Boyhood Stoning of a Blue Jay and its Effect on Me

R. Chianese  In my boyhood I roamed the New Jersey woods next to our modest postwar suburb. The woods provided every adventure in its remaining forest, swamps, and creek. Some older boys fished, trapped, and hunted, while my pals and I explored the place as very unconscious “naturalists.” We brought specimens home in jars, boxes, and bags. And, we threw stones, a favorite pastime, at lots of things. One day I lobbed a large one at a blue jay and it landed square on its back, flattening and killing it. None of us rejoiced at that. It was a terrible violation and a warning about careless pursuits.

            Then we built slingshots, strong ones out of ply wood, with real whammo rubber bands and copper bb’s for ammunition. I could have gone after birds, or easily penetrated the shells of turtles sunning in the ponds, but I didn’t. The memory of the squashed innocent blue jay kept my reckless animal-killing ardor in check. I take my shift of consciousness about respecting all things great and small from that early transgressive act and the remorse I felt thereafter. I may be an environmentalist because of it.