Me and the Talking Crow of Willoughby-on-the-Lake

The big black bird landed on my shoulder and said, "My name is Corby. What's yours? My name is Corby. What's yours?"

"Startled" is not the word. Mom, who was carrying 10-month-old Denny over her shoulder, was dumbstruck, flabbergasted, gob-smacked. She immediately ran for the safety of our Windermere Drive home, right there in Willoughby-on-the-Lake--leaving me, her two-year-old, toddling down Windermere with a talking crow on his shoulder.

"I'm Bobby," I told the bird. Our discussion was interrupted when Mom finally came storming out of the house, waving a broomstick, yelling, "Get away from him! Get away from him, you damn bird!"

The bird quickly took off, flying over to Hayes Avenue, where he lived with his owner, a fellow everyone called "Jeep." Mom hopped in the brown '48 Ford, me and Denny at her side, in that era before safety belts, and drove the short way over to Jeep's car-repair place between Hayes and Lost Nation Boulevard, intending to give him a piece of her mind. Jeep was underneath a car, covered with grease.

"Your bird just scared the hell out of my boy, Jeep. Keep that damn thing at home!"

Jeep just laughed. "Calm down, Margaret Ann. Corby is a friendly bird and wouldn't hurt anyone. I'll give him a talking to." He laughed again and Mom finally smiled at the absurdity of the incident. She hopped back into the Ford, pulled her 2 babies close to her, and drove slowly in the April chill back home.

And that's the story of my encounter, at age 2, with Corby, the talking crow of Willoughby-on-the-Lake.

[The above story is essentially as I was told about it by my Mother, but a few minor details are reconstructed or made up. There was a man named "Jeep" in Willoughby. I believe his given name was something like Eugene Hodgson, or something close to that. He was about my Dad's age, born around 1922, and was a good friend to my Dad and the Coughlin family. But he wasn't the owner of the car-repair business and probably didn't own the talking crow.]