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Meet the flockers

You've got to know your Seramas from your Rhode Island Reds and your cockerels from your pullets if you want to judge the fairiest of these fowl fairgoers.

By LANE DeGREGORY
Published February 15, 2005

[Times photos: Bill Serne]

Are you looking at me? A Red Frizzle Cochin waits for the look-see by judge James Carson at the Florida State Fair last Thursday.

	Checking them over from top to bottom is Canadian judge James Carson, who examined more than 900 fowl with the assistance of show clerk Norma Padgett of Lake Butler.

TAMPA - As in any beauty pageant, there are standards: Contestants must exhibit proper breeding. Their necks, bodies and feet have to be well-formed. Their breasts should be firm and broad.

"Personality counts too, of course," the judge says, stooping to squint into the beady orange eyes of a Rhode Island Red.

"You don't want one that's too wild."

He won't tolerate bugs in anyone's tails. He doesn't want feathers sprouting in unexpected places. "Some legs," he says, "are meant to be smooth."

He checks to make sure each entrant has all her toenails. Even an in-grown nail can knock you down the pecking order.

"It gets very competitive," he says. He's so serious in his official blue jacket.

He came all the way from Canada to crown Florida's prettiest chickens.

The poultry barn at the state fair smells like bird droppings frosted with wood chips. Sharp crows and cries pierce the air. Feathers spin across the plank floor.

The judge walks slowly, tapping his silver stick along the cages. The steel cubes are piled in long rows, two high.

So many chickens were entered this year that fair officials ran out of cages. Someone had to drive clear to Lake City to pluck a few dozen extra from a farmer.

"There are lots of unusual breeds here. Many good examples," says the judge, James Carson, prodding his stick beneath the wing of a Royal Palm cock.

"It's going to be difficult to choose a champion."

Six years ago, only 100 poultry were entered in Florida's state fair.

This year, 969 birds - a record - sit waiting to be judged the fairest of the fowl.

Ducks and geese. Turkeys and hens. Huge, plume-tailed roosters right out of Amish paintings. Tiny, bald, blue chickens that look like raptor refugees from Jurassic Park.

"We have more than 50 breeds," John Neff says, surveying his flock with pride. "I've never seen anything like this."

Neff is superintendent of the Florida State Fair's Pure Bred Poultry Show. He raises Buff Brahmas and Modern Games on his farm near Sanford. This year, he says, 127 people entered chickens - some as many as 60 birds each.

It costs $2 to enter each chicken. Winners receive $5 if they take top in class; up to $20 if they're chosen class champion; plus a wooden plaque with a bronze fowl on front. What breed? Generic, of course.

Wouldn't want to ruffle anyone's feathers.

It's almost impossible to decide, really: Is the Light Brahma hen with her yellow beak, red wattle and black boa more beautiful than the White Crested Black Polish cock, whose soft head feathers look like a fancy hat?

That Blue Andalusian cockerel has seven peaks on his blood-red comb. They stand up straight. No flopping. Just the way the judge likes them.

The Bearded White Silkie has a poodle poof of white feathers framing her gray face; more feathers peel back like petals from her wheat-colored legs. The Buff Laced Polish is the color of a cocker spaniel. The Mille Fleur D'Uccle (such fancy names for chickens!) has copper feathers, sequined with red and black.

After two hours on this February Thursday, judge Carson has checked out 200 chickens.

"Okay, I think that's all the large fowl," he says, folding his silver stick beneath his arm. He scribbles his initials on the card outside the Rhode Island Red's cage. Opens the door, pulls out the rooster with both hands. He turns the bird's beak to his chest. Lifts it, butt up, above his head. Then he lowers the chicken and turns it around, spreads it wings. No broken feathers.

So he cradles Cock No. 119 and carries it through the barn.

Now the six final fowl strut their stuff, waiting to see who will get the grand prize, clucking in cages on Champion Row.

The judge keeps a mental checklist. Knows which breed is supposed to excel in which areas. He says he isn't predisposed to one type of poultry over another.

All chickens are equal. No two are the same.

On his farm in New Brunswick, Carson raises Naked Necks and Bearded Silkies. He's 31. Been breeding fowl all his life. He has been a judge for eight years - twice before at poultry shows in Florida.

He knows all sorts of neat stuff about chickens. He doesn't offer it. But if you ask, he feeds you a piece at a time:

--Male chickens have longer tails, taller combs. (He won't comment on the correlation or on whether size counts.)

--Sebrights are the most expensive chickens, selling for up to $200 each.

--No, these birds aren't for eating. They're show girls, breeders of champions. (But Jersey Giants, if you have to know, make the best Sunday suppers.)

--Pullets are female chickens under one year. Cockerels are males under one year.

--Hens are females. Cocks are males. (In case you hadn't made the connection.)

--Chickens can live six to eight years. They live longer when they're free range. (Unless a cat gets them.)

--Ameraucanas lay green eggs. (Sam I Am!)

--Serama chickens from Thailand are the smallest breed, no bigger than 12 ounces. Jersey Giants are the biggest (hence the name), averaging 12 pounds.

"There are standards of perfection for each breed, just like dogs," Carson says, surveying the six cages of champions. "It's a very old hobby. People take a lot of pride in their birds."

At the fair, all the cages are the same, except that bigger breeds get bigger ones. All birds eat the same feed. Each chicken has its own clear plastic cup attached to the door. Most are filled with water. But some farmers fear their normally free-ranging poultry might get peckish, being cooped up. Stressed chickens don't show as well. So some owners lace the water with electrolytes, which turns the water neon green.

Chicken Gatorade. Who knew?

Champion Row is at the front of the barn, just to the left, when you turn in by the stand selling elephant ears. The cages are bigger here. Another bonus of being beautiful.

"Each of these birds was best in their class," Carson explains, strolling past the crowing finalists. "To choose one, to pick one breed above another, you're comparing apples and oranges." (Original Recipe vs. Extra Crispy.)

"I have to look at each one individually and figure out which is closest to perfection, for its own variety." (Sort of like American Idol.)

So the judge walks. And looks. Casually, then closely. He unlatches the cages one by one, brings each bird to his breast, examines every toenail, pinches the wattles, fingers the feathers.

A small crowd - three elderly couples and a few dozen second-graders - gathers to watch the finale. They stand back from the wall of cages, watching. Anticipation builds.

The judge seems to linger at the White Crested Black Polish beauty. Those feathers falling from the bird's forehead could be a Russian mink hat. He extracts the chicken from its cage, spins it upside down, feels its breast. Mmm. Round, not too wide. He puts the Polish beauty back, latches the door. Continues his trek along Champion Row.

Past the Black Australorps pullet. Dissin' the Light Brahma hen. Walks right by the Blue Andalusian. How could he?

The Malay with its feather-free legs seems to interest him. No. Wait. He's moving down the line.

He stops at the Rhode Island Red. The biggest of the beauties. A full-grown cock, the chicken's black tail sprouts like a shimmering sickle from his tipped-up rear. The rooster is feisty, ducking and dodging the judge when he tries to take it from the cage. But the bird doesn't peck. Doesn't bite. It stretches its long neck, haughtily, as the judge lifts it by its legs.

It's dark in the barn, though it's almost lunchtime. The judge carries the chicken through the wide doors, where sunlight streaks the dusty air. He holds the rooster, feet up, toward the clouds. Spreads its mighty wings, which are almost as long as the judge's arms. The red-brown feathers are long and strong, more of a shimmery copper in the sun. The tail plume is greenish-black, changing colors in the shadows, like pimp paint on a souped-up Monte Carlo.

The chicken has had enough. It bucks in the judge's arms, opens its beak. It crows its protest. Personality, though not too wild. The judge almost smiles as he tucks the bird under his elbow.

Yes, this is the one. You could see it hours ago, when he first stooped to squint into the Rhode Island Red's beady orange eyes. He latches the door on the cage on the far left, on Champion Row.

The fairest fowl in Florida - Cock No. 119.

--Chickens stand on one leg when they're really, really happy.

--White Leghorns lay the most eggs, 300 a year.

--Jersey Giants make the best Sunday suppers.

[Last modified February 15, 2005, 07:56:54]