|Green eggs from our Olive Eggers|
Our five new hens are Easter Eggers and Olive Eggers. Thus, we’re gathering blue and green eggs these days. Katy, our neighbor, exchanged the pullets for our old girls. What a deal. For a reasonable cost, she drove two hours to purchase and deliver our new flock, and left with the menopausal.
The novelty of green eggs is delicious when served a la Dr. Seuss. “I do so love green eggs and ham!” Add a slice of sourdough toast a la lavender jelly for a taste of sweet, fragrant summer. “Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,” goes the old English lullaby while I sip a steamy cup of Earl Grey.
Ten years ago I knew nothing of green eggs and raising hens. Twenty years ago I knew nil about growing lavender and cooking with it. In Future’s dark sphere, I could not foresee our firstborn’s imminent passing, nor the people and their roles in building my dream of a lavender farm. Each in their own season, they’ve appeared like falling stars, their light showing me the way, their voices full of comfort and joy.
Andy, our handyman, often spoke fondly of his hens, roosters, and chicks. I accepted his offer to visit his barnyard for a lesson on hen husbandry. His birds answered his whistle and came running from all directions. They knew a gentleman when they heard one.
“Andy, you remind me of Uncle Herm and his chickens when I was a kid,” I said.
He heard the desire of my heart. “You can raise hens, too, Iris.”
Andy built our henhouse. I bought six layers, the most congenial girls we’ve had the past four years. Alas, I’ve never mastered a whistle like Andy’s.
Sometime afterward, Andy carried a heavy box into my kitchen. “I thought you might be interested in Uncle Lee’s collection of classical records,” he said.
Even though our vintage stereo didn’t work, I gladly accepted Andy’s gift. He thought the world of his late uncle, so I was honored to receive Uncle Lee’s music. I tucked the box away for safe keeping until our budget allowed a new phonograph—until I could sit and listen to superb recordings.
In the fullness of time, my youngest daughter answered my need Thanksgiving Day while gathered for dinner. After a year as Project Manager for Shinola’s new product category, the sales launch was the next day in Detroit. And she would be there.
I avoid Black Friday shopping, but this was a big event Mel and I must attend. “What’s the cost?” I asked.
My mind rationalized and reasoned.
The following morning Mel and I placed a boxwood wreath on my father’s grave, then our firstborn’s. We drove downtown, hugged our daughter, and bought the turntable.
Dear Reader, last night Mel carried Uncle Lee’s box of records from the basement upstairs.
Hallelujah! This year we celebrate Christmas with green eggs and ham while Handel’s Messiah spins on our new turntable, a limited edition. Unlimited comfort and joy.