Finding Rochester (12:46)

It was a typical summer day on our market farm in Maryland, 35 minutes north of Baltimore, with 92 degrees and high humidity. The “feel like” temperature, which is big with the local weather people, was 105 degrees! Stopping midway through my work in one of the vegetable plots to pull up my t-shirt and wipe my dripping brow, I noticed an odd-looking bird in the green bean plot nearby. Actually, the bird wasn’t odd-looking. It was just different from the usual suspects. The songbirds and chickens that roamed around regularly. This newby was primarily white with some grey and black markings, about a third the size of one of the chickens. I slowly approached the interloper to get a closer look. The bird didn’t seem nervous about me getting into its personal space. It didn’t fly away the closer I got; it just did a little hip-hopping to stay a safe distance away. “Is it injured?’ I wondered. “Looks like a pigeon.” I thought. Then I noticed a leg band on one of its legs. “Holy shit, it’s a Homing Pigeon!” I uttered aloud. Suddenly, I felt rejuvenated with excitement! The story of this wayward pigeon and why he had landed here started rattling around in my head.

I knew from reading about homing pigeons, probably from the pages of my Cub Scout magazine “Boys Life” when I was 8, that on long flights, pigeons sometimes stop for a rest, a drink, or to grab something to eat. There was also the possibility that they flew off course and were lost. I figured the best thing to do in case he did just stop for a breather was to wait him out and leave him alone.

I felt so proud that, along with selling produce, meat, honey, and eggs, we might now be an official designated rest stop for the homing pigeon flight network! Or were we? He could have gotten off course, had no idea where he was, and was trying to reset his internal GPS. I took a couple of pictures of him and went into the house to fire up our Facebook page.

My first post (along with a picture of the bird, read):

“We are putting out an all-points bulletin! This pigeon has been around the farm for a few hours now. Let me know if you’re missing one or know of anyone in the area with homing pigeons. He has a leg band.”

A ton of comments came in over the next few hours in response to my post. Interestingly, most women respondees wanted to anoint me as a hero for saving the little bird. Most male responses included recipes for pigeon under glass, pigeon fricassée, and pigeon à la orange. However, there was one comment from a gentleman who told me that if I could catch the bird and get the serial number off the leg band, I’d be in business. The number would be registered with the National Pigeon Association. They could tell me who the owners were, give me a telephone number, and where he was from. I was excited to find out where our visitor may have kicked off his flight. Now, I had to figure out how to catch the bird.

I returned to the field where I had last seen Rochester. I had named the bird Rochester; I don’t remember why. It didn’t matter; Rochester was gone. “Damn, I had put all my farm work on hold to save this bird, and now he’s gone!” I thought. “I guess he had used the farm as a rest stop and then resumed his flight.”

I wasn’t going to give up that easily. I continued searching the farm but didn’t see the pigeon anywhere. Feeling a bit parched after the search, I went in for a drink of water. Looking out the kitchen window, I noticed some movement by the bird feeder. It was Rochester! I quietly went outside and got pretty close to the bird as he was enjoying seed crumbs below the feeder on the deck. I got down on all fours and began my covert operation. I slithered on my belly towards the bird like a giant snake, ready to strike. Gradually, systematically, stealthily, I got closer and closer until I reached out my hand. I could see that some seed had stuck to my palm as I was conducting jungle warfare. Rochester noticed my hand as well. He hopped over and began pecking my hand, and I quickly grabbed him.

I heard a voice I didn’t recognize say, “Way to go”! It startled me, and I almost dropped the bird. I spun around to see one of our Airbnb guests aiming her phone at me. She had been sitting on the deck on the other side of the farm pond/pool, watching and recording the whole operation! Reflexively, I rewound the complete commando mission in my head, trying to remember if I had cursed under my breath, scratched anything inappropriately, or produced a professional-level butt crack that she had now recorded to show her friends and family back home. Upon inspection, my pants seemed to be secured around my waist, but I couldn’t be sure about the other two.

I gathered all the necessary information from Rochester’s leg band. Then, I placed him in a beautifully appointed dog crate with stainless steel water and food bowls, accompanied by lovely aromatic pine shavings.

My second Facebook post: “Geez, what is it with these pigeon people? We have had a homing pigeon, which we’ve named Rochester, since he flew into the farm on Friday. According to the leg band, he’s a member of the National Pigeon Association. So, I’ve emailed them twice. Someone suggested it may belong to a guy in Kingsville, 10 miles away. I emailed him and am still waiting to hear back from both. I think these pigeons are somewhat costly. Rochester is getting fidgety and nervous. This morning, he was dancing in his feed bowl and pooping in his water. Plus, I don’t need another beak to feed, with hundreds of chickens demanding food daily. Any suggestions? Help!”

Finally, I did hear from a guy at the N.P.A. We were a step closer to finding Rochester’s owner! He told me Rochester had been sold at Foy’s Pet Supplies in New Brighton, PA. He said they would have the owner’s name and contact information. I googled Foy’s and New Brighton. Foy’s was located on the Pennsylvania-Ohio border, 286 miles from the farm. Wow! That was just what I had hoped for. It was quite an impressive flight for the pigeon. Rochester was a pro. Rochester was the G.O.A.T., except for the getting lost part.

With my excitement building, I called Foy’s. Maybe Rochester was sold to someone in Cleveland, Toledo, or Chicago. Maybe he flew halfway across America! I gave the lady from Foy’s the information from Rochester’s leg band. The anticipation was killing me. This pigeon could have flown 1000 miles! The lady got back on the phone. She said, “Yeah, that bird was sold to a guy named John from Dundalk, Maryland.”

I nearly blacked out from disappointment. Rochester, the pride of Chicago, the prince of long-distance flight, had gotten lost after a 12-mile flight from Dundalk. What the hell! You’ve got to be kidding!

I need to say a few words about Dundalk since this southeastern suburb of Baltimore was Rochester’s home. I always thought Dundalk got a bad rap. Many people thought Dundalk was the armpit of Baltimore. When I first moved to Baltimore in the mid-eighties, not knowing the city, I asked some of my new co-workers where I should look for an apartment. Practically all of them, in unison, said, “Anywhere but Dundalk!!”

Dundalk was a rugged, blue-collar area primarily composed of watermen and steelworkers. The radio show I hosted for a long time, before my natural progression to farming, always did exceptionally well in Dundalk. I always thought it was because I grew up surrounded by farmers, construction workers, and miners in my small town in northern New York State, a similar lot to the core population of Dundalk. The Dundalk women were of great interest to me. The typical hon or babe stood 5’3″, weighed 95 pounds, smoked like a chimney, and didn’t take any shit from anybody. And she COULD drink your ass under the table! My wife, Vicky, grew up in Dundalk. A few times while she was ordering her third Cosmo, I felt the need to warn our table of friends that after three, “Dundalk” Vicky could make an appearance.

When I finished pulling myself out of the throes of disappointment, I called John, Rochester’s owner. When he said, “Hello, who’s this?” Inside the raspiness of his voice, I thought I picked up a West Virginia drawl. “John?” I asked. “Yeah, who’s THIS?”. I still wasn’t sure I had the right John. “Do you raise pigeons?” I queried. “Yeah, WHO’S THIS?” “My name is Steve. I think I found one of your pigeons up here in Harford County!” “Where?” he asked. “HARFORD COUNTY!” I practically yelled into the phone, finding it hard to believe that a guy who lived 12 miles away had no idea where Harford County was!

After a short conversation, I gave John exact directions to the farm, figuring in John’s life GPS might stand for Grandma’s Possum Stew. He said he would arrive at 7 to pick up Rochester. Rochester and I waited in our garage. Seven o’clock, seven fifteen, seven-thirty. “Where the hell is this guy?” I asked Rochester. The pigeon looked at me and started dancing in his feed and pooping in his water again.

As we waited, I admit the thought of reward money began to dance in my head. $500 seemed like a fair amount. I did save this guy’s high-priced bird. I spent a lot of time researching to find John so he could get his bird back. And then there was Rochester’s room and board for a couple of nights that had to be worth something. Who was I kidding? Twenty bucks would be fine, but that $500 figure still stuck in my head. I was ready for John to start counting out one-hundred-dollar bills into the palm of my hand!

Twenty minutes before eight, what looked like a prehistoric silver Plymouth Volare with what once could have been a maroon vinyl top chugged down the driveway and stopped in front of Rochester and me. Three older guys emerged from the Volare. “Howdy, I’m John.” I expected the next words out of his mouth would be, “And this is my brother Daryl and my other brother Daryl.” He didn’t, but one of his friends he introduced as John, and the other’s name was Jack. What we had here was a car full of Johns. “Woowee, we had a tough time findin’ y’all,” John #1 said. I thought,” You had two turns!”

I handed Rochester over to John #1. “How many birds do you have?” I asked. “Oh, guess I’ve got about a dozen at the moment,” he replied. “It takes about eight weeks to train them,” he offered. He looked at Rochester when he said it as if to say, “Eight weeks for MOST of them.

So far, there had been no mention of a possible reward—hell, there hadn’t even been a thank you. It was time for me to make my play. “So I’ve heard these birds can be pretty pricey!” “They’re not all that bad. I think this one was something like eight bucks.” Eight dollars? Well, that just shot my big reward money out the window!

My entire romantic notion of this whole experience was going down in flames. The thought of Rochester getting off course after days and a thousand miles of flying and landing on our little piece of heaven was squashed. The idea of a significant reward for finding this extremely rare and expensive Homing Pigeon didn’t happen. The third and final blow was when John #1 placed Rochester in his little cage and said,” Well, I guess we better get Smitty back home.” Yup, that was Rochester’s real name, Smitty, Smitty from Dundalk.