PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES
DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel, Columnist
Nothing to It!
She made it look so easy! Long slim fingers encircled the white orbs. Two, three, even four at a time, Mom transferred the eggs from the straw-lined metal nests to the straw-lined metal pail. I stood next to her, watching carefully, for I knew the time would come when I would be called upon to gather the eggs.
Our hen house stood 40 yards directly north of the house. South windows let in plenty of light. Mom and I had filled the metal nesting boxes with straw a couple weeks ago, but it was flattened by the leghorn and white rock hens who flew up onto the board and crawled through the circle openings. Each one turned around to face the coop, then settled down on the straw lining to concentrate on popping out an egg. Most flew down once their work was done.
Mom loved her chickens. They gave our family all the eggs we wanted to eat and there were a few left to sell to neighbors and the De Smet Creamery. Somewhere, pressed between the pages in my mind, there is recollection of the crackin’ price of twenty-five cents a dozen. But our mother loved her chickens for more than what they produced. She just loved chickens and having them on the farm.
As she gathered the eggs from the two rows of nests, she came to one where a hefty hen had set up residence. “It’s a cluck,” Mom stated. As if on cue, the hen “clucked” a few times and tucked an egg farther under her feathers. Mother deftly reached in and pulled out three eggs.
The cluck didn’t look happy, but she settled back on her now-empty nest. Another grumpier cluck down the row pecked at Mom’s hand, but that didn’t faze the woman a bit. My brothers and sisters told stories of their egg-picking experiences. Most often the word “hate” was attached. After watching Mom, I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Hen house chores couldn’t be that tough.
So, when the day finally came that I was assigned egg duty, I was ready. Confident that I could handle it just like Mom, I strode to the coop, bucket swinging in one hand. This time three pairs of eyes glared at me from white feathery bodies. My heart flipped a little, but I thought of how easily Mom had handled the chore. I gathered all the eggs from the unoccupied nests. At last, it was time to take on the clucks.
The first one growled and fluffed out her feathers, doubling her size. I slowly reached out my hand. Ouch! She pecked me, hard! My heart pounded. How could I get to those eggs and live to tell about it? At last, I lashed out and grabbed her by the feathers on her back and pulled her out of the nest. She dropped to the floor. Unfortunately, an egg dropped, too. The yellow liquid oozed out of the broken shell. I grabbed the two remaining eggs and went to the next grump.
Maybe a stick would help! I hunted one up outside and gently whacked the dinosaur head. She squawked and hunkered down farther. I tried holding her head back with the stick to prevent beak strikes. This sort of worked, though I noticed a small dent in one of the eggs I grabbed.
Sweat trickled down my face as I approached the final foul fowl. She glared and fluffed and growled, but I managed to procure two eggs without losing a hand. If there were more under there, Mom could get them tomorrow.
Today, much older and a little wiser, I have my own chickens. Occasionally one decides to set and remains on the nest 24/7. She clucks at me as I reach under her and gently remove all eggs.
Did I mention that I love chickens?
The author’s ten books are available on Amazon. Signed copies may be purchased at the
Harrison County Welcome Center. Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
