Looking back, I cannot fault my parents for at least trying to civilize us. This included family vacations. If it were up to my three brothers and me, we would have only spent our vacations from school in a swamp or a patch of woods. We were only happy if we were pulling earthworms from the ground or catching snakes and keeping them in pillowcases. We used my mom’s best soup pot to capture unsuspecting bullfrogs and really did not want to bother with any of the finer things in life. But sooner or later my folks started to worry that they were raising a bunch of feral children, so my dad put his foot down and insisted that our next vacation be in a city and preferably one with a lot of history to it. We were not happy about his decision, and it made matters worse that he decided to have us write a report on this country as a “good healthy warm up” to a new kind of travel. Needless to say, none of us were very happy about the chain of events as we shuffled towards our next holiday. Once we touched down in the city, my dad said the zoo was off limits and marshalled us to the art museum. We were jet lagged and weepy and missing our worms and garter snakes, and suddenly we were whisked around the museum expected to take in all the Baroque art. This was quite a stretch. We maintained various degrees of moroseness as we trudged from room to room. Sooner or later, my folks would come to their senses, and we’d find the nearest exit and race down the stone museum steps. And there, more often than not, we would find ourselves in some city square full of pigeons, and our hearts would take flight to be in space with these birds. We would chase them out of puddles, watch them circle the pedestrians and court each other all right out in plain view. Suddenly, we weren’t feeling so bad about our sojourn to the city.
Although commonly seen in urban settings, pigeons can also be observed in agricultural areas foraging for grains, seeds and insects.
Even here in Suffield, I have not forgotten about pigeons, and I see them on barn roofs across town or find them on my trips across the bridge. I did a little digging and learned that pigeons were introduced from Europe to the U.S. back in the 1600s. They were a food source and adjusted easily by being able to nest in barns and on window ledges and to eat a variety of seeds and grains.
They were also known for their homing instincts and carried messages for our troops in World War I and II. Apparently, they sense the earth’s magnetic fields and can find their way home from long distances, even blindfolded. With such an important role it’s surprising they have not held much allure for the general public. I was prattling on pigeons the other day with one of my smart and detail-oriented friends, and he mentioned that he had noticed a pigeonhole high up on the gable end of our barn. We went back and took a look and sure enough, there it is with its little gnome door into the loft. Pigeonholes, also known as dovecotes, were found on barns throughout New England and enable the pigeons to free range during the day and have access to a roost at night. I wondered how many pigeons it housed in days gone by. A little reading on the subject unveiled that the pigeons were probably kept as meat. I must admit I am a little intrigued by the idea of cooking up some pigeon (often known as squab) in the near future. I am pretty good at burning a chicken breast or serving an inedible roast chicken so maybe venturing into the world of pigeon would be a step in the right direction. It can’t get much worse and who knows, pigeon might become my go to meal moving forward. Besides, I read that pigeon meat is associated with strength and Lord knows, I need some of that!