Written by: Stephen Biello. Philadelphia, Pa
At first thought after reading the title to this passage one might be thinking of the long history of Mummery associated with the city of Philadelphia. The annual New Year’s Day tradition that has spanned across the centuries, where 100s of men and women dressed in various costumes loaded with feathers and plums, similar to those worn at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. These Mummers perform, strut and drum like a proud rooster pheasant, a puffed out Tom Turkey or a grouse drumming in the spring. The route the Mummers Parade take is Northbound on Broad St. starting at one of most Southern points, often, if not always leaving a trail of feathers that either fall off or are plucked by spectators as the costumed clad mummers make their way to the judges’ stations, performing for the crowds on their two mile trek north.
One has to think again however, you see there is another tradition, one with not quite as long a history but also located on south broad street on the southern end of the city. Also known as “South Philly” which is the place I call home. As a lifelong Philadelphia resident, I’ve been hunting ever since I could. In today’s age in a city where so many people look at Hunters and hunting as odd, cruel and archaic myself and several of my friends wait patiently for the start of the hunting seasons. Thanks to the love of the outdoors, hunting and fishing was instilled in me at a young age by family and friends, I grew up living and loving the life of a hunter. Limited by time and location when I was young I would jump at any chance to go out hunting. Pheasant hunting in the late 70’s into the early 80’s would often yield success and you were often congratulated on bagging a handsome rooster pheasant as if you had just shot a big 8 point buck. For me it was just the start of the ongoing love affair, over the years myself and my friends, Uncles, cousins, and on occasion even a bird dog would join us, headed out to Berks, Lancaster, Chester counties to hunt pheasant and dove.
Opening day of the Pheasant seasons are more like a skirmish and really not that enjoyable, once I started with my own dogs, I would not and still don’t hunt opening day mornings. I take my time, do a few things that need to be done around the house then head out to the fields for the late morning/early afternoon and still have consistent luck over the years. As I did this year on opening day 2014, my successes in the field lead me to this writing, more specifically as I was cleaning up the front of my home. The houses where I live are set back off of Broad Street which is actually route 611. The front patios are elevated about 4 or 5 foot off of the sidewalk and are about 18 foot long, row homes, with small garden areas as you ascend the steps and most people have patio furniture and BBQ grills out front. There are no yards out back, but we have driveways and 1950’s style garages which you can barely fit a sub-compact car in to, so many times I’m cleaning pheasants, dove, ducks etc out front on the patio table. Try as I might feathers always escape me while preparing the birds for the freezer.
Once, I’m finished I wash down the front of the house with the hose, sweeping those escapees down onto the sidewalk where they mix in with the thousands of leaves that cover the street each fall, the leaves are ultimately swept into piles and bagged by myself and the neighbors, often a rouge feather will float out of the pile, reminding me of my recent days afield. My kids are old enough now to try and help identify which form of fowl the feather belonged to, my neighbors are older and many of them were or still are hunting and will often stop over to see what I have in the bag and to share a story or a recipe.
Needless to say, a feather or two will always end up in my living room, which is quickly picked up and let out the front door to billow in the breeze, floating whichever way the breeze takes it. There’s a certain understanding in a hunter’s family and in my home, an aging hunter, a trusted shotgun and a tired bird dog are always welcome, if an occasional feather finds its way into my home well that’s ok too. Feathers on Broad Street are always a pleasant sight for me.
Stephen P. Biello
Written during the hunting season of 2014.
10-27-14
