Harry lost Mildred last year. He’s been flying around Cedarville like some old crow looking for some chicks: most unbecoming. His sister Hilda expressed distaste for his lurid and unmentionable choices. She didn’t seem to care that he was lost and lonely. Of late, he had noticed his feathers greying and the small bones in his wings flare up with a weather change; he felt irrelevant and when he wasn’t looking, had turned into Harry the Old Crow. Harry didn’t really like the term “old crow”, but he was no fool—he noticed how females didn’t look at him in the same way, as they did in his youth; he noticed he had to bring shiny gifts to woo them and of course, nuts—he found they liked nuts.
Iola the crow, had dreams of being a song bird with a red head…. too, passed on true-love for her career. She sang from every available venue lent, never giving up her dream: telephone wires; posts; off people’s terraces and there was a certain yard she would frequent; she found the owners always provided nuts and fresh water, and she felt safe there. When she would venture out, hoping to meet someone, the most exciting thing that could happen to her, was an occasional cold French fry… ran over by someone not paying attention. But she ate it when she was hungry. She was tired often and felt very alone. She left her family in Monterey in 1986 and her Mother told her, “If you go, do not return.” She never did.
Iola had heard from other birds about a place up the road and over the Napa Valley by the name of Paradise Valley. Being a songstress, she thought that might be the place for her. Her wings, young, took over hill and dale and after many respites and some kindness from strangers, she found her Paradise.
As luck would have it, Paradise Valley, aka, Cedarville, fell victim to a horrible sand storm in 1990. Dry-hot winds blew over hills with a fiery ire and she was desperately being tossed around while trying to find cover. She could hardly find her way to safety and if it weren’t for a faint cry, she never would have. For off in the distance, she heard Harry calling to her: he could see her in trouble and was trying to help direct her toward him.
It was Mother Nature’s most blistering day when Harry and Iola found each other. Iola cawed in the key of F and Harry looked up, for he heard the angel sing. Iola flew right up and sat on the branch about a foot from him and started warbling out That Old Black Magic’s Got Me in Its Spell. For Harry, it was the voice of the Goddess, once heard in his most intimate dreams; for Iola, it was a sad and a lonely song of thanks…. She was longing for love; someone’s pinfeathers to clean, someone to share a nut with or even some old ratty French fry.
As Harry, moved over closer, she saw a blue glint in his black wings, as if the sun was kissing him before he came to sit by her: not to date her; not to woo her; but to protect her from the fierce winds. It was then; he saw that he was capable of true love, once more. He flew off and returned moments later. She stopped. She looked up, and at that very moment, there sat Harry with a French fry and a wind-whipped flower. The flower, white, symbolizing his pure intentions, fell from his beak to be swept up in the heavens, but the French fry, was quickly accepted by Iola. Like Lady and the Tramp, Harry at one end of the fry, Iola, at the other…. Their beaks touched. It was that old black magic… hearts puffed up, claws dancing on the dying branch and they stood there, beak to beak: instantly in love. Crows? Yes, of course. Blackbirds? Maybe if they were in a pie. Ravens? Kind of… they did have a spell to charm us with. And even though they were as black as ebon cat; they were in that very moment, red-headed love birds.
Iola, for years, went on to love Harry. And even after he died, she would speak often of his French Fry being an olive branch and how he brought her love, peace and safety. In one instant, her life changed and she never yearned for love again… for the rest of her days, she carried Harry in her heart. And Harry was enough.
Harry taught her there was no such thing as an ending in love, but only beginnings. And from that point on… each of her love songs had an intro, a beautiful haunting intro, sung beautifully in loving remembrance.
I only saw Harry and Iola once in my life. But anyone and everyone who saw them recognized their love. And I tend to believe, those who claimed to see it, carried their own true-love in their own hearts. And those who couldn’t, well, they’re still searching…
I suppose there is a moral to this story. Tonight as I write this, I am going to say its probably better to fly into the eye of the storm, where all is quiet and where one heart can hear another’s, in the most difficult conditions. Tonight, I raise a glass to Harry, Iola and that old black magic, love.