Hooked on Rooks

Perhaps my love of crows, or rooks, stems from the one and only regular social activity I ever remember my parents engaging in as a couple: games of Rook with their friends, Pete and Betty Lobetti.

I don't remember ever playing, but I was totally fascinated with the cards. And I loved when Pete and Betty came over because there were people other than our family in the house. Mom put out snacks. Pete and Betty paid attention to me. And Betty Lobetti. You can't beat that name with a stick.

After Daddy died, the day of his funeral, his best friends, Jeff and Betty (a different Betty) were getting ready to go. They were in separate rooms and both heard a sound in another room. They went to see what caused it. There, on the window sill, was a crow tapping at the pane. Betty turned to Jeff and said, "That's Kyle, saying good bye."

So, in more recent times, I'm drawn to crows because I associate them with Daddy, in particular, but because folklore connects crows with death, with Mom and Mac, too. For the entire school year year after they'd all died, there would often be three crows hanging out in the yard by my classroom when I arrived early in the morning. "Hello, Daddy. Mom. Mac," I said. And smile, because I liked having them with me.