海角大神

Go ahead, uproot my herbs!

The blue jay had his own plans for my sprouting garden.

During the 22 years I lived in midtown Manhattan, I never gardened. When I moved to the Emerald City, I learned that gardening is practically a requirement for citizenship 鈥� a perfect opportunity to try my thumb at it.

My 6-by-8-foot redwood balcony wasn鈥檛 exactly a yard, but it was outdoors, and exposed to lots of Seattle precipitation and occasional sunlight.

To learn my new hobby, I chose to plant herbs 鈥� mainly because it bugged me to pay $4.99 for three scrawny sprigs of rosemary at the grocery store when I had noticed on walks around my new neighborhood that this plant grew in abundance.

I purchased containers, potting soil, seedlings, and a trowel and got to work. I planted a different herb in each of the 12 pots I lined up on the railing surrounding my balcony. Every morning, I looked out my kitchen window and watched as fragile stems of cilantro, oregano, and marjoram waved in the gentle spring breezes.

One morning, I heard squawking. A cobalt-blue bird, looking much like a crowned blue jay, balanced on the rim of a hand-painted pot. With his sharp black beak, he yanked out a stem of mint. His vertical black eyebrows moved up when he turned and looked at me.

鈥淗ey!鈥� I yelled. 鈥淵ou put that back.鈥� He took off for a conifer 10 feet away.
I opened the door and examined the wreckage. Three stems had been wrenched away, leaving quarter-size divots atop the soil. I called out after the jay, 鈥淚 paid $1.99 for that plant, you little hoodlum.鈥�

I sat at my computer and Googled 鈥渢ypes of blue jay.鈥� I discovered that my little thief was a Steller鈥檚 jay, and he wasn鈥檛 eating my herbs, he was using them as nesting material. Oh, no 鈥� how big a nest would he build?

I returned to the window. The jay landed on the rim of a brass container. He cocked his head and ripped out a pale green sprout of parsley, not three days old.

鈥淗ey! This is not New York City 鈥� it鈥檚 not like there鈥檚 a shortage of green things here!鈥�

I went out the front door, stomped down the stairs, ripped up a handful of grass, returned to the balcony, and sprinkled the grass atop the now-barren earth. I called after the jay, 鈥淗ere鈥檚 some nice fresh grass; makes excellent nests.鈥�

I returned to my office only to run out again within a few minutes. The jay was gripping a stem of tarragon. I opened the door and off he flew. My crop was dwindling faster than I had planted it. I didn鈥檛 know that much about gardening, but I did know that you had to give plants at least half a chance to grow before you picked them. There was little hope for these stubs.

I rushed to the closet and ripped a dry cleaning bag off my white suit. I grabbed the duct tape and scissors and returned to the scene of the crime. I sliced open the plastic and taped a piece over every one of the remaining seedlings and poked a few holes in the plastic.

Maybe the plastic would not only protect the plants from marauding birds, but also act like a greenhouse. Maybe the basil would flourish. Maybe I was learning something about gardening in adverse conditions.

I sat at the computer and concentrated on a spreadsheet. I heard a sound like a baby鈥檚 cry, 鈥淎www, awww, awww.鈥� I looked out the window for the source but saw no one.

I walked to the kitchen window. The jay was perched on the rim of a sage pot, sounding like he was crying. His mate alighted on a terra-cotta rim. 鈥淎www, awww, awww.鈥� It had to be my imagination. Birds don鈥檛 cry.

鈥淎www, awww, awww.鈥�

鈥淥K. Fine. You win. You can have my herbs.鈥� I cut away the plastic and returned to the window to watch Mother and Father rip out all but one sturdy twig of rosemary. Despite their joint attempts at clear-cutting my garden, the rosemary didn鈥檛 budge.

I opened the door; they flew back to their castle-in-progress. I gently pulled out the stem, shook the dirt from its roots, and placed it on the soil. I returned to the window and waited.

Within a minute, both jays sat opposite each other on the rim of the rosemary pot, Mom helping Dad adjust the frond in his beak. The $4.99 price for three sprigs of rosemary was beginning to look like a bargain.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I鈥檇 like to think that the last waggle of their dark blue vertical eyebrows, before absconding with the last piece, was a gracious thank you.