Kookaburras are all affectionately called Jack in my family. I've always loved them. Ever since the age of six or so when one of these cheeky friends landed on a picnic table smack bang in front of me, ate my sausage in bread and stayed for a bit of a chat.
I appreciated his manners.
Some of my friends think I laugh like a Kookaburra. I take it as a compliment, better than the witch description I got as a kid sometimes.
When we moved into our bush-set home, we noticed the local resident Kookaburras straight away. Perhaps the past owners fed them, but we never have. Instead I hope they eat the Scary Unknowns that slither through our back garden, as nature intended. They don't often come close, usually preferring to perch in the nearby gum trees and gurgle a song at us in the afternoon. But when they do stop in, I always say hello and ask them what they've been up to.
On the very first day that Firstborn came home from the hospital the Kookaburras set up a welcoming party on our clothesline. They sat there for an hour checking him out while new parents and grandparents sat on the back desk taking it in turns to hold our new prince.
They turned up again a few days after my baby daughter first arrived home. It's like they want to welcome new life to the house.
I'm not sure what the significance is. New life, curiosity, a Dreamtime totem?
That, or they think there is tasty new grub around.