Page 5 of Over the Verdant Hills
“Because I have great-grandchildren who come and wash my dishes for me,” Grandma said, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world for her great-grandkids to come and wash the dishes.
It kept Dan from asking about anything anyway.
“This is my gathering basket,” Grandma said as she picked it up from where it sat by the door.
It was a lot fancier than what Claire remembered using when she was a kid. She was pretty sure she’d just pulled her T-shirt out and put the eggs in the pouch it made.
Of course, she remembered breaking more than a few, particularly when she ran away from the rooster.
“That’s cute,” Lana said, and Claire bit back a gasp of surprise. Was Lana actually saying something positive?
Of course a cute little basket might make her want to gather eggs.
“Thanks. I also have an egg-gathering apron, but it’s hanging outside on the porch.” Grandma walked out, and they all trooped after her. Grandma showed them the egg-gathering apron, and then she said, “I put it on just in case I have to set my basket down. But then I transfer the eggs to the basket, because it makes me feel cute to carry the basket around.”
Claire kept from snorting. Maybe when she was eighty-something years old, she’d be carrying a basket around just because it made her feel cute. She figured anything that made her feel cute when she was eighty was something she was going to keep in her life.
Goodness, anything that made her feel cute now was something she would keep in her life.
Her kids tramped after her grandma, and Claire brought up the rear as they headed toward the chicken coop, which was fifty or sixty feet away from the back door.
She recalled the chickens pecking all around when she was younger, but she also remembered that Grandma didn’t let them out until it was fairly warm out on a consistent basis. Once that happened, then Grandma had to go out in the evening once all the chickens had roostedand shut the door. Otherwise, predators might get in and eat the birds during the night—particularly foxes or owls.
Funny, the things Claire remembered, and equally interesting, the things she forgot.
“All right, we’re all going to pile into the coop, even though it’s not very big in there. I only have twenty birds and ten laying boxes. I couldn’t fit any more, or I probably would have a lot more. Chickens are a lot of fun to watch.”
Her grandma held her cane over her arm as she opened the door to the coop. Then she took the cane, carefully balancing it on the cement block steps as she walked up and into the coop.
It wasn’t a pretty prefabricated shed. It was one that had been built on the property years ago, with its weathered boards and dark gray exterior. Claire seemed to remember that one time it had been painted white with green shutters and green trim. But if that memory was correct, the paint had long since faded.
“Close the door behind you,” Grandma said to Claire as Claire stepped in last. “I don’t want anyone to get out. It’s not quite warm enough yet. I’ve been going to bed earlier and earlier, and I’m not sure I’m even going to let them out this year. Letting them out means staying up later than is comfortable,” she said, lifting her brows at Claire.
“Now that we’re here, I’m sure I won’t have trouble staying up as late as it takes to close the coop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grandma said.
Then she turned to the children and started instructing them on what they needed to do in order to gather the eggs.
“When it’s your turn, you can’t shirk your duties. If there’s a chicken sitting on eggs, you have to put your hand underneath them and get the eggs out from under them. Otherwise, they’re liable to sit on the eggs, and they’ll go bad.”
“How do we know if there are any eggs under there?” Dan asked, looking curiously at a chicken who eyed him suspiciously from the nest box where she sat.
“You have to put your hand under there and feel around. Usually they’re toward the front, but sometimes they put them by their feet.You’ll be able to feel them,” Grandma said with assurance. Then, to show them, she stuck her hand underneath the chicken that was sitting there as it pecked at her wrist and arm.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Lana asked as she watched with horror as the chicken practically attacked Grandma’s arm.
“Not really. You get used to it. Every once in a while, they get you in a good spot, but their beaks are trimmed so they can’t hurt each other, and they can’t hurt you either.”
“How do they trim their beaks?” Dan asked.
“You do that when they’re chicks. There are a couple different ways, but one is a tool that’s hot, and it kind of sears the end of their beak. It’s like your fingernails, though. It doesn’t have any feeling in them.”
“I see,” Lana said, still looking a little horrified.
“Look. She was sitting on three eggs. This hen probably isn’t laying eggs—she’s sitting on somebody else’s.”
“You mean another chicken laid those three eggs?”
