anxious to get out. They don’t do much, but what they do they’re used to doing. They like routines. Oh, now”—a chicken pecked at her hand when Lydia reached in to get the egg—“don’t be hormonal, Tizzy.”
Lydia names all the chickens as she goes. Who could remember all those names anyhow?
“There ya go, Jessalynn,” she soothed as she took another egg from yet another late-morning riser, not so eager to get outside today. “This one is much kinder than the other, but I prefer Tizzy.”
“You prefer Tizzy?” I saw a white egg sticking out of hay bunched together in a small cubbyhole created by a miniature bookshelf. I dug through the hay and found another “secret loot” area. I popped fifteen eggs into my basket.
“Yes, I do. Tizzy has spirit. She has a temper. She knows what she wants and what she doesn’t. When she doesn’t like what’s going on, she snaps. Yep. I like her.”
We stared at the two ladies. Tizzy shook her head a bit, Jessalynn settled down in her nest. “Anyone who thinks chickens don’t have personalities is wrong. We got the mean ones, the nice ones, and everyone in between in this barn. It’s a microcosm of a woman’s life, only the ladies shit out in the open and human women don’t drop the eggs from their ovaries on the floor each morning.”
I nodded. “We women generally like to keep our eggs close to home.”
“Darn right we do.”
We continued digging through the barn, silence settling on us, familiar and warm. I brushed hay and, undoubtedly, chicken shit out of my hair as I bent under a shelf to grab more eggs.
“I’ve had to get more roosters out here since you came last. But not too many. I learned my lesson years ago about roosters. Don’t get enough chickens, and those roosters will run the ladies into the ground with all the matin’ they do. They hop on the ladies’ backs, hump around, and when they’re through, they walk right over them. Almost every rooster will stomp on the lady’s head on his way out and not think a thing of it.”
“That’s so like a man,” I muttered.
“Damn straight it is. Some men will do the foreplay, but most of ’em don’t really want to. They just want to be like roosters. Hump ’em, walk out the door.”
“Personally, I don’t want any more roosters in my life. I’ve been stepped on the head once too often.”
“Yes, you have, but your head is done getting stomped on!” Aunt Lydia spread her arms out wide. “The world is sending you good karma, darlin’, and a head stompin’ is not in your future.”
“Always nice to hear. Thank you, Aunt Lydia.”
“Now, take a look at these eggs.” Lydia pointed behind a bookshelf painted blue at a hoard of eggs. About twenty of them.
“Chickens hide things. They like to keep secrets. Like these here eggs in their little secret hiding places. Chickens are like women in that respect. We all have secrets, some small ones that aren’t really a big deal. Some we’re ashamed about.” She bent down and hugged a chicken to her like it was a baby. “Some we love having because we can visit them when we’re having a rotten day and remember something we shouldn’t have done but did anyhow. Those are the most interesting. We know we should feel guilty, so guilty that our insides should be burning up and smoke should be rightfully spewing from our ears, but at that moment in our lives, what we did was right. It was wrong, too, of course, deliciously wrong, or it wouldn’t be a secret, but deep in the heart we don’t regret it.”
I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but I knew about secrets. I wish I didn’t. I’ve known all about the worst type of secrets since I was four. Secrets always hurt. When I was a child, anytime a man told me he wanted to share a secret with me I knew I was gonna get hurt. No other way out. The boyfriends who paid a lot of attention to me from the start were always the worst.
When I was older, I got smarter. When one
Lydia names all the chickens as she goes. Who could remember all those names anyhow?
“There ya go, Jessalynn,” she soothed as she took another egg from yet another late-morning riser, not so eager to get outside today. “This one is much kinder than the other, but I prefer Tizzy.”
“You prefer Tizzy?” I saw a white egg sticking out of hay bunched together in a small cubbyhole created by a miniature bookshelf. I dug through the hay and found another “secret loot” area. I popped fifteen eggs into my basket.
“Yes, I do. Tizzy has spirit. She has a temper. She knows what she wants and what she doesn’t. When she doesn’t like what’s going on, she snaps. Yep. I like her.”
We stared at the two ladies. Tizzy shook her head a bit, Jessalynn settled down in her nest. “Anyone who thinks chickens don’t have personalities is wrong. We got the mean ones, the nice ones, and everyone in between in this barn. It’s a microcosm of a woman’s life, only the ladies shit out in the open and human women don’t drop the eggs from their ovaries on the floor each morning.”
I nodded. “We women generally like to keep our eggs close to home.”
“Darn right we do.”
We continued digging through the barn, silence settling on us, familiar and warm. I brushed hay and, undoubtedly, chicken shit out of my hair as I bent under a shelf to grab more eggs.
“I’ve had to get more roosters out here since you came last. But not too many. I learned my lesson years ago about roosters. Don’t get enough chickens, and those roosters will run the ladies into the ground with all the matin’ they do. They hop on the ladies’ backs, hump around, and when they’re through, they walk right over them. Almost every rooster will stomp on the lady’s head on his way out and not think a thing of it.”
“That’s so like a man,” I muttered.
“Damn straight it is. Some men will do the foreplay, but most of ’em don’t really want to. They just want to be like roosters. Hump ’em, walk out the door.”
“Personally, I don’t want any more roosters in my life. I’ve been stepped on the head once too often.”
“Yes, you have, but your head is done getting stomped on!” Aunt Lydia spread her arms out wide. “The world is sending you good karma, darlin’, and a head stompin’ is not in your future.”
“Always nice to hear. Thank you, Aunt Lydia.”
“Now, take a look at these eggs.” Lydia pointed behind a bookshelf painted blue at a hoard of eggs. About twenty of them.
“Chickens hide things. They like to keep secrets. Like these here eggs in their little secret hiding places. Chickens are like women in that respect. We all have secrets, some small ones that aren’t really a big deal. Some we’re ashamed about.” She bent down and hugged a chicken to her like it was a baby. “Some we love having because we can visit them when we’re having a rotten day and remember something we shouldn’t have done but did anyhow. Those are the most interesting. We know we should feel guilty, so guilty that our insides should be burning up and smoke should be rightfully spewing from our ears, but at that moment in our lives, what we did was right. It was wrong, too, of course, deliciously wrong, or it wouldn’t be a secret, but deep in the heart we don’t regret it.”
I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but I knew about secrets. I wish I didn’t. I’ve known all about the worst type of secrets since I was four. Secrets always hurt. When I was a child, anytime a man told me he wanted to share a secret with me I knew I was gonna get hurt. No other way out. The boyfriends who paid a lot of attention to me from the start were always the worst.
When I was older, I got smarter. When one
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