Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, February 20, 1994 TAG: 9402180038
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Steve Kark
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Eighty-eight-year-old Daniel Dowdy and his wife, Banie, have a most unusual home-security system. Not that they really need one, living as they do in their isolated, mountaintop home.
Nevertheless, when pulling into their driveway one's arrival is noted with suspicion by 27 pairs of beady little eyeballs.
The alarm comes almost immediately: an afternoon's delicate tranquility abruptly shattered by 27 separate alarms, each loud and shrill enough to break the soundest sleep.
Leaning against her cane, Banie already waits at the back door as you approach.
"They're better than a watchdog," she says. "They'll whoop an' holler like that till someone answers the door."
Gently shushing her agitated flock, Banie steps outside. The birds cluster at her feet, calming now, although several continue to squawk, ruffle feathers and nervously pace about the yard.
"Guinea hens are very protective," she says.
Whether it's a stranger or a hungry fox poking about, Banie says the birds will holler out just the same.
"And if anyone goes for their chicks," she says, "the whole lot, not just the mother hens, will rush to protect them."
Admittedly, they do have their better qualities, but in all fairness they seem oddly out of place here amongst Banie's 100 or so chickens. They're darker, wilder looking. Compared to the chickens, their heads seem too small for their round, plump bodies.
Though most of her birds are black with the typical white- speckle markings, Banie is eager to show off her special guineas. She leads the way past a weathered old chicken coop to show her prize skyblues.
These two hens are much more exotic and have separated themselves from the rest of the flock. Both are the color of a pale, afternoon sky. One is white-chested to boot.
Further along, Banie directs your attention to another guinea foraging through a nearby clump of wild grass. This all-white hen is her pride and joy, she says, because its feathers look like the delicate lace on a wedding gown.
In addition to the chickens, the guinea hens have established a tentative peace with four sleepy cats, an out-of-work watch dog and several peacocks and turkeys.
Although they are distant cousins to both birds, guinea hens do not have the peacock's nor the turkey's regal bearing. While the latter birds step gracefully across the yard, lifting and placing each foot with a careful, deliberate nobility, the guineas pace with an apprehensive energy.
Banie says they're easy to care for. She starts the chicks on grower mash and works them up to cracked corn. After awhile, they more or less forage for themselves.
They're good to have around, she says. Not only do they alert her to the presence of intruders, whether of the two- or four-legged variety, but they're also good for keeping up the garden. She lets them have the run of her garden, she says, because they keep tomato worms off the tomatoes.
At night, her guinea hens roost in two 50-foot pine trees next to the house, keeping a watchful eye - or eyes - over the property.
When asked if the birds are tasty when cooked, Banie is quick to point out that all her birds are pets. She's heard that guinea hens have a wild taste, though she'd never eat one herself.
Besides, she and her birds take care of each other. Why mess up a good thing?
Steve Kark is an instructor at Virginia Tech and a correspondent for the Roanoke Times & World-News. He writes from his home in scenic Rye Hollow, in a remote part of Giles County south of Pearisburg.
by CNB