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Weekly Contest #341
Whenever anybody asked what my daddy did, no one ever said anything about the job he had. They said only that he was a pigeon man, because that’s what he was, first and foremost. At home on North Street, he’d built a coop in the backyard where he bred his birds to be prized racers. It looked like a playhouse version of our house, painted the same bright blue with a shingled roof and shutters framing the windows where they flew in and out. He put up a fence, too, along the back and on the School Street side to protect them. Our yard bumped ...
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