-shaped tails. Their coloring has a glossy sheen to it. They are loud mouths. Somebody who talks obnoxiously is sometimes called a magpie. Gilbert had a chatterbox neighbor he called a magpie. “Idle chatter is for the birds” is what he said, never mind his own idle chatter. What got his goat more than anything was their thieving. 

    “They’re kleptomaniacs” is what he said. “There was that woman in Chardon who lost her engagement ring three or four years ago. A bird watcher found it in a magpie’s nest. Then there was the man in Fairport Harbor who was gardening, took off his watch so it wouldn’t get dirty, and then watched a magpie fly away with it. My wife keeps some colored crystals on the window ledge and they are always pecking on the glass trying to get them.”

   “That doesn’t mean they are kleptomaniacs,” Oliver said.

   “Then why is there some opera some Eyetalian wrote called the ‘The Thieving Magpie’ if they aren’t kleptomaniacs?” He believed seeing a magpie brought bad luck. “One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a funeral, four for birth, five for heaven, six for hell, seven for the devil, his own self,” is what he said, even though he didn’t know exactly what it meant.

   “Italians are always writing operas about one thing or another,” Emma said. She played the piano and was in the school band. She played the clarinet in the marching band. She knew more about music than anybody in their neighborhood.

   “You think you’re so smart,” Gilbert said. He didn’t like Emma because he knew full well she thought she was smarter than him, even though she was only twelve years old. He wasn’t far off the mark, the mark being she was smarter than him. The only thing Gilbert knew anything about was making money, by hook or by crook. He was a miser by another name. He suspected Emma didn’t care all that much about money. He didn’t like that. He resented it.

   “If you’re so smart, how come you don’t know the magpie is the only bird who didn’t mourn for Jesus when he was crucified? Not only that, it was the only bird who didn’t go into the ark with Noah. Instead, it sat on top of the ark and cursed up a storm while the world was being drowned.”

   Oliver and Emma looked at each other. Emma threw up her hands. “You are kind of weird, mister,” she said, brushing aside his scowl. 

   It wasn’t long before Gilbert got what he thought was a great idea. He knew the magpies were laying eggs and before long there would be a flock of them. Even though he had been warned to stay out of Oliver and Emma’s backyard, he decided he would sneak into it, steal the eggs, and throw them into the garbage for the racoons. That would show the magpies who was boss.

   The next night, after everybody had gone to bed, he carried his ladder to their house, made sure no lights were on anywhere, and propped the ladder against the tree. He saw the nest. He pulled on a pair of antibacterial gloves. He knew their nest was full of germs, or worse. They weren’t even real Americans. They had snuck into the United States from Asia or some other foreign place. He started up the rungs. When he got to the nest he pulled a disposable bag out of his back pocket. He reached for the eggs but was surprised to see that they had hatched.

   No matter, he thought, I’ll just stuff them birdies into my bag and drown them in the Grand River.

   No sooner did he come up with his new plan of action than the lady of the nest began putting up a racket. She struck at him with her long beak. Gilbert tried to brush her aside. He didn’t see the man of the nest swooping down on him. The magpie wasn’t about to let Gilbert threaten his nestlings. He had survived many hardships, struggled to lay hands on some real estate, and been able to find a partner. He wasn’t about to lose it all to a bloodthirsty peddler.

   The magpie swooped and jabbed at Gilbert. He wouldn’t give up. Gilbert waved his bag at him. He swooped again. After Gilbert was pecked several times, he gave up. He had always been all about easy money. He started down the ladder. He was fuming and sputtering curses.

   One of the chicks leaned out from the nest. He was blind and pink. He was pink as a Barbie doll. His eyes would open and downy feathers appear in about a week. He farted and pooped. The poop went over the side and splatted on top of Gilbert’s bald pate. When he reached to wipe it off, the magpie swooped at him one more time. Gilbert waved him away with his other hand, the hand that had been holding on to the ladder. When he did, no hands were left holding on to the ladder. He fell off and landed on his butt, yelping when he bounced. Lights started going on in nearby houses. The Perry Police arrived and cited him for trespassing.

   The next morning Oliver and Emma found the ladder still propped against their tree. Oliver went up it to check on the birds. He gave Emma the high sign. “Hey, let’s go find some wood and build a bird feeder,” he said. “They look hungry. And let’s get rid of this ladder in case Sour Head comes back.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street at http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

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