A fortnight ago, as my ladyfriend and I were traveling to Spencer to give the puppy I had recently adopted some vital vaccinations, driving down a barren NE 63rd, off to the side of the road we passed by a rather large red-bricked building that proclaimed it was the American Pigeon Museum. Like a bird that is easily spooked by its own shadow, I have to say that I was quite surprised.
Not only was I taken aback that this city is home to such a monument of avian ingenuity, but because, especially in backwoods Oklahoma, the word “museum” usually means an elderly gentleman showcasing his rusty junk around a typically dilapidated shack. But not here—this looked like a most professional museum to visit.