Posted 18 January 2005

A few years ago, Jim stumbled over a reference to the feral population of Monk Parakeets (also called Monk Parrots) in Chicago.

He asked our friend Patrick about it. Patrick, who last lived in the Chicago area in the 80's, snorted derisively and said there were no parrots in Chicago. We figured they'd moved in after he left, and we asked our friends Ray and Lori, who live in a suburb of the city, and when they'd never heard of them either, we began to doubt Jim's sources.

Still, when we went up for a wedding, we made some inquiries of the staff at the chapel. One of them gave us directions to a section of the city where he said the birds could be seen. We prowled the back streets. We parked near a neighborhood park and nosed around. Behind a building, we saw an untidy, rambling nest of sticks crowning an electric pole. Jim had read that the birds often built their communal nests around transformers, for the warmth in the winter, and that their nests sometimes caught fire. We felt like we were onto something.

We heard a distant, tropical sqwak, and then a subdued flash of green caught my eye and was gone.

We hurried back to the park, and there on the furthest fence perched an unmistakable parrot. Not a gaudy one (they're called Monks because they're plain of plumage) but a real, live bird flying free in the midst of Chicago.

We asked a resident about it. She seemed discomforted to be approached by a stranger, but she soon warmed to her subject. The birds had been here for years, and she regarded them, with evident affection, as sucessful underdogs. She told us of a lakefront park where we could see more of them, and having a nice chunk of time still before the reception, we followed her directions across town.

We soon saw a tree with an huge, sprawling, nest. We sat down and watched, and bird after green bird flew up with a stick in its mouth, poked around in the nest, and flew back off. Frequently they dislodged a stick or two by their efforts, but although the ground under the nest was dusted with sticks, there were far more of them up there in the tree.

A local came by and sat down a few yards away from us, watching the same tree. We moved over and chatted with him. He lived in the building across the street, and he'd been watching the birds since they arrived in the park. Then Mayor Washington had lived there too, and along with many other Chicago residents had opposed the Beaureau of Fish and Wildlife's iniative to exterminate the feral birds before they made a play for the niche the Carolina Parakeet had inhabited. The birds stayed, but although they established themselves in Chicago (as, incidentally, have other escaped populations in some other cities with more clement weather) they haven't spread as an agricultural pest into the countryside.

Our informant knew which kinds of trees they prefered for food, and described how they'd strip off the side shoots and chew through the base of the twigs they selected for building their homes. When the time came to leave, I snatched up a handfull of twigs, and sure enough, all had a chewed end.

When visitors to my home look at me askance, hearing of the Parrots of Chicago. I wave one of those twigs under their noses to support my story.

However, I'm afraid that Jim's sober support of the tale carries more weight.

By Ruby Jung, even the background. All rights reserved to the story. If you like the background, you're welcome to copy it and use it.