By Ed Townes
My father, a banker who headed the mortgage department, came home one day with a baby crow given to him by a customer. Dad turned over the crow to me and that began an adventure for me as I started high school in about 1935.
We lived in Richmond quite near farmland.
I had no idea what crows eat, so I started with worms. No way. That crow hated worms. I was afraid the crow would starve to death. Fortunately, I had a dog, Bill, who my mother fed each morning with a bowl of scraps.
The crow, who I named Jim, dashed to the bowl and ate it all. (Bill did not mind the theft.) Then Jim snatched a black beetle. So, feeding was solved.
As Jim matured and learned to fly, I would call him like he was a dog and he would come for our feeding procedure. I would turn over the flag stones in the yard and he would clean up all the beetles underneath.
Jim had developed some traits. Not only was he a good friend who would come when I called and loved to be patted and scratched under his chin, he was a thief.
The butcher in town lived in a home surrounded by oak trees. In those days no one had a washer and dryer. The butcher’s wife did the wash by hand, and the drying was on a line in the back yard.
Drying on the line were the wife’s undies and they would disappear. She thought at first that someone was playing a trick on her but finally called the county sheriff who was there several times after each incident but could find no suspects.
Finally, in the fall when the trees lost their leaves, there was an oak decorated like a Christmas tree with the ladies undies. The sheriff who lived on a farm knew something about crows; He had a clue and that led to my crow.
When I arrived home one day there was a big white car parked in front with sheriff in gold letters.
That is not good publicity when your dad is a banker. The sheriff asked me if I owned a crow. I said, “yes,” and he told me about the tree decorated with undies. He also told me to keep my crow in a cage for a month. I did, but that was not the cure. Read on.
My younger sister was in her play pen. She had a teether with a small silver bell attached.
The bright silver bell caught Jim’s attention. He grabbed the bell and flew up on the roof to amuse himself then flew off, leaving the bell. I had to get a ladder to retrieve the bell. It was always something with Jim.
Months later the sheriff was back. Jim was stealing the butcher’s wife’s undies again. And, he said, it had to stop. He suggested that I find a new home for Jim on a farm because he did not have a jail for crows. The sheriff was very kind and understanding. And he said that if necessary, he would love to have Jim on his farm. I agreed, because I wanted what was best for
Jim. I passed on details on how to handle Jim – his likes and dislikes.
It was difficult. After all, Jim was just having fun. Jim was a real friend and I will never forget him.
Reprinted with permission of “Our Neighborhoods,” Winter 2025-26 edition.
