Pea-Prom

It’s Peafowl Prom Week at Uncannery Row. The place is perfectly gaudy with daffodils, red tulips, hyacinth, solar plastic Mary, other assorted solar lights, Buddha statuary, and prayer flags—a sort of Night in the Iconic Garden theme. Horny little peaboys strut past the hens in an awkward high-stepping dance, decked out in their pea-tuxes, drumming their wing feathers and comparing sizes of their eyed trains. When the boys line up out by the fence, acting so cool, I can almost smell the Clearasil and Marlboros.

Ray witnessed a pea-mating recently (the back seat was full and Mom and Dad were home) that confirmed Ike, our white pea, is actually Isetta. The young stud, Junior, did the deed fast as lightning, with little ceremony or romance. I’m pretty sure I heard him say, “No really, Isetta, I love you. Honest.”

Within the next couple of weeks, the hens, their little promise rings on their pea-toes, will disappear one by one as they choose hidden nest sites out in the tall pasture grass (please, no peas in the window wells again—a disaster last summer) and begin to lay eggs. Peahens don’t build nests; they simply flatten a depression in tall grass, add a little down, and settle in. The nests are extremely well-hidden, and the hen is silent when she’s sitting on eggs. In fact, the rest of the flock will raise a ruckus whenever she takes a break, creating a diversion so predators won’t find the nest.

Once her clutch is laid—4-8 large white eggs—a hen will sit tight for about 28 days. The big boys keep singing and strutting for a while, though their job is really done. They’ll spend the rest of the summer working part-time at the Kwik-Shop and learning “Stairway to Heaven” on the guitar.

Because I’ve mucked up Mother Nature’s delicate order, our peahens will leave the nest many late afternoons to come into the yard, gossip and have coffee with the girls at The Bird Bath, and stop by the Buffet Table for a bite. Then, with another loud ruckus from the flock, the girls will fly back to the nest for the night.

There was a home for “wayward” girls near where I grew up in Omaha—Uta Halee. With the possibility of seven breeding hens, I’m feeling like a Uta Halee house mother. And with the potential for another 20 baby peacocks this summer, my “crazy peacock lady” days can’t be far off. I’d better practice walking the meditation trail in my pea-feather dress…