When I was a little girl, we would go and stay with friends of ours who lived on a farm in the Lowveld. Sandy roads, dry grass, herds of cattle, a rocky dam to swim in, three meals a day all sat together around the table and dark, quiet nights all snuggled in our beds, the great, starry sky hedging us in.
One of my highlights was collecting eggs and I can still recall the wonder of it all. These were not eggs from the shops, packaged in boxes and plastic. These were fragile offerings from the hens themselves, warm and smooth, cradled like treasure in our grubby little hands. On Easter Sunday, it was extremely likely that we would find chocolate eggs in those nests, too, and I cannot even begin to write about the thrill of that. That took egg collecting at Berry Springs into a whole ‘nother dimension.
I have been wrestling all week about what to write for this post. We don’t have to look hard to know that the world is in chaos, and even our very own community. People have stories and some situations are dire. I feel the urgency to write something more empathising, more dynamic, something that validates the struggle and, yet, I am compelled to write about the humble high of my week:
The chooks arrived!
Hardly significant on a global scale, but I read once that when a butterfly flaps its wings, it makes an impacts miles away and down the ages. Even the tiniest actions can have great impact.
After a few weeks of putting up fences and constructing a shelter (thanks Dad!) the message came. Our ten hens plus a friend’s fifteen hens could be collected in the morning. I arrived at the depot and a guy called Special sold me the 50kg bag of food, huku dust (we don’t want fleas, no), de-worming powder (even worse, we definitely don’t want those) and a vitamin stress pack. Back seats down and plastic carefully laid out, he began throwing those twenty five golden girls through the car window. I’ve never transported chickens before but my farming sister assured me they wouldn’t fly about the car as I drove, and they didn’t. I wasn’t sure if I should talk to them to reassure them, but they were clucking fearfully and eyeing me out like I might want to eat them, so I just focused on the road. They were remarkably good travellers and stayed huddled together (on their plastic sheeting, remember), so it was a surprise for me when my husband asked how I managed to get so much chicken poop on the seats.
I arrived home where my mother, sister-in-law, two siblings and all our children were waiting. It was as if I had just competed at the Olympic Games and was returning with my prize. They bounded over to the car and it was all hands on deck; large and small carried chickens, Grandmother began unpacking the hay bale into their laying shelves, Brother carried the food sack on his shoulder, some weighed out the food, others filled the water: it was team effort at the very best.
I keep walking across the yard to count that they are all there. I keep looking for the first egg. I keep marvelling that they all have auburn feathers and yellow eyes and, yet, on closer inspection, they each have their own look. With a little more time, we will be able to name them and distinguish who’s who.
It’s not a big thing and it would probably be easier to buy eggs from the farm, but this is what memories are made of. It feels like one of those ways that we invite a little bit of heaven onto earth. Every morning we will collect eggs, and in a world where there are wars and rumours of wars, the simplicity of the ritual and the steaming poached eggs on toast will count. Surely?
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