Jemima Jay Comes Home

There are some stories that are too big, too sweet, too wonderful to tell. I've been so busy living these blue jay days, these rare and unrepeatable Jemima days,  that I haven't had time to write about her or share it all. I've given myself and my time over to nurturing her and recording her every new behavior with video and photos. She's too big, her story too good, to be passed over, and it's also too big and good to cram into a bunch of blog posts.

Pulling in the clothes at sundown, and the Yard Imp swoops in to have a chat. Photo by Bill Thompson III.

Appearing after a long day mostly away and wilding. I'm so grateful to see her and give her some mealworms and a cool drink! Photo by Bill Thompson III

I've never had a corvid in my care. Raising a corvid is to raising an ordinary songbird

as raising a chimpanzee is to raising an ordinary songbird.

Get the picture? Yes, we see!

But the dam is beginning to crumble and I must write about this bird. Not blogwriting, those choppy little bits meant as captions, but writing writing. I have to tell her story while she's here, while it's fresh, while it's still unfolding, because it would be a sin not to. Was I planning to write about a blue jay this summer? No. I was planning a lot of travel and even more pushing Baby Birds with talks and book signings. And I still have to do that, because I set it all up before Jemima came to me and turned my life upside down. Do I worry about leaving her? Oh yes. For what I'll miss, for what she might do, for everything. For example: As I write, she's chasing an adult jay around the yard, and the adult seems not at all perturbed about it. Maybe even welcoming. What is happening? I have to watch. I try to get photos and fail. If I'm not here, this stuff is still going to go on, and I will miss it.  But I'm headed to Massachusetts and Connecticut in mid-July to give a bunch of talks, and miss it I shall. My version of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). (See "Julie in the Flesh" on the left sidebar of this page for my appearances.)

I'll be frank: my muse has eluded me of late. She can't get through all the other crap that's going on in my anxious brain. Every once in a great while I manage to squeeze out a blogpost, but that's about it. If they seem particularly good lately, it's because a hell of a lot of creative juice is backed up in my pipe, and the drips that manage to get out are extra tasty. It's been a tough year, so I appreciate your bearing with the pauses and interruptions in the blog.

Jemima's World

Like every other creative spirit out there, I yearn to breathe free and do what I do best. But it's going to be awhile before my horizons are clear and I can focus on my real work, get a book proposal out, keep the wolf a little farther away from my door.

This morning as I worked at the drawing table, Jemima came to have breakfast at her Secret Studio Feeder under the shelter of a crank-out window. A screen keeps her from coming in the house.

She'd eaten breakfast, and she started giving the little burt-burt-burt vocalization that means she'd like to have a visit. She hopped up on the struts and fluttered her wings, begging me to take the screen out. "Jemima Iris Jay. You are a free bird. You should not still be asking to come in the house." 

She considered that for a moment, then started pecking the soft nylon screen as if she meant to break in. I put my hand against the screen and she only pecked harder. That beak means bidness.

Jays.They are thugs at heart. And they know how to get exactly what they want. I removed the screen and welcomed the prodigal in for a brief visit. The other choice was having a Jemima-sized hole in my screen, and that wouldn't do.

I'll let this video show you just a bit of the uncommon thuggy sweetness that is Jemima Jay. Put that together with aged, extra floppy maple-flavored Bacon, and you have quite a sammitch.