Crows

It was just the other day, when Jack was arriving, that I was watching the southern sky. Like a slate-shingled barn roof yes, but more like the silver screen of a drive-in theatre. I watched as crow after crow after a hundred more crows moved through the dusk of February. A rookery, I think that’s what it’s called, but this flock of crows was more a pilgrimage of some sort. A silent march, like the seasonal procession of caribou over the tundra. If caribou could fly, it could have been the Porcupine Herd of the Arctic that moved south to the tree line, away from the bitter Arctic Ocean.

There is a forest of old trees along the railway corridor to the north of my dad’s house. Now abandoned, the right of way straggles, disgraced by urban planning from its once-role as gateway to downtown Ottawa and the flourish of Union Station. This evening every branch of every tree groans with the weight of roosting crows the size of small turkeys. I try to count them; figure on at least 856, until another thousand drift through the flight corridor, as if summoned to attend some kind of nighttime world crow convention. It was not Hitchcock, but it sure was unworldly.

You see, Jack is my dad’s best buddy. They are both widowers, and solid company for each other. To picture them, imagine two welldressed men in woollen peaked hats and with a combined age of 194, scanning store aisles while they share a grocery cart on their weekly shopping run. One is of a scientist mind, the other an air force pilot familiar with groundsighting and navigation. So impressive is their style that one day, while in aisle four, they were joined by a third man in a suit who began to push their cart as he escorted them along. He played a sort of jovial co-pilot role. Jack and my dad were curious of the interloper, until he was revealed to be the store manager, offering to lead the way. The manager was thanked for the gesture and was politely and graciously dispatched to ground school, with the thought in mind that three’s a crowd in a two-seater plane. Jack and my dad carried on, steering their research and reconnaissance over to aisle three— breakfast cereals.

So Jack arrived for dinner that night. We allowed ample time for their ritual glass of beer and catch-up conversation. Eventually, four of us sat at the dining table set with linen, candlelight and an African violet I borrowed from the kitchen window. Call it rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and peas night; forgot about adding a sweet kale salad from a kit. You know the ones. Also, there was a choice of pumpkin or homemade strawberry pie or ice cream for dessert. All agreed that a sample of each would be in good taste. But it was the conversation that made the meal profound. A sense of history as two gentlemen travelled us through stories and eras that history books barely descibe.

For example, the next time you are in Trenton, take a moment to stop at the National Air Force Museum of Canada. It’s on RCAF Road. Inside the modern building, past the gift shop and the welcome desk, the space opens into a massive, hangar-like affair. To greet you, suspended in a takeoff position, is a restored Halifax bomber. It’s the size of a bus and a half. The story of this particular Halifax’s discovery on the bottom of a Norwegian fiord, 600 feet deep, 72 years after it went down on a mission during WWII, is remarkable. Equally remarkable is the story of its restoration. Not only was dad’s buddy, Jack Bray, part of the project. As we sit around an evening meal, Jack describes his role, of a then-22-year-old kid from Ottawa, co-pilot and bombardier for the RCAF, based in northern England. He and his crew flying missions in a Halifax in the black of night over Germany. The searchlights from the ground. Decoys set out by the enemy; the ground-fire that would often whiz through the light skin of the aircraft; attacking Messerschmitt fighters. Far from home and loved ones, young Canadians defending democracy. Unsure if each run would bring them safe passage; the missions were repeated night after night.

So it was, the strawberry pie now history, that after the meal, I stood in the cold of the back veranda to ponder the night sky. It was there that I saw images of lifetimes and the grace of living; of crows and caribou soaring in the borealis.