My Wooden Egg
She even has a creepy prize for her weirdest commenter: A picture of Mr. Poodlestein in what appears to be an antique frame.
First, let me say, I am not writing this post so that I can get my paws on Mr. Poodlestein. As much as I love canines, nothing draws me to this portrait of someone’s dearly departed dog. (I already have a picture of my own dearly departed dog. Thank you.) And then I saw that Willowtree has posted a picture of cat butt gum. So much for winning that contest. (And he thought he wasn't all that weird.)
ANYWAY..... the idea of sharing one of my most peculiar possessions did intrigue me. (I am trying to post daily in the month of November. (I am not signed up for NaBloPoMo, but I’m pretending that I am. Blogging about my old wooden egg takes care of Monday.)
What is it you ask? Yes, you did too, ask. Do not quit reading – Come on back. Look into my eyes and repeat after me. “I want to know about Pamela’s wooden egg.”
I am so glad you asked.
My earliest memory as a child is accompanying my mom out to the chicken house. To me it was the greatest adventure.
A sliding wooden latch locked the door. That part is a bit blurry. However, I remember exactly what I saw each time the door was open. There were three distinct areas. The first one was level with the entry door. The second was dug out so that you could hop down and walk around the nesting area, face to face with angry hens. The third section was a little bit higher and had chicken wire stretched flat across it. I’m thinking that may have been where the chicks would be placed to keep them safe. Chickens are mean to each other.
I can still conjure up the smell of chickens and chicken feed. In addition, I can remember the little round water trough that was gravity fed, and the ground up oyster shells that were provided to encourage healthy egg production. I can even hear the “bwaaawk, bwaak, BWAAAAK.” The last ‘bwaaaak” would be an egg stealing “bwaak.”
However, what I found most exciting was the little wooden eggs that mom kept in the nests. She said it kept the chickens coming back because they thought that they were laying eggs for “setting.” If we left the wooden egg, the hen didn’t know that we were stealing her future family. Apparently, chickens can’t count.
I don’t know how many times I was in trouble for sneaking in their and handling them or bringing them outside to play. I loved those wooden eggs.
One day my Uncle came over with a hatchet and butchered all the chickens in our backyard. (That traumatic story can be saved for another blog day)
After that, the chicken house remained empty for a number of years.
When my mom passed away in 1993, we spent several days going through her belongings. In her bureau drawer, we discovered one of those wooden eggs.
I now have it in my bureau drawer. It is worn and etched with hundreds of chicken scratches from where those silly hens clawed at it to place it into the perfect spot before they set on it. When I pull it out and hold it in my hand, I can remember the smells, the sounds, and the excitement of escorting my mom into the wonderful world of feathers and chicken poo.
Then I feel sad when I realize that there will be no one to hold it with fond memories when I am gone.