Bluebirds and blue eggs

The other day when I wrote that hearing a chorus of frogs transported me back to my Rutan childhood, it triggered a flood of memories of my earliest "bird" experiences - like the time I discovered blue eggs do not belong to bluebirds.

By observation at Grandma Johnson's and Aunty Tina's I had learned that brown hens lay brown eggs and white hens white eggs. It was logical (to me) to assume, therefore, when we discovered a nest with blue eggs that it must belong to a bluebird. The nest was on one of the beams supporting the bridge north of the elevator. Of course it wasn't really a bridge but a loading platform adjacent to the tracks of the spur line that served the elevator. It had been used by farmers to unload things like coal from a box car spotted there - I vaguely remember this - but by the late '40s, early '50s it was seldom used. But it made a great place to play. It was cool and damp under the bridge even on the hottest summer day and smelled of decay and rot and other delicious cave-like aromas.

Finding the nest with the eggs was a wonderful discovery, almost like coming upon a pirate's treasure. I had once found half an egg shell of that fabulous summer sky color. It was simply lying on the ground, far from a tree, no nest it could have fallen from, and I saved it in my box of secret treasures that included feathers and sparkly stones.

The eggs were still warm when we touched them. Although we hadn't seen her leave, we must have frightened the mother bird from its nest with our noisy entry.

"Bluebird eggs," I announced with authority to my siblings. I was a bossy, know-it-all child. "And we have to get out of here so the mother bluebird can come back. Bluebird of Happiness, you know. And that means if anything happens to those eggs, you won't be happy."

And I shooed the kids out. Bluebird of Happiness? I'd heard that line in a song. As soon as the others were involved in a different game, I snuck back to the bridge and crept silently under to spy on the nest. When my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could see a bird on the nest. A bird with a dark head and a beady eye studying me. Not a bluebird. A robin! A robin all black and grey and rusty orange with no hint whatsoever of sky blue!

Dummy, I chided myself. After all, crows eggs weren't black, were they?

I never did confess my error to my siblings.