Daddy’s Pigeon Coop – Comments From FoodSpook
Hello,
I am FoodSpook. From time to time I like to share with you what my life was like in the 1950′s. This post is non-medical. It is for fun.
In 1955 I was 7 years old. We lived in Richmond, CA in our very first home. My father and mother came to the Bay Area in the 1940′s to build warships during WWII. After the war, my father also became a preacher and my mother worked during the summer months at the Del Monte canneries.
One spring morning I awoke to the sound of hammering. It was a Saturday. It was 9:00 AM and I was surprised that my father had not awakened me to go to work with him on our side jobs. We washed cars and cut lawns. I got dressed as fast as I could and ran out of the house to find out what was happening. I asked, “daddy what are you building?”. He answered, “a pigeon coop”. Our neighbor was also there and they were building this coop together.
Being a young boy, I had my pride and I didn’t want to ask what is a pigeon coop? This little square box was about 15′ by 15′, half plywood with an enclosure and covered with chicken wire in the front. My father and neighbor finished this project the next day on Sunday afternoon. On the next day when my father arrived home from work he had a cardboard box cradled under his arm. I ran up to him on the sidewalk and asked “daddy what’s in the box?”. He opened the top flaps on the box and I was looking at 15 beautiful gray pigeons with soft rainbow translucent feathers and I almost stopped breathing!
My father also had a five pound bag of pure mid-west corn to feed the pigeons. He explained to me that one of my after school jobs from now on would be to keep these pigeons fed and supplied with fresh water. I agreed whole heartedly, actually I really had no choice. As months passed by, the pigeons and I learned to accept each other. I was not in love with them but I liked them as fellow captives. As for the pigeons, I seemed to be irrelevant to them.
During the wintery and rainy months when I went into the coop to feed and water the pigeons, I had to wear my school rain gear. That consisted of black knee-high rubber boots, a yellow full lenth rain slicker and yellow rain hat. This dress was necessary. The front of the pigeon coop always had at least 6 to 7 inches of pigeon poo that would turn to a slimey quicksand with the rains. I ALWAYS slipped and fell down. My mother would hose me down before letting me back into the house. My younger sisters thought this was a hoot. They couldn’t stop laughing.
In the 1950′s people ate differently in the United States. This was a time before giant supermarket chains. Fast food outlets had not taken over our appetites with fast, cheap and dangerous foods. People still believed in the past proven benefits of growing their own foods and fowl and cooking them.
My parents were no different. Once a week my dad would cook and he was a good cook. We kids would ask, “daddy this looks like chicken but the legs are too small”. My father would answer ” that’s squab, shutup, you’ll like it”. And we did. My mother would never cook this squab. We kids noticed but didn’t ask questions. We ate what was prepared for us in our own home.
A few months later my father brought home a beautiful snow-white goose. He put it in the coop with the pigeons. We kids did not know if the goose was a girl or a boy, so we arbitrarily named it “Granny”. My father was still bringing home this perfect grain corn as feed and now I was also feeding Granny, the goose. Granny had a dark side. I will refer to him as ‘he’ but I’m not sure. When I entered the coop to feed and water the birds, Granny would find a hiding place. He would wait until I bent over to pour the grain and then run from behind and peck me real hard on my butt with his beak. He would then quack like Hell as if his actions were hilarious. He did this every day.
A couple of years went by. I kept falling into the muck and Granny kept pecking. By the way, a goose can peck very hard. One day I went into the coop to do my job and Granny was sprawled out in dirt, stone dead. We informed my father when he came home from work. He told us ” well that’s too bad, I’ll cook him tomorrow”. We kids were horrified! We said “you can’t cook Granny, we won’t eat him”. My father was “old school”. You didn’t defy him. But we did. My mother said “listen to the kids. They don’t want to eat Granny”. So I buried Granny in the backyard the next day.
They say with age comes wisdom. Well now I was two years older at age 9. When I realized my father was ready and willing to cook Granny, our dear departed goose, I also realized the delicious squab we were eating once a month was none other than the very same pigeons I had been feeding and watering during the past two years. My dad was just replacing them with new pigeons. My mother was in on the jig but refused to cook the birds. That was the end of that. We kids rebelled and daddy caved.
Source: FoodSpook
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