A View from the Buggy (12 page)

Logan, from special ed, makes his first grab of the day and sits on the ball, grinning happily. His teammates laugh and urge him to throw the ball to the pitcher. The runners gleefully race to the next base. How happy Logan is to have a chance to play. Is that not how life is for all of us? There are so many chances to enjoy our work, our play, and each other. Do we grab the ball, sit on it, and rejoice in childish glee? Probably not.

The handbell soon peals from the open door and recess is over. We're summoned back inside the little country schoolhouse where in art class we do freehand drawings of orange, yellow, and green farm fields and falling leaves.

The poem we write down declares,

Golden leaves are fluttering, down toward the ground.

Golden years are passing, we are onward bound.

I wonder where my 31 students are bound in the coming years. Am I directing them toward paths of worldly fame and fortune? Or are they gathering knowledge and wisdom to serve our great Creator in their youth and adult life? Is our time well spent while we study?

They always seem ready to learn more, ready to dig deeper into the wellspring of knowledge available to each young Amish student eager to learn. I pray that they all will be just as willing to find their life's calling under God.

Joe, the Pet Crow

Harvey Yoder

But I have said unto you, Ye shall inherit their land, and I will give it unto you to possess it, a land that floweth with milk and honey: I am the L
ORD
your God, which have separated you from other people (Leviticus 20:24).

A
S WE WALKED THROUGH THE TIMBERED HILLS OF RURAL
O
HIO
,
MY
brother David and I knew our destination. Our home lay nestled on a hillside overlooking a valley. The woods, creeks, and meadows we traipsed through were familiar to us. We loved nature and the country life. The outdoors always beckoned us, and all the plants, animals, and birds lived in a world we loved to study and explore.

But tonight we gave the evening beauty scant attention as we walked along, searching for a certain pine tree standing amongst all the others. A cry of victory soon broke from David's lips. “There it is! The tree with the crooked branch.”

David was good at this. He could find a stone, a gnarly tree, a thornbush, or even a cohosh plant that might house a crow or hummingbird nest. This time we were looking for a pine tree with a crow's nest in it.

As we approached the tree, we could hear the faint feeding call of the baby crows.

We had been told that the crow was an intelligent bird and would make a good pet. It could even be taught to talk, we were told. We already had dogs, cats, squirrels, and raccoons, but a talking crow would top them all.

“Now it's time for you to do your duty,” David said. “You're more agile than I am. Shinny up the tree, but be careful!”

Throwing my straw hat on the forest floor and flexing my muscles,
I set off. I enjoyed climbing, but going up as high as this nest would be scary. The red pine was straight and didn't have any limbs at the bottom, but I wrapped my legs and arms around the trunk and slowly inched my way up. When branches became available, my progress was easier.

When I reached the nest, I pushed a needled branch away and peered at the four baby crows snuggling together, waiting for their mama.

Before starting back down I paused for some sightseeing. I could see for miles across beautiful farms dotting the countryside. In the distance I could see my uncle's farm. A closer look revealed them baling hay on the hillside above the barn. In front of me was one of the highest hills in the community, nicknamed Red Hill. The old-timers said the Indians used it as a lookout point. The artifacts, arrowheads, and even a tomahawk that I had found in the adjacent field testified to that fact.

The harsh scolding
caw
of the mama crow circling overhead brought me out of my reverie. Gently I reached in and retrieved one of the babies. I would need both hands free for the descent, so I opened one of my shirt buttons and secured the crow in the bosom of my shirt.

When I arrived at the bottom, David took a look at the bird and said, “My…it sure looks ugly. It only has black fuzz for feathers and an odd-shaped head. Half of it is beak.”

I agreed and we began the trek home.

We found a cardboard box and put in a few rags for bedding. This was the crow's nest and was safely stored in the corner of the kitchen. Before taking our seats at the supper table the family all had a peek at this new resident.

The discussion was lively.

“What will we call it?” asked Wyman.

“Joe seems like a fitting name,” suggested Esther.

So we called him Joe. Joe, the pet crow.

“I've heard that the tongue of the crow has to be slit in order for it to talk,” said David. “Is that true?”

“No, that's a fable,” Dad answered. “They can mimic sounds, count, and even laugh without the aid of the surgeon's knife.”

“I hope he doesn't carry off my clothespins or pull out plants in the garden,” Mom mused.

“Will he carry off my toys?” little Rueben asked fearfully.

We laughed and finally sat down for supper.

For the next several days, we fed Joe bread and dog food soaked in milk and he grew rapidly. When he was hungry he gave his feeding call, spread his wings, and opened his mouth, waiting. When the food was dropped in he gave a funny cry and the food readily slid down the hatch. Other delicacies we fed Joe were small frogs, tadpoles, minnows, and insects.

When Joe had feathered, we took him outside for a few hours to help him adapt to his natural surroundings. Sometimes, if we left him unattended, he would simply disappear and we would become anxious, thinking he'd flown off and left us. We wouldn't take any rest until we found him—usually under a rhubarb leaf or hiding in a pail.

When we thought he was mature enough to stay outside for the night, we left him there. We probably had a tougher time of it than did Joe as we thought about all the nocturnal animals prowling about who could easily make a meal out of our inexperienced pet. In the mornings we dressed and raced outside. As if to assure us that all was well, Joe came swooping down to meet us.

Before Joe learned to forage for his own food, he'd caw from a nearby tree and glide in to land a few yards away. He'd spread his wings and give us his feeding call. Even after he was an adult he liked handouts. Joe would often follow us around hoping for an easy meal.

“Let's take Joe on a walk down to the creek bottoms,” I'd suggest on summer evenings.

Joe had caught on by then, and he followed us kids down the narrow dirt road to a small creek at the bottom of the hill.

“Looks like he's showing off his flying abilities,” David said as we watched Joe move from branch to branch, swooping and swerving.

Joe soon joined us along the creek bank, getting impatient as he waited for minnows. We'd herd the small fish into the shallow water, catch them with our net, and toss them to Joe. He quickly dined on them.

“I think Joe's had his fill of minnows,” Esther suggested. “Let's find multiflora bushes.”

Japanese beetles feed on the leaves of the multiflora, and when touched they would let themselves drop to the ground. We'd capture them in our closed hands where they became quite active, putting up a fight and trying to escape through the cracks between our fingers. Joe waited while we'd see how long we could hold the beetles and endure the tickling. When we gave out, we'd throw the beetle on the ground in front of Joe. He'd toss them in the air and swallow them.

“Two more courses to go,” Harvey said as he headed for the hayfield.

The luscious green hayfield was infested with tasty crickets. Spying a big one, we'd dash after it. Joe followed on his stout legs, waiting for his meal. Seeing us make the catch, he came and snatched the cricket out of our hands.

“Joe's favorite dish comes last,” Esther sang out.

She knew that Joe loved fat, slippery tadpoles. He almost couldn't get his fill. A small farm pond provided these. Joe flew in ahead of us, landed beside the pond, and tilted his head. He peered in the water for what he knew was there. A few sweeps of the net extracted his dessert, and then the tired band of children and their pet crow headed home, where Joe went to his perch in the maple tree and we went in the house.

In the days ahead we learned that crows can be easily tamed, but being clever, they at times become mischievous or a nuisance. Joe always wanted our undivided attention, and when we'd doze off in the yard Joe would take a tuft of David's hair with his powerful black beak. He'd brace himself and tug with all his strength.

David would wake up to flail around. “You rascal, let go of me!”

At other times, Joe would fly in to watch me work in the shop, perching on the workbench. “Looks like you've got mischief hidden under those black feathers,” I'd tell him. “Don't you snatch the parts I'm working on and fly off.”

Joe hopped closer, observing my work with a clever eye. His black beak pointed toward the object I was working on, his head following every movement.

“Cut it out; I can't afford to lose a part.” I batted at Joe, but he bounced right back.

Then it happened. I looked out the window at a passing team of workhorses hitched to a plow. Joe knew that this was his moment, and he snatched a small part from my workbench. But he didn't fly away. He wanted some fun first. I grabbed at Joe but he deftly side-hopped out of my reach. I pursued, but every time I thought I had him, he'd hop out of reach again. After many frustrating minutes of this game, Joe would drop the part and fly up to the rafters where he'd cackle his victory song.

Joe also stole toys from little Rueben. He'd watch his chance, dive in, and snatch a favorite toy. The black thief would then take wing and perch on a nearby limb. Rueben would jump up and, with arms flailing and legs pumping, he'd pursue the thief.

“You can't have my toy!” he'd cry.

Standing under Joe, Rueben coaxed until Joe dropped the toy and peace was restored.

One day David and I told Dad, “We need to teach Joe how to talk. We've tried to teach him to say hello, but all he says is crow talk.”

“Well…one of our customers has a Myna bird she's taught to speak. Maybe she can help,” Dad suggested.

So the next time the lady came our way she took Joe along home with her, where she had a programmed tape player that repeated the word
hello
at periodic intervals. Three weeks later she brought Joe back.

“He doesn't seem to want to talk your language,” she said. “I haven't heard any words yet.”

But she was wrong.

“Who was that?” David asked one day with a puzzled look on his face. “That
hello
that came from the treetop. Did you hear it?”

“That must be Joe!” I said in amazement.

We ran over to the tree and sure enough, there was our Joe looking down at us.

So Joe began to greet the people who arrived at our place with his cackling “Hello.” They'd stop and peer around, bewilderment written
on their faces. Usually someone came to their rescue and told them it was only a crow. Another trick of his was to follow us to school at times, and with him around there were no dull moments.

One Saturday evening my family had completed their usual work and we children were munching on popcorn under the maple tree while Dad and Mom finished the final preparations for church in the morning. Joe swooped in for his portion of popcorn. I sat there taking it all in as the sun slowly dropped behind the west hill. On the opposite side you could see the silhouettes of deer grazing in the field.

These would be among my best memories of country living while growing up, and of Joe, our pet crow.

A Girls' Silo Filling Day

Grace Ann Yoder

She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness (Proverbs 31:27).

I
T WAS A BEAUTIFUL
S
EPTEMBER MORNING
. T
HE WHOLE COUNTRYSIDE
was bathed in a coat of white frost that was fast disappearing under the sun's penetrating rays. The colorful tree leaves and grass glistened with melting frost, and the dripping dew revealed the true noble colors of the trees. Even the nippy wind was reluctantly giving way to a balmy breeze that held the promise of a warmer afternoon.

I noticed all this beauty as I stepped out on the porch donned in a coat, scarf, and gum boots. I inhaled deeply of the fresh morning air, which both invigorated me and made me thankful to be alive.

Today was silo filling day. Our family had no older brothers and our community was too small to organize a silo filling crew, so my two sisters and I would make this a girls' silo filing day. But we were up to it.

Lassie, our trusted farm dog, eagerly greeted me with eyes begging for attention. After a quick pat, she and I walked to the barn where our Percheron mares, Queen and Doll, were quietly waiting to be harnessed and hitched to the hay wagon. Silo filling was in full swing in the community, and we were anxious for our day to get started. We wanted to get it all finished by evening.