Battle with the Blue Jays
And . . . then . . . I . . . spied . . .
THIS and . . .
Every year, we battle it out with the neighborhood Blue Jays. A flock of unruly creatures. They sit in waiting on the high wire lines or across the way on the branch of an old oak tree. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Just when they think the coast is clear, they take wing into the canopy of the thick foliage of the lone fig tree. They find a convenient branch where they can perch their feathered tushy and begin pecking at the just ripe fruit of the Brown Turkey Fig. I don’t mind so much that they partake on SOME of the fruit, especially the ones that are too high for us to reach. (Our attempts are futile and results “fruitless” [Forgive the pun], even if we are on the last rung of the rickety old ladder.) It’s that they peck a couple of times here, move on to the next fruit and peck, then repeat on to the next, etc. We end up with half the fruit pecked out, the remainder exposed and left to spoil. That’s a waste of perfectly good fruit. Rather than throw a way too cumbersome net over the tree, as commercial growers do, we prefer to battle it out using noise to scare the Jays away. Sometimes, I wonder what the neighbors may think when they see either Ander or myself, stepping out of the house with hands clapping, arms flailing about, feet stomping and whooping it up against the fig tree as an effort to shoo these bothersome birds away. I can just hear them saying, “There they are, A & A, whooping it up, again, for whatever-the-H, reason.”
We’re a fun couple, to say the least. A fine pair, I’d say.
Anyway, there they are, a couple of fine figs. A fine pair, indeed.
Tomorrow won’t be soon enough to pluck them off their branch. Although, enough for us.
One for Ander and one for little ol’ Me.
Life is a banquet, my friends.