The Hen House

My mother went to the hen house, came back and stuck the eggs up in an old shoe. I found them there the next day when she asked me if I’d kindly bring them in. I had a laugh or two as I swept up the shoe. For the first moment or so I thought we had become a family of bumpkins, placing things here and there, not caring for where or what they were.

But then I thought deeper. There was certain ingenuity in using what you had, and not always going out to buy the next new thing.

In this age of downturns and recessions, my mother is clearly of the sort that should be praised. Would those living in the city, had thought to make use of something so derelict and transform its purpose into something useful?

No, it’s something inherent to the mother’s spirit and the country air. Apart from the world, you make do with what you have, and you see things in a different way.

Thus, as I saw my mother use an old coffee can to wash the very same eggs, there was a mix of pride and sorrow. Clearly people like my mother are a dying breed; those so willing to work the land and take solace in the quiet of an old frontier.

.