Read Online Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald - Free Book Online

feel . . . well, fun. “Got any music?” she asked, so I found a Benny Goodman record for the parlor phonograph, cranked it up, and led Bodhi down the stairs to the kitchen, where I’d already lined up Mason jars, canning racks, and tongs. Beets and a few cucumbers stood at the ready, washed in colanders in the big farmhouse sink, while every soup pot, stockpot, and lobster pot had been rounded up, filled with boiling water on the stove.
    I showed Bodhi how to fill the jars with the veggies, vinegar, and spices and was surprised by how easily she jumped in, dancing around to “Sing Sing Sing (With a Swing)” as she worked. Most of the girls from school would balk at something so domestic—even dorky—on a summer morning. But a couple of hours later, the jars were cooling, and we’d moved on to the garden, pulling weeds and slapping mosquitoes with our beet-stained fingers.
    â€œIt’s funny,” said Bodhi as she tossed a dandelion she’d pulled to the chickens. “They all have their own personalities, don’t they? Like this one.” Bodhi rubbed the side of a silkie bantam with the toe of her sneaker. “She’s a little softy. Just wants a cuddle.”
    I put down the basket of eggs I’d collected and picked up Adelaide, who was nuzzling my shoe.
    â€œThat’s Frida. Her sister, Adelaide, here is the same way. You can pick her up if you want. Just support her feet, like this.” I gave her head a little scratch and Adelaide clucked appreciatively. “But look out for Artemesia, that frizzy one over there. She’ll go at you if you get too close.” Artemesia flapped her wings theatrically, and Bodhi pelted her with a dandelion.
    â€œWhat’s with the funny names?” asked Bodhi.
    â€œAll famous artists. All women. A little joke I had with my grandfather.”
    Bodhi knelt down to stroke the hen who’d been diligently working on a hole next to the coop. “Who’s this little digger?”
    â€œTheodora,” I mumbled.
    â€œTheodora? What artist is that? Or—wait, you named the chicken after yourself?”
    It had been last summer, the day Jack brought out two new chicks he’d gotten from his breeder in Bed-Stuy. The chicks were now big enough to join the flock, and one—quickly named Artemesia—asserted her claim on the feed right away. Some of the older, wiser chickens squawked and flapped at her, schooling her on the pecking order, but Artemesia squawked back, and soon we had a real feather-flier on our hands. It took us ten minutes to get everyone back to their corners.
    But when the feathers settled, we looked down and saw that most of the feed was gone. Nearby, the other new chick had her head down and kept scratch, scratch, scratching, determined to find more food.
    â€œHa! See that one? She let the others flap and fight and fuss at each other, while she kept her eye on the prize. Smart girl, just like you,” Jack had said. “Let’s name her Theodora.”
    â€œGee, thanks. Why not Angelika? Or how about Little Jackie? That has a nice ring to it.”
    â€œWell, she’s not a rooster, so Jackie doesn’t make sense.” Jack pulled a lock of my hair. “And Angelika—well, your mom’s a songbird at heart. She just keeps flying overhead, circling and circling and never landing on anything.”
    On that particular day, I had had to decline a rare birthday party invitation from a girl in my class whose mother had insisted she invite everyone. We couldn’t afford the cost of the train out to her weekend house, let alone an appropriate gift.
    â€œWho ever said I wanted to be a chicken?” I groused. “Maybe I’d like to be a songbird. Maybe I’d like to fly away somewhere for once.”
    There was a very long pause, and when I looked up at my grandfather, I was surprised to see that his hands were in his pockets and his eyes were