Crow call

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

They live up on the hill, across the rock wall from the cabin. It seems that the creek valley is not only the perfect place for Greg and me to call home, but also for a community of crows. I have come to consider them our neighbors and just as we did with our neighbors in the city, we often stop to talk with each other, not across our yards, but through the woods.

I wonder, though, what it is we are talking about. I use my father's old crow call, holding it firmly between my teeth. I can see the marks from his teeth. They warm my heart. Like my father, I have learned to mimic the crows. I repeat their patterned calls, made up of alternating long and short caws. 

When they answer back with a different pattern, I follow suit. In this manner, we have easily conversed for 10 minutes. I hope I’m saying good things. Crows speak with over 250 different calls. I have been able to mimic, perhaps, as many as 10.

This particular group of crows is most vocal in the morning, at first light. I imagine them calling out to each other that it’s time to wake up and get the day started, even sharing among themselves where to fly and find the best foraging. Greg and I are a bit more sluggish. We usually don't get moving until after we’ve enjoyed our cup of morning coffee. By then, the crows have all taken flight.

Our days, however, do seem to end about the same time, particularly in the spring and fall when the sun passes over the hill just as Greg and I are ready to head back inside from our day's work. I sweep out my woodshop and walk across the drive, heading over to Greg's shop. I let him know that I am ready to drive our green machine up to the mailbox and gather the mail. I sweep out his shop while he puts away his tools. The crows on the hillside call out that yes, it is indeed time to end the day.

On our way to gather the mail, I look up and see the crows flying in from their day's foraging. They too are ready to settle down for the night. As I watch their flight, I am reminded of the way my boarding school classmates rowed their skiffs along the Housatonic River. They pulled with a smooth, continuous motion, no restful glides. The rowers were strong. So too are the crows. They do not glide or soar. I know they may have flown as far as 50 miles to forage, a 100-mile round trip, and they can fly at speeds well over 50 mph.

As I have come to love our sleek, black-feathered neighbors, I couldn't help but wonder how a group of these beautiful creatures came to be called a murder. It seems that the term originated in England during the 15th century, and relates to the crows' reputation as scavengers, even being found pecking their way across battlefields. Accordingly, folk tales and superstitions began to associate crows with death and scavenging, and the ominous term "murder" gained popularity when describing a group.

It also seems that these intelligent creatures can hold a grudge if they believe they've been mistreated. Such grudges are even passed from one generation to the next as parents teach their offspring to carry it on. Thus, if a crow believes it has been slighted by a tall gray-haired lady, such as me, it will dive bomb that lady whenever it sees her to teach her a lesson. The crow's offspring will follow suit, and the lady might end up being dive bombed by a goodly number of crows for years on end. Alfred Hitchcock may have been on to something after all.

So, it looks as though I really should learn just what it is the crows and I are talking about. It might not be wise for me to be rude or anger them, but perhaps, more importantly, I'd really just like them to know how much I appreciate having them as our creek valley neighbors.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.