Yesterday my daughter and I visited a friend's house, specifically to see the new baby chicks that had just arrived.
They were a tiny, fluffy, peeping mass. Several different breeds of chickens were in the mix: Barred Rock, Easter Chicken, Eagle, Leghorn to name a few. We were allowed to hold them in our hand, and they were light as a feather!
We then proceeded to the chicken house, carefully watching our step for obvious reason! When we got in, we had to watch our heads, too, because several ladies were perched above, and birds of all kinds do, do.
One of the roosters strutted toward us, pecking hens out of his way, then began to crow so loudly we couldn't hear ourselves talk over him. I guess he considered himself the cock of the walk.
My daughter got to gather eggs from the nests, and discovered five in all. A blue one, three beige ones and a regulation white.
Boy, did that bring back memories. When I was seven, my grandparents sold their grocery store and moved to the country. They had chickens, and I remember going to the barn to gather eggs. When my granddaddy got baby chicks in, I always picked out my favorite.
I had a pet hen for a while, and somewhere there is a photo of me in their living room, holding this big, fat chicken. She was white. I named her Henrietta.
It's a shame my daughter had to reach the ripe old age of twenty-two to gather eggs.
What's the world coming to?
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