by East, Ginny;
Tentatively, I cracked the egg open in a frying pan. The yolk was a deep, vibrant orange rather than the pale yellow I was accustomed to. The insides seemed thicker somehow. Certainly this meant the egg was old. Perhaps toxic, in decay, or just filled with bacteria absorbed from sitting in hen poop for an hour. All I knew was this egg just didn’t look like any egg I’d ever cooked.
With no small trepidation, I cooked the egg for my husband. If he dropped dead, well, I’d know that home grown eggs were not for us. He took a bite and smiled. “Good.”
I reached out to cover his food with my hand, compelled to confess before he took another bite. “I don’t know if you should eat this egg. The yoke was kinda orange, like it was fathered by a pumpkin rather than a rooster.”
“I believe that’s normal.” Mark said taking another mouthful. “I was told free range chicken eggs have more nutrients and that makes the yolks more colorful.” He polished off his breakfast, proclaimed he felt healthier already, and went off to cut down and sand a dozen trees for our new porch.
I headed for the Internet to read more about eggs.
The more I read, the more foolish I felt. Eggshells have a protective coating that keeps an egg from spoiling after being laid, but not all organic eggs are equal. The organic, free-range eggs I paid an extra dollar for at the health food store came, perhaps, from chickens that most likely had one hour a day in the sunshine on a four by four concrete pad. Hardly “free range” compared to my birds. No wonder I didn’t recognize a healthy egg when I saw one.
Homegrown eggs have 30% more protein, higher nutrients, and less cholesterol than commercially raised eggs. An orange yolk signifies a more healthful egg; the watery pale yellow yolk of store-bought eggs is due to synthetic filler in cheap food. The poor nutrition and lack of natural food sources like bugs or greens, denied the commercially raised layers, are what makes their yolks lackluster. The greatest chefs in the country use only free-range, organic eggs because of the benefit to their masterpiece dishes.
I was committed to growing my own fresh eggs more than ever now, so every day I checked the hen house. I had lots of chickens, but still, I wasn’t getting lots of eggs.
I started complaining about my slacker chickens to anyone who would listen.
“Tell my wife that if she’s patient, she’ll eventually get eggs,” Mark said to Ronnie as they hoisted a huge log into position at the house site. “She’s obsessed with the idea of home grown eggs now.”
“They’ll come,” Ronnie said, his hands running along the bark to be sure the log was set correctly.
“I think I have the only chickens in the history of the world that refuse to lay.”
“Give ‘em time.”
For three weeks, I visited the chicken house, then stomped up to the worksite to complain some more. The house was changing in shape and design, getting bigger and looking more upscale than we originally discussed, but Mark assured me going bigger saved us money somehow.
“Now, I’m not claiming to know everything, ‘cause I only have ‘bout a sixth grade education, but seems to me what you need is some guineas,” Ronnie said, nailing narrow tree trunks to our Adirondack kitchen bar. He took some nails out of his mouth to explain. “I don’t know why, but when you have guineas hanging out with chickens, the birds lay more, as if chickens are competitive or something.”
Like all the odd little details I was discovering about animals, this concept struck me as fascinating. “Do guineas get along with chickens?”
“Sure. They’re just a different kind of chicken, after all. I saw some guineas for sale this week at the flea market. If you want, we can go down tomorrow and have a look-see.”
Since I didn’t know what guineas looked like, I perused the Internet for a look-see, only to discover rather ugly birds with a vulture-like face, a huge shapeless round body, and a horn on the top of their head. Dark red gills make their white faces stand out with the same stark villainous appearance of the joker in Batman.
“What do you think?” Mark asked, looking over my shoulder at the game bird website.
“Did you know guineas make a weird sound, like a raspy flute, the female calling out in a two-syllable screech while the male makes a single toot?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Guineas make a racket when danger comes around, so they’re considered ‘watch birds.’ Their eggs are smaller and pointier than chicken eggs. One drawback is they lay in the bushes, so I’ll have to hunt their eggs down if I want to cook them, but since I just want the birds to inspire my other chickens to lay, I don’t care if or where they lay eggs.”
“You’re a virtual encyclopedia of guinea knowledge.”
I nodded smugly. “You may now add ‘guinea expert’ to my ever-growing list of talents. I’ll have you know people who raise guineas don’t get Lyme disease, and dogs come home clean because these birds clear away all ticks for a mile. Fly control alone is reason enough to keep poultry.”
“Then go for it, dear.”
I found no reference to guineas being a natural encouragement to get chickens to lay. I also didn’t mention that guineas have been known to park themselves at the entrance of a hive and eat bees as they fly home from foraging pollen. The birds can gobble up a beekeeper’s entire bee population in a few days if given the chance. Uh-oh.
The next day we all went to the flea market and I bought three silver and three black speckled guineas. I also bought six game chickens. Game chickens are recognizable because their legs are green, and sure enough, these chickens looked as if they were wearing Grinch tights. The game chickens were lean and wiry, and in my opinion lacked personality.
I took the birds home and introduced them to the flock. The next day I found two eggs. I rushed to the worksite to tell Ronnie and Mark the guineas were doing their job. The boys were standing in front of a hole in the wall that would soon be the fireplace.
“Just wait. Once they get the chickens going, you’ll be overrun with eggs,” Ronnie promised.
Mark waved his hand in a distracted way, clearly wanting me to go away so he could get back to work. “They’ll come.”
And he was right. The next day, seven eggs were softly resting in the shavings. I showed them off proudly promising I’d make the boys egg salad for lunch.
The third day, I found 19 eggs and one chicken was in the henhouse laying right as I visited. She had an ornery look in her eye, so I left her alone, but I collected a basketful of perfect brown eggs, all the same size and shape, with one little white egg in the mix. I took them to the worksite to show off.
“How do you suppose you have 19 eggs when you only have 17 grown chickens?” Mark asked, taking a bite of his egg salad sandwich. “And why so many brown eggs? Aren’t some of your chickens green and white egg layers?”
“Well, sure, but I have one white egg,” I said, holding up the meager, oddball egg. “Obviously, my brown egg-layers are just overachievers. Must be the influence of the guineas.”
“It’s always the brown egg layers that respond to guineas first,” Ronnie said.
That night, I ordered a quiche recipe book on Amazon and made Eggs Benedict for dinner. I whipped up a meringue pie, because that was the only dessert I could think of that used lots of egg whites. If I was going to get another 19 eggs the next day and every day after that, I’d have to become a master at egg dishes. Perhaps I’d make lemon curd. I might even begin a lemon curd business and sell my product at the flea market on weekends!
“Eggs for dinner again?” my kids asked.
“Why not? I plan to take advantage of each and every egg I find. From here on, our dogs will have the dreamiest fur coats, everyone’s cholesterol will go through the roof, and I’m going to learn to use natural egg as face masks for vibrant skin.”
But the next morning when I went to do my morning rounds, there were only two little white egg
s in the chicken house. I went to the house site to ask Ronnie what he thought had happened. He and Mark were talking about light fixtures, but they took a break to give me their full attention.
“Do you think the effect of the guineas wore off?”
“Might be,” Ronnie said with a chuckle. Then he laughed. He started laughing so hard he had to sit down. He laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes. He pointed to Mark and laughed harder. “You didn’t tell her.”
Mark was fighting a smile. “I forgot my saw at the workshop. Be right back.”
“He didn’t tell me what?” I said, growing increasingly suspicious of Ronnie’s mirth and my husband’s guilty exit.
“I bought a flat of eggs at the flea market when we bought them guineas and I’ve been putting them under your chickens all week. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t really believe a game bird would make your domestic chickens lay, didja? That don’t make no sense a’tall.”
I stood there, blushing hot and red. “You say Mark knew about this?”
“It was his idea.”
“Hmmm”
“When he told me you went on and on about your eggs last night, bought an egg cookbook, and even talked about starting a lemon curd business, I told him he had to tell ya. That’s why today I stopped with the eggs. Honestly, I never dreamed you’d think all them eggs really came from such young chickens. Especially since the eggs are all uniform in shape and size. That can’t be when you have a mishmash of chicken breeds. Certainly a smart college girl like you knows that.”
“This is what I get for having an honest preacher as a friend.”
He hung his head. “You really mad?”
“Me mad? Over eggs? Couldn’t happen. But do be afraid, Ronnie.”
I looked at him out of the sides of my eyes. “Payback is a bitch.”
He took a bite of the quiche I’d made and smiled at my threat. “Miss Ginny, you’ve got more country in you than anyone would guess.”
A month later my eggs finally started coming for real, and as he predicted, the eggs came in a variety of sizes and colors, everything from little pale green and brown eggs to jumbo shades of off-white and tan. In time I figured out which birds were laying which eggs. When I found guinea eggs, I cooked them too, and as soon as I had more eggs than I could use or give away, I left them under a brooding chicken and hatched my own chicks.
I was amazed at how easy keeping chickens was now, considering how complex the project seemed in the beginning. The chicken experiment was like our entire life makeover; a process filled with hard life lessons. At least laughter took the sting out of the hardest lessons. I had to remember that as long as we didn’t take ourselves too seriously, we had a chance at happiness.
“Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind. With respect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meager life than the poor.”
—Henry David Thoreau
SUBURBAN WITHDRAWAL
I often paused to watch my children interacting with our new world, constantly needing assurance that everyone and everything was well. Kent had started camping and learned to drive the four wheelers. He played soccer and drums. With a subtle tan, and a body changing from boy to man, he looked rugged and happier than I ever saw him before. Neva constantly had dirt on her hands as she wandered our land as my sidekick, helping me plant or care for animals. She was fearless, a tomboy, and quick to show empathy and care for anything living. My children’s broadening lives made every frustration bearable, because I loved them more than I cared for my own satisfaction. I still worried about Denver acclimating to the area, but a part of me saw her discontent as a gift too. I had huge hopes for my daughter, and Blue Ridge seemed too small a canvas upon which a woman like her could paint a life masterpiece. But I savored her time with us now nevertheless.
Mark had adapted to rural living with chameleon-like ease. Within a month of our moving, his car radio blasted country tunes. His wardrobe began filling up with plaid flannel shirts and he talked with a twang. His well-groomed beard grew bushy and he allowed his truck to grow an inch-thick layer of dust. He gained seventy pounds and became Dairy Queen’s best customer.
I continued to keep my acrylic nails, and colored my hair every six weeks. My wardrobe was up to date with fashionable clothes, at least if you include jeans and countryish sweaters. I may have moved to the country, but a style-less bumpkin I’d never be, or so I vowed. My car stereo still chimed jazz or classical music. I listened to NPR, determined to keep up with liberal world news and the latest literature. I may have moved to a different location, but I was still me. Just me enjoying and embracing the country lifestyle.
The problem was inside I felt more like a dancer on an extended vacation than a country girl. When no one was around, I’d thrust my leg up on a fence post to enjoy a deep stretch. I cranked up music in the cabin and dance steps oozed out from me as I cleaned. I couldn’t see a child pass by but I didn’t imagine her in a leotard and tights, her hair in a neat bun.
When the weather was fine, the lush trees swaying, and the birds making lazy circles in the sky, I was inspired to move. Dances With Wolves had nothing on me—I had dancing with Donkey down pat. After a lifetime of movement, I just wasn’t ready to stand still. So I danced in private. I danced because it felt good. I danced because I was happy. Sometimes, I danced because I was sad. I danced because moving made me feel alive at a time when my body and mind felt lulled to sleep by too many gentle country breezes.
Dance wasn’t all I missed. I longed for intellectual stimuli and a dash of pop culture. I missed feeling driven to achieve, to consume, to compete. Was I really such a slave to my cultural upbringing that I couldn’t slow down and be happy with less? There were so many good things about our life now. I had time to be a focused parent, an environmentalist, a reading mentor, a student in a challenging Master’s program. How could I possibly feel something was missing?
But something was missing—my husband. Lost in his obsession to build his dream log home and to fill up his ideal workshop with tools to indulge his creativity as a rustic interior designer, he was treating me as nothing more than an annoying obligation. He encouraged me to play with bees and plant a garden with a pat on the head, like when a parent plops a child in front of a TV set because they don’t want to deal with raising kids.
Sometimes, I was fine with the long hours of solitude. I’d be filled with such a deep sense of contentment I could feel my heart beating in a sure, healthy rhythm, my blood flowing with vitality and ease, as if the peace of this natural environment was removing the garbage that a lifetime of superficial struggling had packed inside. I’d stand in the driveway at night, awed by stars above shining bright enough to pierce the heart. The sound of the wind in the trees felt like God’s whisper.
I loved that my children were experiencing this connection to nature, too. One day Denver urged Mark and me into the car so she could drive us to a field to look at thousands of lightning bugs illuminating a huge pasture.
“Isn’t this the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” she said, her face soft and tender as she gazed at the sight before her.
“Yes,” I said, but I was looking at my daughter’s face, recognizing the depth of spirit I had prayed would someday be in my children. There it was, undeniable in her sensitivity, eye for beauty, and connection to the environment.
I tried to concentrate on that same depth of spirit in myself. Perhaps if I tapped into my talents to better the world in this corner of the universe I’d be happier. I volunteered to teach dance for free at a local dance studio, but they turned me down. I contacted every studio I could find within an hour’s drive. No takers. Proud of my new MFA, I volunteered to teach writing for free at the local art center.
“People around here really are
n’t looking for the kind of teaching you do,” I was told, meaning a trained professional from the city was more an invader than a resource in their eyes. After a lifetime of being admired for my skills and experience, I couldn’t give my skills away. For the first time ever, I was treated as obsolete and valueless, so the best I could hope for was keeping busy with everyday things like laundry and cooking, things that seemed overly common and not much of a contribution to the world at large. Focusing solely on my personal growth felt a tad too self-serving to me. I always believed a good life began with selfless service, and compassion not just for yourself, but for others. To feel better, I wrote while Mark shopped.
Wal-Mart was the only store within casual driving distance (40 minutes) so we found ourselves making excuses to go almost every day. Need a rug for the new bathroom, a meat thermometer,
or some plastic containers to hold horse feed? Wal-Mart, Mark’s on the way. And I’d usually join him because I wanted to be with my husband whenever I could be. The life I invented for us ‘on paper’ just wasn’t enough.
While we were there, we’d throw unnecessary things into our cart, like clothes, new car mats, or DVDs, not because we needed them, but because they were on sale. Consuming was such an ingrained habit that we continued to shop even while lecturing to each other that consumerism was ruining the world. I bought books like Aff luenza, Simple Prosperity, and Your Money or Your Life. Mark said they sounded good, and that he’d read them when I was done, but he never bothered.
Mark had built not one but two large workshops for himself on our land, and he purchased loads of tools and supplies. Unopened crates of woodworker paraphernalia littered the dysfunctional shop like an overturned hardware warehouse. He justified the glut by insisting he shopped the sales. Mark always proclaimed he was saving money as he spent. His newest windfall of tools was an investment, he claimed. He was going into the rustic furniture-making business.
