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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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The curse of the beady eye |
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October 23, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
Many people have told me that I may be the
slowest human alive. It seems like a huge
exaggeration to me, as I just believe in
conserving energy.
You never know when you might need some, and
when you get over 50 there are more and more
times that your supply of it seems to be about a
quart low.
So when I am walking somewhere, and there is no
pressing appointment on the other end of my
walk, I tend to amble along.
Up to this point in time I have gathered no
moss, which proves to me that I must resemble a
rolling stone more than a stationary one.
There are naysayers for every opinion though,
and I honestly believe that some of my
beady-eyed acquaintances have checked me out for
moss a few times.
Speaking of beady-eyed, a recent development in
my life might bear mention at this time; I think
a crow is haunting me. I agree that they all
look alike, so it could be that they are taking
shifts. Only one at a time spies on me though,
and I get the feeling it is usually the same guy
doing it. He could be the one who put the “B” in
beady-eye too, and he’s giving me the creeps.
The first time I saw him was when I pulled into
my parking space at home. I got out of the car,
heard a flapping noise, and looked over to see a
freshly landed crow sitting on a small wishing
well. He was peering at me intently, either
suspiciously or curiously, and I waved at him
and went into the yard. I’ve always liked crows
and thought that they get a bad rap. It’s not
really their fault they eat garbage, dung and
rotten things. I mean, duh, they are crows.
That’s what crows do.
The next day, same old story, I park and he
perches on a limb 20 feet away and eyeballs me.
It seemed weird, but he’s a city crow so I
didn’t think a whole lot about it. They are an
odd bunch, kind of like an inbred, hillbilly,
inner-city gang. Once again, I waved at him and
walked away. He did not wave back.
I had the relief of no beady-eyed welcoming
committee for the next few days (except for
customers at the post office, I mean). Then I
had take the dogs for a walk and on the way I
hear a rustling sound above me. I look up, and
what do you think I see? Yep, it was the crow,
sitting on a limb about ten feet away staring at
me hungrily.
He got no wave this time, just a squinty-eyed
glare and a shaken fist. At least one person
across the street looked at me like I was nuts.
I cackled maniacally and continued on my way.
When I returned home I analyzed my tale of being
followed around by a crow. A fiendish
ex-coworker listening to me claimed to have a
simple explanation. Since I (supposedly) have
one of the slowest paces in human history, the
poor crow obviously thinks that he is only a few
steps away from a hearty meal, if he only keeps
me in sight.
I harrumphed and went back outside. Carrion
indeed!
A little research during lunch did concern me,
however. Throughout history crows have been
considered mythical creatures, both good and
bad. It seems fairly consistent that one crow by
himself is not good news, and is often a
downright hex.
One old ditty says that when counting crows;
One’s bad
Two’s luck
Three’s health
Four’s wealth
Five’s sickness
Six is death. |
I guess I should feel fortunate that five or six
crows aren’t hounding me. Oddly, a group of
crows together is not called a flock, a gaggle,
a covey or a herd; it is called a murder. That’s
right, no lie, there is a murder of crows
hanging out in your field.
Some sharp-eyed dude long ago noticed that crows
will gang up and kill a single, dying crow. I
don’t know if they are putting him out of his
misery or fixing lunch, but I have my
suspicions. Anyway, that’s how murder came to
have a second meaning.
I do not find that reassuring, nor do I like the
idea of being scouted out as a prospective crow
banquet. So far though, my luck is not any worse
than usual, so I might not be cursed. I do find
myself looking around for that pesky crow
though.
Just in case, I have also picked up my pace a
little bit. It is now more than an amble, though
it might not be up to a saunter yet. Perhaps it
could best be described as a stroll or a mosey.
Regardless what it is, and even though there
aren’t too many turtles around to race, I’m
betting I could pass a three-legged one like it
was standing still.
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