USA & Ireland: Little Differences #3
ROBINS
Dennis Hopper with an oxygen mask. A sliced off ear. A naked battered Isabella Rosellini. A beautiful heart attack with a small dog attacking the jet of water from a hose in a dying hand. A candy colored clown they call the sandman.
What might bother you most about Blue Velvet, if you’re like me, is not the horror of Frank Booth, but the Robins. Because nobody told me American Robins and European Robins were different birds.
I mean really different. Not like Jays. The Blue Jay, very common here in Kansas City, is obviously the same bird as the Eurasian Jay. But more common. And a lot less shy. And bluer.
Last time I saw a Jay at home I was up the Wicklow mountains on a bicycle, and that was the first time in years. I had a visitor from Ireland here in KC some time back that was very eager to see a Blue Jay. They’re everywhere, I pointed out helpfully. They’re the large blue ones, I added.
And for several days Blue Jays swung and arced in front of her face, yet she never noticed them. Until one day in the late October sunshine, she gestured at a bird, and told me that was a Blue Jay, wasn’t it?
No, I said, the pitch black bird on the polystyrene gravestone not twenty feet away in somebody’s front garden, is actually a raven. A plastic raven. Though it is also in the crow family. Plastic notwithstanding.
But anyway, Robins. The European Robin, is a plump little flycatcher, about the size of a sparrow who has pigged out on some turkey, if you know what I mean. He has a clear red breast, demarcated by a soft grey line. A red breast. Not reddish. Not a hint of red. Not rusty. Red. No messin’.
Like most suburbanites, he and his missus are very territorial, and will fight other Robins that come into their patch. Their territory is little more than one or two suburban gardens. Despite being feisty with other birds, European Robins are very friendly with people.
My friend’s parents feed a pair of Robins in their kitchen. From their hands. The Robins are called Jimmy and Jamie. Nobody knows the difference, so the rules are that you call the first one that comes into the kitchen Jimmy, regardless of gender.
Most Robins nest year round, but much like humans, a gang of females typically head down to Spain for the Winter. Torremolinos or the Costa del Sol probably, where they doubtless do the chicken dance with Spanish birds until the morning birdsong. And being such loveable, confident, independent, and red, no messin’, birds, the Robin finds himself a symbol of Christmas with his portrait painted for cards, and his wife stuffed to decorate the tree.
The American Robin, on the other hand, is a Thrush. A big old scruffy hang around in large groups Thrush. With gray kinda brown back, and a darker kinda black but not, head. And with a reddish breast not clearly delineated, at best described as dull red. Dull. Already you’re thinking of Christmas aren’t you?
Its scientific name is Turdus Migratorius, and there’s a joke in there somewhere. So what happened? Well, some British pilgrims got on a boat to America, and the first thing they saw with red in the New World, they called a Robin. On that basis they would’ve renamed a Corvette a Robin Reliant. Supposedly the colonists missed the Robin so much, that they brought millions of sparrows and starlings to North America, but not one Robin.
I’ve seen another Robin in Asia. The Siberian Blue Robin just looks like a European Robin that’s been photoshopped. Think Elvis singing Blue Christmas
I know it’s only a little difference, but when I saw the Robin that wasn’t a Robin in Blue Velvet, well it frightened me. What a great ending I thought, the bird is clearly an evil imposter - which it was, but I was thinking more Alfred Hitchcock than Big Bird.
Some Related Irish Stuff:
• Little Differences #11: Pharmaceuticals
• Little Differences #13: Fun
• Little Differences #1: Tennis Balls
• How Do You Find America?
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
Hi, nice site!
Well, that explains it. I asked a photograph-ish friend in Cork City what was that sweet little bird in a photo of his. “Duh. You should know that — it’s a robin!” I replied, “Duh. Not! Robins are big and fat with a red breast.” “No, you’re mistaken…” “Uh, no, YOU’RE mistaken..” Well of course it went on like that for hours, surfing the web for proofs, etc. I’m only half Irish, tho’, and thus wasn’t up to the full debate. But he didn’t win it. It was a tie. A Cork tie: everyone lived, not the least so for the opportunity to argue about politics and/or to pick up where he left off with greatly-dialogued jokes about a queen being head-butted..