WoodenSpoon

The day of the Annual Lismore Poultry Auction has arrived. Early ths morning Dad, Mum and I headed over there on a mission.

Arriving at the Lismore show ground, we found ourselves not just at a poultry auction but in the centre of festivity and commerce going at full tilt. Vintage cars, stalls selling broken old tools, girls (never boys; why is that?) riding ponies, vans selling ‘food’. But no time to linger, we had work to do.

After registering as a bidder, we jostled through the throng of people inspecting the chooks. There were several lots of game fowl on sale. I overherd someone call a particularly large cock (heh) by the name ‘velociraptor’. And rightly so. I didn’t manage to get a pic, being too busy trying to see all the contenders before the sale started. I met a fellow called Mr Carter, who of course has known Doug Hogan — Dad’s cousin, owner of the “Hogan’s Heroes” pub and champion breeder of Rhode Island Reds and Barred Plymouth Rocks — since they were boys in short pants. He gave me some pointers on how to tell the age of a bird by the length of its spurs. Short spurs=young bird. Makes sense.

The call went up that the sale was starting so everybody trooped across to the saleroom. The auctioneer was a cheeky fellow who was happy to dish out a bit of ribbing to anyone he knew, and he seemed to know everybody. Mum and I kept notes on the price of each lot, as we waited for the first of my ‘possibles’, lot 37, to come up. When it was called, there was a some brisk bidding, to $60. I thought I had it and pointed at my chest as confirmation. “Seventy dollars!”, shouted the auctioneer and lowered his pointing finger slightly; he’d been pointing at someone behind me. And that was that. In one bid I’d bought my first fowls, Lot 37 - a trio of large Black and Red Australian Game Fowl. I was happy with the price.

Afterwards, I told Doug I’d bought some chooks, so he came and looked them over. He asked the price, asked who was the vendor, then said, “They’ll do you well. They’re not great birds [from a showing perspective] but they’re fit for purpose. It’s horses for courses.”

I’m happy with them. They look fit and well. The rooster’s golden collar and burnished blue-black wings shine in the sun and the pullets have even brown plumage and good body shapes. They were fairly quiet in the car on the trip back home. Any fears we might have had for their health were dispelled as soon as we transferred them to the coop. They immediately started gorging themselves on grain from the feeder.

So, now its out of my good town clothes, back into the work gear and back tot the chook mahal. Gotta get it finished!