As green as grass

the sueltas from Spain

When I came home from school one tropical afternoon I discovered a green pigeon. It was quietly sitting on my very own loft. I was flabbergasted and couldn’t believe my eyes. For a single moment I was of the world. No doubt it was the heat for generally I don’t see lions on my way. The pigeon was poison green. It was about to enter the young pigeons house when I learned from its blue ring that it had to be one of my own birds. It was the 53.

In the fall of ’93 I gave her to Peter, a friendly pigeon fancier. I looked for further details in my computer. Peter was crazy about black and snow white pigeons; consequently his nickname had to be White Peter. However after a while Peter moved to another part of the town and he sold his black and white friends to what you might call an unknown  pigeon buyer-up.

I went to my neighbour who was mowing his grass and showed him my green miracle.

‘Where did you find that he asked. Such birds should be in Disneyland or belong to some fun-fair.’ ‘It’s one of my own’, I said, ’ last year I sold her to Peter.’

’I bet you’ve painted her all by yourself’, he laughed and returned to his lawnmower. I took my 53 to a little pigeon apartment for stray birds in my garage for she didn’t seem to be quite healthy.

Then I phoned John, the chairman of our pigeon club. ‘John’, I  said, ’I’ve got a green pigeon.’

‘Of course old chap, I understand, It’s rather hot today . You’ve lost your head. The children at school must have been a nuisance. You are referring to the green badge, I suppose. Keep your heart; the summer holidays are near at hand.’

‘No, no, I am serious, John boy, it’s a white pigeon that someone  painted green. Sometimes you meet with these coloured painted birds as an attraction in a fun fair or a children’s zoo.’

And John as leader of the pigeons society started to behave as a leader suits. He was wondering which idiot could have been responsible for the green affair. ‘Maybe it’s someone who likes to play  practical jokes,’ he said and he promised to start an investigation,

After our phone call in a twinkling of an eye me and my pigeon bird became the talk of the town. The reactions were different. ‘How could anyone possibly remove that paint’, somebody worried. ‘With white spirit,’ Anthony proposed. He is the eldest club member, so he ought to know better.

 ‘You’re mad, ’I grumbled,’ after moulting time my pigeon will be white again. She already threw  three flights.’

‘You could send her on the next race from France,’ suggested Bill Bully. He was often nagging and teasing his fellow pigeon people.

Of course his proposition was not real because we were racing from Creil on Saturday  and that was more than 230 miles  and the green one wasn’t properly trained and prepared. It had already been quite a performance for a tainted bird like her to fly safely home from wherever it came from.

The pigeon owners of Northern Holland had been flying from Kaatsheuvel last weekend and in that region their must be a fun-fair somewhere.

My next-door neighbour and former pigeon keeper, the one with the noisy lawnmower wanted to know if my other pigeons were not afraid of their new green loft mate. ‘Jacob ‘, I said they don’t even notice her outfit, they don’t see colours at all I think.’ And then we were arguing for quite a while whether birds could see colours.

Now  already during a few weeks the 53 has joined my flight of pigeons and the children from next door are shouting:’ See, there is flying a green one amongst these pigeons.

In between I’ve given my prodigious pigeon daughter a cock pigeon  to mate. It was love at first sight and the first egg, I can assure you, definitely wasn’t green at all.

© Cor Uitham 
nederlandse versie http://duivenpad.blogspot.nl/2011/10/zo-groen-als-gras.html       

The Sueltas in Spain are painted for  a different reason. One might think that the jolly coat was applied to frighten birds of prey, but that's not the case. In Spain they organize a  special game with these Pica- pigeons. The paint is quite harmless

Important Visitors!

It was a Sunday afternoon. I was busy on the toilet. Pigeon fanciers indeed are in many respects quite normal people. The passed week had been boring. 

As I was the treasurer, the moneyman of our pigeon club it had once again been my task to write the annual financial review. That turned out to be a disaster  for  some small amount of money ended up on the wrong spot in my cashier book and caused  a chain reaction of stupid mistakes. 

I phoned the chairman of my pigeon club and accused him from having been joggling with a couple of euros. I  grumbled ‘You will have to replace me; just find yourself a new bookkeeper .’ But he wasn’t in any way impressed by my complaint. So I ended the conversation.

To make matters worse one evening my cocks were out of the blue afraid of landing on their loft in the October twilight. They kept fluttering and hovering around the house for hours it rather seemed and finally flopped down upon the roof tiles like sandbags. 

Stupid birds! Sometimes travelling on a long distance race they keep carelessly flying into the growing darkness and when they arrive home somewhere in the middle of the night they run into their pigeon house without any fear. 

On all these things I was meditating at ease while spending time on the lavatory.

The doorbell rang. I heard boys voices. No doubt they were collecting old newspapers. They had to wait. First of all I liked to finish my reverie.
I glanced at the picture of a snowy owl on the calendar. A New years present  that the Pigeon magazine every year sends  to its contributors; a calendar with all kinds of birds and animals.
Swans taking off A  couple of wolves in February, a seagull in April and for instance a lion in August.  
From a pigeon paper one would expect something with flying and breeding pigeons.       

 Outside I heard one of the boys say: ‘He must be a nice man,’  he usually  is at home, wait and see. He’ll give me what I want.’ 

I pressed the water button in the toilet,  widely opened the front door and  roared:’  and  okay, and what is it  you think you’ll get from me?’

‘Pigeons, sir,’ replied the smallest of the two boys. ‘I’ve got pigeons, two cocks, sir, and they fight a lot because their women pigeons have flown away, they left the loft.’

‘ Jess’, I returned’ Women  are inclined do so; it’s common knowledge, and for your information a female pigeon is referred to with the word hen.’ 

He looked at me uncertain. His sturdy little friend stood a few steps behind him like a silent bodyguard.

‘And  you may call a male pigeon is a cock’. 

He gave his companion an understanding nod as if meant; ’see. I told you he’s nice pigioner. 

‘So, now you are in need for a few hens,’ I went on saying, that’s all right but then you’ll have to be back next Saturday, because at this moment I can’t at random pick out two suitable pigeons.’ 

Satisfied he nodded and again glanced  at his friend.

‘ I am  curious which pigeon owner gave you the two cocks’, I said A certain Mr Han  had generously given them. He also was a nice person and the pigeons  were red coloured. ’Maybe their hens didn’t like that colour,’ his square-built friend thoughtfully suggested.

They left politely bowing like Japanese people who had just invested a lot of money in  my famous pigeons.

 I closed the door. In the living room I examined my  bank-book for the hundredth time and suddenly the money mislaid showed up on the proper spot. The rest of the week went by without disturbing events. My cocks had become wiser. 

They returned to their loft before dark. Towards the end of the week an English red hen that lost its bearings  and had come all the way from Scotland asked shelter. 

On Saturday as was agreed  the little boy and his mate came punctual to the minute with a carton box from the supermarket. I gave them 3 hens and a white cock. The tall boy  pointed at the English red bird and asked if they could take the yellow one with them  as well. But I refused and I explained that she had to fly back to England eventually after recovery. 

With four pigeons in an inconvenient box in which I had pricked holes for ventilation with scissors  they finally left in high spirits on their bikes.  I had made their day.


(dit is een Engelse versie van het verhaal\ Hoog Bezoek' dat  enkele dagen geleden op dit weblog werd geplaatst)
 zwanen-foto R.U.

The sound of breaking glass

the 77  back home

Collision course

It was somewhere in April last year. I had someone on the phone. While I was listening to the tittle-tattle on the other side of the line with half an ear, I looked outside. 

My pigeons were enjoying themselves at the back of  the garden and on the roof of the garage. They had their first breed. 

Suddenly an  alarming sound was heard; a little boy from the neighbourhood threw a pebble on the roof of the loft. The birds seized by panic flew  away in all possible directions and one of them approached at high speed the windowpane of the living room.

‘Just a minute’, I said to the phone,’ trouble ahead.’ But even before I had put down the receiver, the pigeon   collided against the double window, bounced back, floundered, and was dead within seconds.

I picked up the receiver and told that one of my pigeons  had flown into my window.

‘It must be  broken, I suppose’, was the answer.

‘No course not,’ I said irritated, ‘my pigeon is dead.’ I ended the  annoying conversation, went outside, and picked  up  the  unlucky bird.. It was the ‘Swift’ a late September breed, a cock which Harry, a member of Pro Patria, our Pigeon club had given to me.

I looked at the ring. 800, that was  an easy number to remember. It was a pigeon of promising origin That was again a bit of a blow and as I stood there for  a while meditating, I remembered other events that had to do with breaking glass.

Long ago when I was still a student at a Teacher’s training college  we had one day an educational trip to  a cotton mill. On that occasion one of our beloved teachers walked right through a  thick glass made door. It was great fun. It was Mr Smith, who was always chasing us. 

We had escaped from the Spinning-mill, were walking outside in the sun because we didn’t care much for the cotton and wool business. 

But Mr Smith spotted us and in his eager to arrest  his stray student he didn’t see the glazed door of the modern factory. He splintered up  then there that very door, but he himself was alright, not a scratch.

I laid the unfortunate  blue chequers cock in the shed for the time being. Why did that teacher escape  without a single drip of blood while my pigeon didn’t get the best of it. 

Of course the speed of a bird is far more higher than a fast walking double Dutch teacher. It makes sense. In the  six or seven yards from the loft to my house  my ‘Swift’ must have had a speed of let’s say  about forty miles. 

My pigeon was small and the window was strong, moreover a  fat  hunting teacher has got the weight on his side, though he may not walk faster  than a mile or three.

The second incident concerned a blue pencil cock that stayed behind  from Corbeil in France in 1980 on the last day of May. The  homing pigeons had  to face  bad weather conditions. A rain belt covered Northern France and

Belgium that day. In the opinion of the members of our club Corbeil had always been a heavy race, because that town was built in a valley. Anyhow the 77, my blue pencil, didn’t show up.

A couple of days  went by  without a sign of my missing favourite. Then one evening the telephone rang.

‘I have  got a blue speckled  pigeon,’ It was a British pigeon keeper  living  somewhere in the neighbourhood of Hull. He had my pigeon! It was quite worn out and had to recover, he meant.

I asked him if he would like to keep  the bird. But that was out of the question. 

He was convinced that my 77 would return to Holland under its own steam, once it was in good shape again. Meanwhile I thanked my  fellow pigeon keeper for taking care of the lost sheep.

So my blue pencil hero was on the other side of the North Sea somewhere north west of Hull and instead of the 200 miles from Corbeil to Amersfoort it had covered a double distance.

What on earth was my pigeon doing in England.  That  very year  he was mated to  an English hen that had preferred my loft to her British pigeon house. Had he come to like the English pigeon ladies that much, that he had  voluntarily crossed the Channel to see if there was anything more he fancied. Or had she sent him that way in order to settle family affairs! Who can tell?

Of course  the pigeons had tried to avoid the heavy showers that last day of May and in doing so they had come above  the sea That’s the way it must have been.

 For weeks together nothing happened. Probably I was not  ever to see my English pigeon again. I was wrong! 

my first loft

On the 21^e  of July the  strong wind was blowing from the west and at the end of the day my 77 was home again. I was deeply impressed.

I immediately sent a letter and within a week got an answer The English pigeon host told  that his little daughter in particular had  been looking after the Dutch visitor and she was very pleased that it had travelled all the way back to Holland. 

The 77  had made several efforts tot cross the sea, had been away from the loft sometimes all day long, returning home after sunset with seaweed on its legs

In spring a year later my pigeons were playing around the house, when they were startled by some noise and they rushed from the roof. A moment after that my neighbour’s daughter brought the 77 She had found him in their garden near the sliding window. 

Maybe I could cure it, she said. It had only passed out and  would  soon recover, she   thought. She wasn’t right of course and I told her so.

Collision course; a road that inevitably leads to an accident   

Poor 77 running so many risks in flying home from unknown countries, crossing  seemingly an endless seas only to meet with a fatal accident so near his loft.

Cor Uitham      

      
in het volgende blog komt de nederlandse versie