When I was a little girl I spent a lot of time deep in the Darien jungle. Well, maybe I didn’t actually venture out into the jungle very much. I spent much of my days in my family’s farm, playing on the balcony with my Fisher Price farmhouse. But a very scary creature was never far away. It was my grandmother’s parrot.
Don’t laugh. She was evil. I’ve heard that my grandmother rescued her from kids pelting her with rocks. Maybe she was a nice, friendly bird at one point. Or maybe those kids scarred her for life and turned her into the cruel imitator that she was.
She didn’t have a name; we just called her “La Lora” which translates to “the parrot.” She would perch herself on the front gate and swoop down on those daring to step inside the yard. She would imitate crying babies and laugh. She would peck at our shoes (because we wouldn’t dare walk around her barefoot).
When she wasn’t busy terrorizing my brother and me she would often fly into town and hang out by the cantina, where, as well as probably picking up some colorful language, she learned drinking songs that she brought back to the house to serenade us with.
A few years ago while visiting Doug’s hometown his dad, who deals in antiques and estate sales, gave us this little beauty. I don’t know if he had heard about La Lora or maybe he thought this was the kind of low-maintenance pet we needed. Either way Lucy has hung out with us ever since, and every time I see her I feel a little bit nostalgic.