©2005 Brett Ross [email protected]
The
Talking
Raven
by Mike Hillman
Photos by Brett Ross
It was what Mother called a Bluemoon weekend - one of those rare
Saturdays and Sundays when Father,
for some unexplainable reason, wasn’t
out fishing and served as her chauffeur
on Sunday afternoons. These weekends
stand out in my memory, because they
didn’t happen very often.
On one memorable Sunday, Mother
chose to drive out and visit her old
friend, Mrs. Rivard. Mrs. Rivard was
already well into her eighties that
summer. She was a widowed family
friend of Mother’s people. She ran
Camp Rivard, a small resort a few
miles south of town on Birch Lake.
Unlike most older people I knew,
who seemed to have lost the zest and
vigor they once had, Mrs. Rivard was
one of the liveliest people I had ever
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met. She was an avid reader who loved
to sit over coffee and talk to friends
about books she had recently read.
Mrs. Rivard was also a great letter
writer. In order to keep her body as
sharp as her mind, Mrs. Rivard
practiced yoga.
The day of our visit we came to the
back door of her house and Mother
“yoo-hooed” into the screen door. Mrs.
Rivard “helloed” us back and asked us
to come in. I was amazed at what I saw.
There in the middle of the living room
was a thin old woman, standing upsidedown, her head resting on a pillow.
“Don’t mind me,” she said with an
upside down grin. Then she neatly
flipped over on her hands, and the next
thing I knew she was standing on her
feet with her fingers pushing back her
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disheveled shock of white hair. She
looked at me, extended her hand, and
said, “You must be Michael.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered with my
mouth agape. She aimed a beautiful
smile and fired it off in my direction.
“You probably haven’t seen a lot of
old ladies stand on their heads,
Michael, but don’t let it worry you,” she
said. Then she recited some words
from Lewis Carroll:
“You are old Father William,” his
young son said, “and your hair has
become very white, and yet you
incessantly stand on your head. Do
you think at your age it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William
replied to his son, “I feared it might
injure my brain. But now that I’m
perfectly sure I have none, I do it again
and again.”
I soon found Mrs. Rivard to be one
of the most enjoyable people I had ever
met. She took me around her home
and showed me all kinds of wonderful
things she had collected over the years.
We talked about the old days when she
and her husband had carved out what
they had hoped would be a small farm
on the edge of Birch Lake.
Mrs. Rivard looked at an old picture
of herself and her husband when they
first came to farm, and laughed. “That’s
my husband, and that’s me,” she said. I
looked at the picture. They were a
handsome couple. She had been a
beautiful woman once. I looked up at
her face and realized she was still a
beautiful woman.
“It didn’t take us long to figure out
that the only crop we were likely to be
successful with was rocks. That’s when
we decided to start a small resort to
help pay the bills. Mr. Rivard logged in
the winter. In the summer we ran our
resort. There were some tough years
for us,” she said, “but mostly it was a
good life.”
Just then there was a knock at the
kitchen door. Mrs. Rivard opened the
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door and in walked one of her guests.
He was a good sized man who politely
took his hat off when he entered the
kitchen. I could see by his face that
something was bothering him.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,
Mrs. Rivard, but there’s a thief in camp.
I left some things on my dressing room
table near the window, and now they’re
gone.”
Mrs. Rivard’s face looked like it was
etched in stone. She was silent for a
moment and then she said, “This is
quite serious, Mr. Anderson. Just what
is it that’s missing?”
“My watch and my wedding ring
have both disappeared, Mrs. Rivard,”
came the response.
“I hate to say this, Mr. Anderson,
but I believe I know who has taken your
things. Out of the goodness of my
heart, but against my better judgement,
I hired someone new. I’m afraid I may
have misjudged the quality of his
character. Follow me please.” She was
walking out the kitchen door when she
turned to me and said that it would
probably be good for me to come along
as well.
We followed her out the door and to
the back of the garage. There stood a
large wooden box mounted on a sturdy
post about four feet off the ground. On
the front of the box was a round hole
about six inches in diameter, and under
the hole was a platform. A large
wooden dowel jutted out in front of the
platform like the bowsprit of a sailing
ship. Mrs. Rivard stopped directly in
front of the box.
“Blackie,” she said in a stern voice.
“You had better come out, because I’m
afraid we have something to discuss.” I
could hear sounds coming from inside
the wooden box. I was startled when a
raven strutted out of the opening.
The bird stood on the platform
looking eye to eye with Mrs. Rivard.
“Hello,” the raven said. I couldn’t
believe my ears. I’d heard it said that
ravens could talk, but I’d never really
2005
believed it.
Mrs. Rivard responded to him as if
he were a person, “Blackie, Mr.
Anderson is missing a watch and ring.
Do you know where they are?”
Blackie hopped from the platform
and onto the perch and looked away
from Mrs. Rivard. “No,” came the bird’s
terse response.
“Are you sure, Blackie?” Mrs.
Rivard asked sweetly. “Do you mind if I
just have a look?”
Blackie turned and looked at her,
“No trespassing! No trespassing!” he
fired back.
Mrs. Rivard went to the back of the
box and opened a door there. The top
of the box was divided from the bottom
by a course screen. A nest sat on top
of the screen. On the bottom of the box
were bits and pieces of things which
had dropped down through the screen.
It made for easy cleaning. On the
bottom of the box, scattered among
bits and pieces of a raven’s life, lay a
shiny gold watch and a ring. Mrs.
Rivard took the watch and ring out,
then shut the door. She returned to the
front and confronted the raven. “And
just what is this?” she asked.
The raven turned his head and
looked at her. “I was framed,” he said.
Mrs. Rivard shook her head in mock
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©2005 Brett Ross [email protected]
sadness. “I’m surprised that you can
say that with a straight face, Blackie.
You should blush with shame. If you
didn’t do it, then who do you think
did?”
Blackie pulled his wings back and
up from his body as if he was
shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t know,”
he said, “Blackie was framed.”
Mrs. Rivard shook her finger at the
recalcitrant bird. “How much longer do
you expect me to tolerate such
behavior, Blackie?”
“Nevermore,” responded the now
repentant raven, “Nevermore.
Nevermore. Nevermore.”
Then Mrs. Rivard reached into her
pocket and gave Blackie a treat and
Blackie thanked her.
Mr. Anderson turned to her. “That’s
the most amazing thing I have ever
seen,” he said. “Do you mind if I bring
my wife and kids to meet Blackie?”
“Not at all, Mr. Anderson,” she
responded. “Blackie loves meeting new
people.” She turned to me. “Would you
like to meet Blackie, Michael?”
“You bet,” I said.
“Blackie, come out and meet
Michael.” The next thing I knew,
Blackie was out on his perch. He
looked at me and said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” I responded.
“I’m Blackie. Who are you?”
“My name is Michael,” I said with a
big smile. I was talking to a raven.
“Well?”questioned Blackie. I turned
to Mrs. Rivard and asked what it was he
wanted.
“He wants a treat, Michael.” She
reached into her pocket and handed
me a piece of dried apple. “Hold this up
and ask him to come over and give you
a kiss.”
Instantly, Blackie was sitting on my
shoulder with his head nuzzled up
against the side of my face. I handed
over the apple. Blackie grabbed it from
my fingers and then hopped back
toward home.
“Aren’t you forgetting something,
Blackie?” asked Mrs. Rivard.
Blackie turned and looked at us.
“Thank you,” he said.
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“We must always remember our
manners, Blackie.” The raven nodded
his head. Then he went back into his
house.
We turned and walked back to Mrs.
Rivard’s kitchen. “Where did you get
him?” I asked.
“A few years back one of the
loggers brought Blackie to me. He had
cut down a tree and heard some noise
when the tree hit the ground. That’s
when he realized that there had been a
raven’s nest in the tree. The other two
birds in the nest were killed when the
tree came down, but Blackie survived.
The logger hoped the parents would
come back, but when he returned the
next day he could see they had
abandoned the nest. So he brought
Blackie to me. I fed and cared for him,
thinking that one day he would grow up
and fly away into the woods to be
among his own kind. It never
happened. Blackie bonded with me.
He thinks I am his mother. Sometimes I
wonder if he has any idea that he’s a
raven. For the past five years he has
thought of himself as my baby boy:
Blackie Rivard. And I guess, in a way,
that’s what he is.
“The first time something came up
missing, I really did think we had a thief
in camp. But about a week later I was
cleaning Blackie’s box and found the
missing item. I realized Blackie had a
weakness for beautiful things. Now his
stealing has become part of Camp
Rivard’s charm. I have people who
come to visit me and bring their
children and grandchildren just so they
can leave something on the window
ledge for Blackie to steal. One man
knew somebody in show business and
he wanted Blackie and me to come on
television. It would have been fine with
Blackie, as long as he was fed, but I
didn’t want to travel so far away from
home. So we didn’t go.”
The rest of the summer, I couldn’t
stop talking about Blackie the raven. I
told Dad that I would much rather visit
Camp Rivard than go fishing. But Mrs.
Rivard was busy with the resort during
the summer, so I agreed not to bother
about Blackie until fall. I still remember
the morning I called and told her we
were coming for a visit. I asked if there
was anything special I could bring
Blackie. There was a pause from the
other end of the phone. “Michael, I’m
afraid I have some bad news for you.
Blackie disappeared this summer.”
“What happened to him?!” I asked
in a stunned voice.
“We don’t know, Michael. One day
Blackie was home, and then the next
morning he was gone. I waited for him
to come home, but he never did. I hope
he found a girlfriend and finally realized
that he’s a raven. But I guess we will
never know for sure.”
We visited Camp Rivard for many
summers after that. I always loved
talking with Mrs. Rivard, but I always
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missed Blackie. He was one of a kind:
the only talking raven I ever met.
Whenever I see ravens doing crazy
and fun things just for the sake of doing
them, I think of my old friend Blackie
and the woman who took him in,
taught him to talk, and never took
away his freedom. Mrs. Rivard’s love
for Blackie was complete and
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unconditional. There were no cage
doors or strings attached. He was
always free to come and go as he
pleased.
Once when I was fishing on Birch
Lake, a large old raven perched in a
nearby pine. Just before he flew, I
thought I heard him say “Hello.” But
that might have only been wishful
thinking.
Mike Hillman is a writer, historia
and Thespian, and one of those
people you could sit and listen to
night - which you can do at
Burntside Lodge (call for schedule
365-3894) and at History Night on
July 13th at VCC. Mike?s newest
book, Tales of Old Ely and the Lake
Country, was recently released by
Singing River Publications of Ely.
Brett Ross is the son-in-law of
famous Ely photographer Jim
Brandenburg. Prints of his photos
The Ely Summer Times