Frick Park
Pittsburgh
December 2003
Wherever crows are, there is magic.
— Ted Andrews
“The crows seem to be calling my name,” thought Caw.
— Jack Handey
Frick Park is a mere block and a half from my home. Being close to this park is one of the chief reasons I chose some thirty years ago to live in this house. I walk in Frick Park often, even train there on some of the hills. It is the largest park within the boundaries of the city and it is, at times, a charming place, overrun with squirrels and dogs, bicyclists and runners.
Every year at this time, a particular voice becomes quite prominent in Frick Park, the voice of an enormous assemblage of crows. I can stop walking and, often with my mouth hanging open, stare at the sky as these black splotches wing past for literally minutes at a time. The birds with their cawing and their clamoring and hubbub get so loud that it is difficult to have conversation with your companion what with the noise. Inevitably, someone refers to that famous Hitchcock movie.
Rather than refer to a movie however, my chosen action is to call the National Aviary here in Pittsburgh. The melodious voice (unlike the crows) that answers the telephone says, yes, she is the person who will field my bird-question. “I live in the East End and I can’t help but notice that over the last several seasons, the bird herd has been growing impressively. What’s the deal?”
She said, “I used to know that information, but I’ve forgotten. You should talk to someone in the kitchen. I’ll have them get back to you.”
The kitchen?
David calls me back from the kitchen. “The crows do this every winter,” he says. “Basically, what we have here is a crow family reunion. Y’see, every spring, crows pair up. A boy crow and a girl crow get together and they have a baby crow. Then they have another baby crow. Usually, the second crowlet stays with Mom and Dad and the first one goes off somewhere and finds a mate.” Each autumn, they all gather to catch up with each other. They are a very social species.”
David doesn’t actually use the word, crowlet.
“C’mon, David. ‘A boy crow and a girl crow get together and they have a baby crow.’ What is this? Are you explaining the facts of life to me?”
“The ‘birds’ part of the birds and bees, dude.”
“So this is literally a family reunion, huh.”
“Yeah, and the flock keeps getting bigger following the well-documented exponential growth of populations.”
“Very well documented,” I might add.
If it’s a family reunion, I can imagine the conversation to be something like, “How you doin’?” “How you doin’?” “How you doin’?” “How you doin’?” “How you…”
and
“Whered’you park?” “Whered’you park?” “Whered’you park?” “Whered’you park?” “Whered’you…”
and
“Wife and kids?” “Wife and kids?” “Wife and kids?” “Wife and kids?” “Wife and…”
“I keep a pied crow at home,” David continues. “Every so often, he’ll call out to his friends — they are a very social species — and I’ll come home from work to find hundreds of crows in my back yard.”
I’m thinking as hard as I can: “Pied. Pied. Hmm… I wonder what ‘pied’ means?” Didn’t I hear a nursery rhyme about crows being cooked in a pie? Four and twenty or some such? Nah, can’t be that.
Simply, pied means that the bird has patches of two or more colors.
“David, there must be thousands of birds in this herd.”
“Murder. A herd of crows is called a murder.
“Yah,” he continues, “those murders can easily get that big. Some people call and ask if they can let their dogs and cats out. I explain to them that there is no bird in this country that will attack a pet.”
Really? I remember back to a hawk lecture I attended some years ago where the questionably credentialed naturalist told us the story about a great horned owl swooping down and grabbing Mrs Mullins’ poodle, and stifling a laugh, he described the arc of the swoop. Continuing, he then imitated the sound made by Mrs Mullins’ poodle. Yelping and barking, he could contain himself no longer and began to guffaw loudly until all of us in the audience were laughing along with him. That was a good one.
“So David,” I surmised, “it is safe to let our pets out, huh. Unless they’re dead.”
“Yah, but y’know, even if they are dead, with crows, you’ll get most of it back. They won’t eat that much of the carcass.”
“Oh really? Well, one more question, David. Kitchen?”
“Yah, all the aviculturists hang out here in the kitchen. Instead of offices, we spend most of our time here.”
”Why the kitchen?”
“Oh yah. Heh, heh. It’s the kitchen where we cook up the bird food. It’s not for us, it’s not our kitchen. But y’know, we’re a pretty social species too.”
One footnote. Years ago, I met a woman through work. We hung out together for a time, long enough until we both moved on to other work. I went in my direction and she took a job at the National Aviary here in Pittsburgh. Her name, and I am not making this up, is Robin.