As Veli and I were walking through Manhattan's Lower East Side this weekend, we encountered a a noise that reminded me of my childhood -- one that sounded completely out of context among the rumble of the city. I heard it, but it didn't quite register. What in the world was it? "A rooster," he replied very matter of factly. "No it wasn't," I insisted. "How could it be?" As soon I discounted his observation, I heard the mystery sound again. And yes, in fact, it was a rooster crowing right in the middle of New York City.
As we rounded the corner of the M'Finda Kalunga public garden, I spotted the noisemaker, just hanging out with his friend in a space that is more commonly home to pigeons and sparrows. Apparently, the two birds had been dropped off at the park before winter and had decided to stay put through the winter where they live in a coop built for two. They leave their luxury digs on occasion for jaunts around the confines of the garden, but they never pass through the gates even when they're left open.
These barnyard sites and sounds instantly reminded me of my Grandma Churchill's farm where it seemed like there was always a rooster crowing, whether it was three in the morning or three in the afternoon. Grandma kept chickens in the hen house at all times -- ones that produced fresh eggs every day and an occasional Sunday supper. During the summer, my sister and I would get so excited when Grandma would bring home card bard boxes filled with new chicks for her own chicken coop. She let us play with the fuzzy little creatures and carry them around in shoe boxes as if they were playthings, but eventually, they were placed back in the farmyard with their poultry pals.
So the next time I hear a rooster crow, I will not doubt the familiar sound. For whether its down on the farm or in the middle of New York City, that familiar cock-a-doodle-doo will always remind me of home.
The Elegant Thrifter
Always Frugal, Always Fabulous!