The Shed

A boy and his crow

When I was eleven years old, we moved into a beautiful home in the woods. It was in the heart of an old farming community that years before, had given up and sold out to developers who had major plans. But for now, it was paradise. We were surrounded by meadows and orchards, broken down fences and old barns so full of stories, you could feel an aura of past lives begging to be remembered. My summers as a young boy were spent becoming familiar with this world.

There was an old tool shed on the property. It had a door but no windows. It looked like it was built in haste, without much thought, or planning. Not very large, about eight-by-eight-foot square with a dirt floor. Made from two by fours and plywood that had long since turned gray with age and weather. It was functional but not much to look at. I had several animal friends when we moved in. A beagle, a few cats, a crow, a rabbit and a baby alligator. Soon, however, I acquired some day-old chicks, a couple of ducklings, a gosling and a dozen or so pigeons.

The shed was given over to them. Some modifications needed to be made. I cut out a small window, up high to the right of the door so the pigeons could come and go as they pleased.

Some tree limbs were added for perches, as well as some nesting boxes for the chickens and shelves for the pigeons. It seemed, to me, that it was a happy little shed, full of life, with lots going on. When I woke up in the morning I couldn’t wait to get outside and visit ‘the shed’ so I could greet and be greeted by everyone waiting to be fed and let outside.

My beagle, “Tag’ and my crow, ‘Inky’ followed me everywhere. They were the co-conspirators of my youth and fellow explorers. Inky thought he was the brains of the operation and loved tormenting the residents of the shed as well as anyone else that required my attention. He even learned to imitate my mother calling me into the house and took great pleasure and pride in his ability to fool me. When I came back outside, he would be cackling away to himself on the roof top.

I had some friends, but mostly, I guess I preferred the company of a dog and a crow. We explored the old barns and orchards, followed the stream until it emptied into the Credit River.

And then we followed that. I brought a backpack with a lunch, made campfires and pretended I was a pioneer in uncharted lands like Daniel Boone. Tag was a wolf and Inky an eagle.

Together we became intimate with every woods, stream, meadow, and valley within a couple of miles of our house. But every evening I was home in time to call the residents of “the shed” in and make sure all had food, water and clean bedding before securing the door for the night.

Inky found a roost somewhere in the woods and Tag slept on my bed.

When school started in the fall and I had to be away all day, Inky grew restless. The neighbors that hung their clothes out to dry in a gentle September breeze were dismayed when they looked out their window and saw a crow pulling the clothes pins off their line and cackling loudly every time an item hit the ground. The menagerie from “the shed” became uneasy and lived in constant fear of harassment. Even the cats kept a wary eye out for a flash of black madness. When I finally stepped off the bus later in the afternoon, you could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from the traumatized victims of Inky’s boredom.

Of course, he knew when I would be coming home and waited in the dead elm tree at the end of the driveway. He would fly down on my shoulder and make soft crooning sounds in my ear. Probably telling me of his day’s proud exploits. Naturally, I brought him gifts. Paper clips, small pencil sharpeners, rubber bands, anything was appreciated and accepted with obvious pleasure. When we reached the house, the others finally felt safe enough to come out of hiding and would surround me, clucking, quaking and honking like a bunch of noisy tattle tales.

The following summer I met a pretty young girl who lived in the farm across the ravine. I would stand on the edge of the bluff and call out to her. My voice would echo across the ravine and bounce off of their barn. If she was outside, she would call back and we would meet secretly in the orchard. There, we could be alone and challenge the awkwardness of our youth.

In due time, Inky decided he had enough of this arrangement and doubled back after one of our “visits” together. Before she made it back to her house, Inky flew down on her head and pulled her hair. This did not go over well with her father, who was a policeman. He called our house and informed my parents “If that damned bird comes over here again, I’ll shoot it!”

That incident along with one other, a couple of days later, sealed poor Inky’s fate. Some visiting friends had to place garbage can lids over their heads and run through a one bird gauntlet to get from their car to the house. Inky felt it his right, even duty, to extract a toll for the privilege of visiting. An earring plucked from the lobe of a reluctant and shrieking benefactor would suffice.

I had to build Inky a cage. But I needed help. My father played a mostly disinterested role in my young life. We tried to avoid each when we could. I required copious amounts of stimulation and my father was either unwilling or unable to deal with my high energy. Over the years he had made it clear, I was not welcome in his personal space. So, I knew my mother must have scolded and pressured my father. He came out with the attitude of a sulking child. “Alright what are you doing? What do you need me for?”

I would have rather not had his help at all, but there was no one else, and I needed someone to hold posts and cross beams so I could nail them together. He offered no advise, suggestions or ideas. He was there because my mother made him come out.

My plan was to attach an aviary to the shed. That way, it would only need to have three sides. It would save on cost and time. After a couple of hours work, we had built a reasonable addition. No cage would ever be large enough and I knew what a horrible life change this would be for Inky, but there was a real threat that someone would kill him.

Over the course of those two hours, I watched my father’s attitude shift from aggravation to one, I would almost call pride, as he watched his son plan out this project and put it all together.

He knew it was nothing he had ever taught me. I don’t think I ever saw my father use a hammer.

He wasn’t handy. It was the only time I remember my father helping me with anything.

There is so much you don’t notice or understand about your parents at thirteen years old.

Sometimes it’s hard looking past your own emotions at that age. When I think back to those long-ago days, I realized that while my father was never one to encourage or nurture, it was his money that paid for all the animal food every week, as well as the material to build the cage. It was what he was willing to do, or maybe, all he could do. As it turns out . . . it was enough.

At first, Inky had problems adjusting to the cage. Things were going on out there and he was no longer a part of it. Everyone else, however, was much more relaxed and content. I missed his greeting when I stepped off the bus. Something was special about the way he landed on my shoulder. It was a thrill I never got over. I brought in a lawn chair and would sit with him for long periods of time. The shed, now more than ever, became my second home. I still brought him gifts and things I thought would keep his mind stimulated. He was a genius in the bird world, and not too shabby in ours. I was very sad for him, but when we were together in the cage, he was his old self. His sense of humor and trickery, always lurking just below the surface, waiting to rear its ugly, but ever so endearing head. Leaving was always hard as he would fly back and forth from one end of the cage to the other. I could hear him calling me all the way back to the house, until I shut the door behind me. Over time he resigned himself to the new normal and seemed happy.

I had two older sisters that usually were only as mean to me as I deserved. My oldest sister had a girlfriend who I thought was the most beautiful woman on the planet. She was curious about ‘the shed’ and the animals that lived there. I was asked for a tour. When I opened the door, several pigeons flew out, wing tips brushing against the face of this young goddess. She screamed a terrified girly scream and jumped back about ten feet. “Never mind,” she said. “I don’t want to look.” That was fine with me. She had lost her allure. Any girl afraid of birds was not worthy of my time. Suddenly she didn’t look quite so beautiful.

Four years later I met this young lady again at my sisters twenty-second birthday party. We locked eyes from across the room and I no longer cared if she was afraid of birds. The electricity I felt must have welded my feet to the floor, but she made her way over and asked me to dance.

It’s been over forty years and she is still wary around birds. And I still don’t care.

Many animals came and went over the several years I lived there. “The Shed” was a sanctuary and home for most, a prison of sorts for Inky and a life lesson for me. The residents were dependent on my love and sense of responsibility for their well-being. They had something for me as well, equally important. Purpose.

Middle school years must be the most difficult stage of life for any young person. Your body and mind constantly sending mixed instructions, your peers are no better off. It’s an exciting and horrible season of life. A girl will kiss you one day and not talk to you the next. Friends mature at different stages and leave you behind or you leave them. A time that seems to last forever but is over in a moment. I breezed through these years unscathed. Content and confident in my purpose, everything else was trivial. Whatever happened at school, when I came home, I was with family. One that lived in “the shed,” and the one I lived with, in our home.

However difficult it may have been to have me as her son, my mother loved me unconditionally. She encouraged my special relationship with the natural world and never said no whenever I walked through the door with something new and alive in my hands. Over time, I think I even grew a little on my father. He co-signed a loan for me when I was twenty-one, so my wife and I . . . the one who is afraid of birds, could buy a pet shop.