A Rare Sighting

By Tom Poland

I have seen outhouses, smokehouses, henhouses, doghouses, and all manner of birdhouses. Mankind has its jailhouses, cathouses, flophouses, and roadhouses. A first for me, I saw a rarity, a pigeon house, known as a pigeon cote or dovecote. A pigeon house, if you prefer. No need to squabble over the names. From what I see, the terms are interchangeable, and a dove is, after all, a pigeon.

My experience with pigeons comes down to big cities. I see them flying from building to building, making the noises they make. Their wings slap and they whistle. They seldom fly in those mesmerizing patterns, a murmuration, as starlings do and flocks of passenger pigeons did.

Now here I must take a detour. I write often of abandoned, fallow farms. I find in them a viewing akin to a viewing at the funeral home. They are dead, left to crumble into the earth. As I viewed this fine old farm with its pigeon cote, I had one desire. To see one, just one, pigeon alight in it. That would have assured me it wasn’t forgotten by those whose ancestors lived there. A vain wish I know.

A rare pigeon cote, remnant from an era of self-reliance.

Farmsteads of long ago give real meaning to the phrase “farm to table.” It wasn’t a cutesy buzz word some advertising genius or marketing board dreamed up. Back then, farm to table was right. They grew their own crops—somewhere here there has to be an old collard spot. Slaughtered their own hogs and cattle. A butcher tree? Gathered chicken eggs and wrung quite a few chicken necks. Smoked their own meats, canned their own vegetables, and dined on squab (see why I used “squabble” above) and enjoyed pigeon eggs, a delicacy. They used pigeon’s droppings as fertilizer. I don’t doubt that feathers became dusters and pillows.

All this pigeon cote, dovecote business caught me off guard. I was on my way to speak to a book club at Erskine College in Due West, South Carolina. Departing the monotonous Interstate 26 ASAP, I chose the back roads. One of them, winding through old farms, over creeks and rivers, past and through the past connected me with an even better road that took me past an old farmstead with its buildings of aged wood, brown and streaked with weathering’s gray streaks and the yellow-orange of resin. Glorious wreckage.

I made a mental note: I’ve got to come back here. On to Due West where I had lunch with Armena Ellis and her brother, Millen, at The Renaissance. Over lunch, Millen told me he wanted to show me a pigeon cote.

After lunch Armena took me on a tour of Due West and the vicinity. Divine intervention, I was back at the farmstead with time to take photos before my 4 o’clock event. The pigeon cote leaned precariously on six supports. I don’t think it will last much longer.

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In the farmstead’s heyday, how did the farmer capture pigeons? Under the cover of darkness while the pigeons slept. Reach into a box, and grab one. Fire up the wood stove. Grease that skillet.

I’ve never tasted squab. I’ve eaten quail, chewed a lot of crow, and dined on dove, which I like. A blue-collar writer, I never make it to fancy places that serve fancy cuisine. I don’t frequent vineyards and wineries where they serve spiced squab with citrus or pan-roasted squab with white wine, olive oil, and black pepper.

Maybe I should. I read that a struggling, I presume young, Ernest Hemingway killed pigeons with a slingshot. Writers eat too, and there’s a first time for everything. Tuesday, March 3, I saw my first pigeon house, and I thank Millen and Armena Ellis for that.

Photo by Tom Poland

Georgia native Tom Poland writes a weekly column about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and culture and speaks frequently to groups in the South. Governor Henry McMaster conferred the Order of the Palmetto upon Tom, South Carolina’s highest civilian honor, stating, “His work is exceptional to the state.” Poland’s work appears in books, magazines, journals, and newspapers throughout the South.

Visit Tom’s website at www.tompoland.net

Email him at [email protected]