“I Can’t Pick Up the Chicken.”

City girl Jean is adjusting to country life.

We are getting fresh eggs from the chickens at a friends’ house while the friends are are away. I go up there with the two big kids and go into the hen house and gather eggs, and pick up any other eggs from their more informal nesting areas.

There’s a broody hen who sits on a lot of the eggs. You pick up this hen and then Lucy gathers the eggs. The hen protests a little but she should be happy in the thought that she isn’t poulet roti.

Today I’m feeling a little low so I asked Jean to take the kids to get the eggs. But she balked. Starting log fires and washing dishes by hand has been taking its toll. “I can’t pick up the chicken,” she said. “I’ve hit a limit.”

The story has a happy ending. After being teased all day, Jean mustered the courage to try. “When I saw it done before the chicken was really clucky,” she said. “But this time she was calm.” She retrieved the eggs. Another step towards Hillbilly Jean.


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