Shopping For Eggs

It is Spring 2013. I live in the country. There are country smells here. My own house sits between a horse farm and a house with 5 or 6 dairy cows. Depending on the strength and direction of the wind, these animals share their world with me. There are country sounds, foxes shriek at night and coyotes yip, lots of dogs bark, horses neigh, frogs peep and birds make all sorts of racket. Horses and farm trucks make their various noises passing in front of my house. Chain saws growl and guns disturb our peace as hunters target practice and hunt for deer, turkeys, and I suppose for other animals. When I need to shop, I can drive the 20 minutes into town, through traffic lights, past gas stations and auto dealerships, Radio Shack, Starbucks and Marshalls to the supermarket, like anyone else in America. But, if I am in need of eggs, I can drive down and up and then down again a mile long verdant country road, perhaps stopping to photograph hawks or turkey vultures or endless views across the Litchfield Hills, past farms with cows, farms with horses, farms with llamas, and farms with all sorts of green things beginning to poke through neat brown rectangles. At the bottom of the hill on the left, I pull into a driveway where a big RV sits a good bit of the year. I leave my $3.00 in a little box next to a handwritten sign inviting the purchase and I take a dozen eggs from a cooler. I return to my car drive back up the hill, and down another that bisects a dairy farm nestled in a valley, back up the hill to return home. In 5 minutes empty shells are rinsed for the compost pile and the eggs - laid this morning, by happy little hens free to wander about a farmyard, enjoying the sun while keeping a sharp eye out for foxes and coyotes – bubble in the skillet. My Irish Water Spaniel, Mickey, sits patiently, demonstrably drooling in anticipation of snaring my breakfast. Jean McGavin
Bethlehem, CT © 2013