Family Ties to Favorite Birds
Blue Jays are deeply embedded in my family history.
(Listen to the radio version: Part 1 here and Part 2 here.)
Since I started producing “For the Birds” in 1986, I’ve always called any month with a blue moon “National Blue Jay Awareness Month.” Decades ago, I made a big deal about it whenever there was a blue moon, producing lots of programs about Blue Jays. Some provided solid information but many had sillier elements, often related to my fictitious Jim Baker and his fictitious company, “Baker’s Blue Jay Barn.” For example, in one “ad,” the “California Ravens” sang “Bohemian Rhapsojay.” (It was me doing the singing to my daughter’s piano accompaniment.)
My friend John Keenan, who voices my Jim Baker character, found a Blue Jay nesting in his yard back in the late 80s and snapped a photo. My friend Darlene Peterson made a drawing of it, and in 1988, KUMD sent supporters a t-shirt with the design as a premium—my kids and I are wearing ours in the top photo. One of the shirts held up well enough that my grandson Walter was wearing it 35 years later!
May 2026 qualified as National Blue Jay Awareness Month because there were two full moons, but between all the preparations and travel involved in giving talks at birding events in Ohio and Wisconsin, and then my daughter’s stem-cell harvest at the Mayo, celebrating Blue Jays entirely slipped my mind. In June and now July, I seem to be making up for lost time by focusing on my “Top Ten” favorite birds—the Blue Jay has, for half a century, always held the #1 or #2 position. I’m especially fond of Blue Jays because they are so deeply embedded in my family life going all the way back to when my children were little.
When my not-quite-one-year-old daughter Katie still had a one-word vocabulary, “mama,” and was just starting to pull herself up to stand, she gravitated to the picture window in our living room—that windowsill was exactly the right height for her to grab onto. Meanwhile, a pair of Blue Jays had figured out that I was feeding peanuts to a few tame squirrels on the front porch, right outside that picture window. The squirrels usually ate the peanuts right away but sometimes buried them. As soon as a squirrel hid a peanut somewhere and ran off, one of the Blue Jays would drop down, dig out the peanut, and fly away with it.
When I first noticed the jays, I started leaving peanuts on the flat railing for them. At first they wouldn’t fly to the porch until I went inside, but one day, the braver one of the pair flew in and grabbed the peanut while I was still on the porch—I’d just stepped back from the railing. By the time the more timid jay started coming in while I was still on the porch, the braver one was taking the peanuts right out of my hand. The second jay never felt comfortable with that. It did start coming in while I was on the porch if I was far enough away from the railing, but if I made any unexpected movement, it hightailed it back to the safety of the maple tree. One time I sneezed right as it alighted on the porch railing and it flew off, not returning for several days.
My little Katie loved watching these big colorful birds at close range, so when I asked her if she wanted to see the Blue Jays, she’d crawl straight to the living room window saying “Boo Jay!”
When Russ and I needed a second car for my speaking and book-signing gigs, we got a personalized license plate memorializing that. We had to pay $100 for it, but only that one time, so 32 years later, my license plate still reads BOOJAY. For decades, Minnesota didn’t let you personalize their critical habitat license plate, but now that they do, our license plate pays tribute to both Black-capped Chickadees and Blue Jays. Imagine being able to honor my top two birds on the same license plate!
I never had much of a relationship with either of my parents as an adult, but I made up for it in the in-law department. When Russ’s parents retired to Port Wing, Wisconsin, in 1980, they immediately set up a feeding station. Blue Jays are here year-round, their numbers augmented enormously during spring and fall migration. When a Blue Jay flies to a feeder, other birds instantly scatter, probably for the same reason that beginning birders at Hawk Ridge sometimes mistake Blue Jays for Sharp-shinned Hawks—in silhouette, both species have rounded wings and a long tail. And Blue Jays sometimes yell out a warning as if a predator was about; when the birds at the feeder scatter, in come the jays. But they’re not bullies—once they settle down to eat, the jays are as peaceable as most other birds. You can tell they have their aggression turned down when their crests are down.
My father-in-law and I ragged each other endlessly about Blue Jays, me calling them “Nature’s Perfect Birds” and him saying how much he hated them. For his birthday in August 1987, I started “For the Birds” talking about how wonderful Blue Jays are but said if I even whispered their name, it would ruin his birthday, so I’d talk about Bald Eagles instead—he got a big kick out of that. That Christmas, Russ and I made a poster with a large picture of a Blue Jay with a red circle/slash, saying “Port Wing Blue Jay Haters. Ellwood Erickson, President,” which he loved so much he immediately hung it in a place of honor in the hallway.
Blue Jays figured even more prominently in Erickson family life after I started rehabbing. The most memorable experiences happened the summer some Cloquet people brought me four very young nestlings after the branch with their nest crashed to the ground in a thunderstorm—a fifth had died in the crash. My kids helped me care for them from the start, and when they fledged and we started letting them spend the day outside, the little birds would fly up to the kids as much as me to be fed.
Our kids’ friends spent a lot of time at our house—we ran a pretty laid-back, friendly household, and you never knew what you would find when you came in, though all the kids in the neighborhood knew to be careful opening the door and looking for any birds underfoot. The little jays enjoyed the hustle and bustle.
That was the summer we were putting an addition on the house. During the time the construction workers were excavating the foundation, the little guys could have gotten in a lot of trouble, so I kept them indoors. One morning I had to run some errands so left the four little fledglings in the back room we were using as a playroom. When I returned and opened the door, the four little Blue Jays were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the windowsill, watching the excavator shovel moving back and forth, digging and dumping, digging and dumping. All four little heads moved in perfect synchrony, back and forth, back and forth, just like the stereotype of people watching a tennis match. The construction workers were charmed.
Our golden retriever Bunter followed me everywhere, and once during that construction chaos, I was so intent on getting out the door of the playroom without the fledglings following me that I accidentally closed the door on Bunter, too. I love telling little kids about this, reminding them that golden retrievers are hunting dogs. Bird hunting dogs. And it was a bloody sight when I returned. Two of the little jays were huddled in a feathery mass, sound asleep. The one I called Jake was sitting on Bunter’s back, hacking into the poor dog like a woodpecker, a bit of blood dripping from the tip of his beak. And the one I called Sneakers was sitting on Bunter’s snout, leaning over, probing Bunter’s nostrils with the tip of her beak. Bunter stood there, tail down, head bowed, looking cosmically guilty as if examining her conscience, trying to think what mortal sin she’d committed that had consigned her to this hell. It never in a million years would have occurred to her to blame the real guilty party—me. Bunter didn’t hold it against the birds, either. When she saw a hungry little Blue Jay, she’d run and get me, as anxious as Lassie if Timmy fell down the well.
Every afternoon, we’d gather in the living room for story time, which was nap time for the jays. Three of them always snuggled together when resting—they usually stayed in a tight group when outside, too.
The fourth always stuck to the humans. When we didn’t feel like having paper towels on our laps, that one would snuggle up to our shoes, so we called her Sneakers.
I always wondered if she hadn’t looked at our house, safe from rain, wind, and predators, compared it to the nest that had crashed in the storm, and shifted her loyalty.
Outdoors, the little birds were wonderful to watch—when one preened, one or two others watched every little movement. When one sampled a new insect or berry, the others would pay attention. Blue Jays don’t only learn by experience—they apparently also learn by the experiences of others.
Little by little, they grew more independent and came less often for feedings. Soon after they started staying outside at night, they stopped coming around altogether. Several months later, the one I’d called Jake showed up at our window feeder one morning and tapped, so I let him in the house. He flew instantly to the spot where I’d always kept a dish of food items for the babies, so I put some food there for him. He also got a drink out of Bunter’s water bowl.
After pigging out, Jake flew to the high shelf in the living room where the babies had often napped, tucked his beak in his back feathers, and fell sound asleep. And slept and slept! I don’t remember exactly how long he was conked out, but it was at least a couple of hours. I was scared that he was sick, but suddenly he woke up, flew back to his food dish and ate a bit more, got another drink, and was ready to face the world again. He flew to the dining room windowsill and waited; when I cranked it open, off he flew, never to return.
I’ve often wondered what led Jake to come home just that one time. He was obviously thriving out there—his feathers were gorgeous, and when he alighted on my hand, his weight seemed perfect. To survive in the natural world, Blue Jays must be ever vigilant, especially in a neighborhood with nesting Merlins and several cats. (That was before Duluth enacted a cat-leash ordinance.) Jake had obviously dealt successfully with the dangers so far—maybe he just needed a little break. Whatever the reason, I was thrilled to see him again, as were my kids.
Baby birds of every species have high mortality—that’s why pairs of Blue Jays virtually always produce 4 or 5 eggs each year while their population stays stable. It’s as scary sending a baby bird off on its own as it is watching your 16-year-old drive off with their brand-new drivers license. I think my children were a little more understanding of Russ and me when we were over-protective because they knew what it was like to want to give a sweet dependent creature its freedom even as you want to protect it from everything bad that could possibly happen.
Such fun stories and GREAT photos! Thanks so much for sharing those.