“1868 it was,” Grandma said, and her words were small against the spring winds bellowing in the chimneytop. She spread her hands close to the oakknot fire, blue-veined like a giant spider’s web. “That was the year pigeons came to Flat Creek, might nigh taking the country.”
I squatted on the limerock hearth before an ashhill where the bread baked, holding a broomstraw to know when it was done. We had not eaten since morning, and my hunger seemed larger than the ashhill where the bread was buried.
“Them pigeon-birds were worse than a plague writ in the Book,” Grandma said. “Hit was our first married year, and Brack and me had grubbed out a homeseat on Little Flat, hoe-planting four acres o’ corn. We’d got a garden patch put in, and four bee gums a-working before I turned puny, setting and waiting our firstborn. I’d take a peck measure outside and set me down on it where I could see the garden crap growing, and the bees fotching sweetening. There was a powerful bloom that year, as I remember, and a sight o’ seasoning in the ground.”
Bread smells thickened in the fireplace, and I stuck the straw into the ashhill. It came out with a sticky lump on the end. My hunger could hardly wait the slow cooking. I turned my head so Grandma couldn’t see me eat the raw dough.
“Hit was early of a May morning when the pigeons came,” Grandma said. “A roar sot up across the ridge, and Brack came down out o’ the field, looking north where the sound was. We waited, dreading a wind tying knots in the young corn, shredding the blades with hits fingers, but nary a cloud we saw. The sound got bigger, and nearer. ‘Hi, now, you git inside,’ Brack said, and I did, fearing my child would bear a mark if I tuk a sudden fright. I allus followed my man’s word when I was puny-like. I looked through the wall-crack and saw the first pigeons come down the swag, the light brightening their wings, gray like rock-moss and green underside. Then they came in a passel, and the sun-ball was clapped out, and hit got nigh dusty dark. Brack, he took a kindling wood stick, knocking at them that flew low, drapping four. After a spell they were gone, and we had breasts o’ pigeons for supper, fried in their own grease. Brack allus was a fool for wild meat. ‘Hi, now,’ he said, a-cracking bones betwixt his teeth, ‘I’d give a pretty for a pot-pie cooked out o’ these birds.’
“Harl Thomas come up Flat Creek afore dark, saying he’d heard the pigeons had done a sight o’ damage to the craps over at the Forks. He had a poke o’ sulphur and was going to the doublings three miles yonside the ridge where the roost was. ‘A sulphur smudge will bring ’em down,’ he said. ‘I’m a notion salting a barrelful. My woman feeds nothing but garden stuffs and sallet-greens of a summer. I allus liked a piece o’ meat alongside.’ Brack wanted to go, but knowing it was near my time, he never spoke of it. ‘A pigeon pie would make good eating,’ he said. ‘I figger on eating me one afore them birds traipse clear off to another country.’
“Harl and Brack went outside, and I heard Harl laughing. He went off a-cackling like a guinea-hen. I got sort o’ dizzy and tuk to bed. Pigeon-birds kept a-flying around in my head, thundering their wings. I tuk the big-eye and never slept a wink that night.”
Wind drummed in the chimney and a gust caught up the oakknot smoke, blowing it into our eyes. A sift of ashes stirred on the hearth. I tried the bread again, the straw coming out slowly, though clean. I raked a bed of coals closer to the ashhill with the poker.
Grandma balled her hands on her knees, waiting until the smoke thinned and the ashes settled. “Hit was the next day the birds come a-thrashing through the hills proper,” she said. “I was setting in my garden, guarding hit agin’ the crows, when I heard a mighty noise a-roaring like Troublesome Creek having a tide. Brack was up in the corn patch, so I never went inside, wanting to get a square look at the birds. I never give a thought to me being puny. In a little spell they came over the ridge, flying low down, a-settling and looking for mast. A passel sot down in my garden and begun to eat and scratch. I run up and down hollering, throwing clods and a-crying. Hit was like trying to scare a hailstorm off. The birds worked around me like ants, now. I ran and hollered till I couldn’t, then I set me down on the ground, feeling sick to die.
“The next thing I know I was in the house, and thar was a granny woman setting beside the bed with something wrapped up in a kiver. Now I knowed what was in that thar kiver, but I was scared to look. Brack come in laughing and said hit was a boy-child. He brought the little tick over to the bed, and I couldn’t wait to look, asking, ‘Has hit got a mark?’ ‘No mark particular,’ Brack said. ‘His left hand hain’t natural though.’ The kiver was opened and thar the chap was, hits little face red and pinched up. Brack pulled the left hand out, and on the side was a finger-piece no bigger than a pea, having nary a nail nor jint. I cried, now, looking at hit.
“ ‘Hit won’t be thar for long,’ Brack said. He got out his razor and ’gin to strap hit hard, putting a hair edge on the blade. When I figgered what he was going to do, I let in hollering and screaming, worse than I did when the birds tuk my garden patch. The granny woman held me in bed, and Brack tuk the baby into the kitchen. I listened, catching for a sound o’ the baby, but he never made one. I reckon hit never hurt much. Brack brought him back and thar was a drap o’ water in its eyes. The granny woman cooked up a pigeon pie for supper, but I couldn’t touch a bite. I’ve never eat a bird since.”
The bread was done. I raked it out on the hearth, blowing ashes from the brown crust. When it was broken, the goodness of it filled my eyes and throat. “A pair o’ pigeon legs would go good with this bread,” I said.
Grandma looked hard at the hoecake, then broke a piece for me, taking none for herself. She took the poker and shook the oakknot fiercely, raising a blaze of sparks. “I hain’t a grain hungry,” she said.