Hens and Chickens (30 page)

“Translated from Rebecca-speak: ‘We never know when we might fall in love, get married and move to that guy’s cabin in the woods.’”

“Not even loosely translated: that
is
what I was thinking!”

Lila sighed. “I’m not there yet,” she said, sadly. “Not until I’m sure these nightmares are gone for good. I wouldn’t wish ‘em on my worst enemy, let alone someone that I so totally love.”

“But you
will
tell Mike about … about,” Rebecca broke off. She remembered her promise not to interfere.

“Someday, yes. But not now.” Lila stared dejectedly off into space. Who knew how much longer it would be?!
Patience.
 
Patience!

After a few seconds, Lila collected herself. Her impish sense of humor returned. “Besides, his cabin is too small,” she added with a grin.

“You’ve been there?” Rebecca asked, hopefully.

“Nooo, I’ve never actually seen it. He says that’s because he couldn’t trust himself not to … well, you know. But I think more likely the place needs cleaning.”

“I doubt that!”

“Mmmm; but I know where he lives…”

“You do?”

“Yep. He showed me the dirt drive to his place the night he and I had dinner with Maude and Ralph. Some morning, I’m gonna sneak over to his cabin and crawl into bed with him.”

“Lila!”

“Omigod, you are soo easy to tease, Becca!” said Lila, throwing her arm around her friend’s shoulder affectionately.

“Totally,” agreed Amber, yawning, in the doorway. “Mom is SO easy. What’s for breakfast? I need a big meal before I head back to Boston.”

“EGGS!” cried Lila and Rebecca in unison.

For his part Mike Hobart spent a reinvigorated night floating on a cloud of hope. He didn’t understand what Lila was suffering or why, but he recognized that she had made some small progress during the week that they had been apart. She had asked for time to sort things out, and it appeared even a short period of time had been efficacious. Lila seemed happier, more peaceful, and more at ease with herself and with him at the picnic. Certainly, that was love he had seen in her eyes! He began to calculate how much more time she might need before he could once again press his suit.

Hobart thought it was fair that Lila had asked for time. But he also thought it was fair that he make the most of any opportunity that happened to come his way. He was a patient man, and he would wait for her to invite him back to her side. But he would also ensure that his “side” was as attractive as possible!

He had planned on the next rainy day when he wasn’t working on his barn project to finish a surprise gift for
The Egg Ladies,
which would celebrate the opening of their business. On the prior rainy day, he had started to carve a simple wooden
“Organic
Eggs for Sale”
sign to hang off the Staircase Tree at the end of the driveway. Today, he would finish the sign—and carve his secret weapon: wooden pegs that inserted into the bottom of colorful
papier-mâché
chickens that the kindergarteners and first graders had crafted for Miss Hastings after her last “music lesson.” The wooden pegs would affix the chickens, one hen to a step, into the Staircase Tree. Hobart knew that the unusual folk art creatures setting like hens in the tree would be an eye-catching addition to his sign.

Hobart wasn’t sure now whether or not the “chicken on every step” idea had originated with him or Miss Hastings. He had poured out his troubles to Miss Hastings over tea the prior Wednesday afternoon. “I’m willing to wait for her as long as it takes,” he had declared; “but I can’t sit around doing nothing while I wait!”

“That’s the spirit, dahrrrling!” Miss Hastings gushed, leaning over and patting him on the arm. “All’s fair in love and LOVE!”

At that point, the retired music teacher had suggested Hobart follow her into her studio where 18
papier-mâché
chickens were setting on top of her baby grand piano and in various chairs around the room. Miss Hastings admired each chicken, pointing out particular quirks that signified each child’s rendition of Matilda. Hobart looked at the heavily varnished, unrealistic yet charming renditions of Miss Hastings’ pet chicken and mumbled a few well-meaning remarks. 

“Take it from this old hen, she won’t be able to resist these colorful chicks!”

“But what would I do with them?”

“Dahrrrling, step up, STEP UP your wooing! Put them where they’ll make a good FIRST IMPRESSION!” And Miss Hastings went off into peals of laughter over the double entendres in her words.

By the end of the day Monday Hobart had made good use of the rainy day AND the sun was beginning to shine. Hobart had finished the pegs and had also cut holes into the bottoms of the
papier-mâché
chickens so they would be easily removed from or inserted onto the pegs. The step tree had 12 steps, so six of the chickens would be in reserve at any time and could be rotated or replaced as necessary. Lila could switch them on a whim and store them all in the barn during inclement weather and winter. Now, Hobart only needed an opportunity to hang his sign and drill the peg holes into the 12 steps. After that, he could set the colorful chickens on their new nests. But he needed time when Lila was away from home, and Lila rarely left her hens and baby chicks for long.

Once again, Miss Hastings came to the rescue. She invited Lila up to tea on Thursday afternoon. Hobart had calculated that he would need two hours to do the work, but Miss Hastings managed to keep Lila from her afternoon egg collection and from checking on her baby chicks for closer to
three
hours by playing an extended selection of Chopin’s works on the piano for her guest.

Entranced, Lila lost track of time. “I can’t believe it’s almost five o’clock!” she exclaimed, glancing at her phone when Miss Hastings had finally finished playing. “That was so amazing!”

“Dahrrrling, I’m just an old loose screw, but I still LOVE to perform!”

Lila thanked Miss Hastings, kissed the old lady goodbye and exited the antique cottage hastily. She had arrived on foot, and now set out to hike the half mile back down the hill in the moist warmth of the late afternoon sun to the old Russell homestead. A chipmunk followed her part way atop the old stone wall lining the road,
squeaking
and
chirping
. A downy woodpecker was
rat-a-tat-tatting
the bugs out of a nearby apple tree, and two blue jays in a nearby white pine and a quorum of grackles on the telephone wires were in a fierce competition to out-
caw
each other. The sun had burst open the top blossoms of the apple tree, and Lila inhaled their sweet scent as she strode down the hill.

When she reached her driveway, the most amazing sight greeted her: the steps to the Staircase Tree were filled with a wondrous display of colorful hens and chickens! Hanging from the tree was a brand new carved wooden sign:
“Organic Eggs for Sale.”
The net result looked like something out of a colorful children’s picture book.

“Wow!” exclaimed Lila, hand to her heart. Despite the fact that only four days earlier she had declared herself to be “cried out,” Lila felt tears of joy spring to her eyes. She recognized the author of this delightful display!

But where
was
he?

Lila glanced around, pulse quickening, expecting (and secretly hoping) that Mike Hobart would step out from behind the old maple tree. Alas, her sweetheart was nowhere to be seen!

When Hobart had completed his mission, he returned to his cabin in the woods. It was enough for him simply to give Lila joy. There would be plenty of time and opportunity – he hoped – to share joy together in years to come. Now, as much as he wanted to share her delight with his handiwork, he didn’t need to take advantage of her transitional state. Hobart had confidence that Lila would return to him when she was emotionally ready. He just hoped it was sooner rather than later!

Rebecca and Wendell had no such impediment as Mike Hobart, however. Therefore, Wendell was keeping a sharp eye out for Lila’s return from the kitchen window. “Heah she comes,” he reported, when he spotted her black head of hair bobbing down the hill from Miss Hastings’ house.

He bustled Rebecca out the door and they reached the Staircase Tree not long after Lila had discovered Hobart’s surprise. “Whatcha think?” asked Wendell, grinning.

Lila examined the colorful
papier-mâché
chickens perched on the steps of the Staircase Tree with delight and wonder. “It’s so amazing! Where did Mike GET these crazy chickens?”

“From the kindergartners and first graders,” replied Rebecca. “They’re supposed to represent Matilda. The students made them after your visit. Aren’t they adorable?”

“Too much! And that sign? It’s perfect!”

Wendell nodded in satisfaction. “Ayuh, Mike’s got a good eye and he’s pretty shaap with them woodworking tools.”

“But WHY did he leave?” Lila wailed, once again glancing around for our hero.

“He didn’t want to take advantage of you, dear. But he said he would stop by tomorrow after work, if it was alright.”

“Oh, it’s more than alright!” she exclaimed. Lila once again beheld the Staircase Tree with perfect happiness and satisfaction. A notion came into her head as she looked at the tree, though, and she turned back to the old chicken farmer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Wendell...” 

“What’s thet?”

“What gave you the idea to carve steps in this old limb in the first place? It’s soo twisted!”

“Oh, ‘twarn’t me.  These steps been heah goin’ on 10 years now. Nobody knows who done it; and likely nobody ever will.”

 But for once, Wendell was wrong. There are
some
folks from Sovereign who know the imp responsible for – and the story behind – the Staircase Tree. But perhaps that is fodder for another tale …

Chapter 28

Brood Hens

Friday morning dawned with the ominous darkness and heavy muggy air of an impending thunderstorm. For the first time during that spring the natural light emanating from the tall windows in the hen pen wasn’t enough, and Lila switched on the electric lights. The chickens seemed over-excited and irascible, and when Lila opened the pint-sized door to the outdoor run more birds than usual remained in the coop than exited to the grassy pen. One of the New Hampshire reds, normally a good-natured breed of bird, even refused to abdicate her nest so that Lila could collect the eggs on which she was setting. The hen actually sprang half-way up from the nest box like a jack-in-the-box, nipping Lila’s hand painfully with her sharp beak.

“Ouch!” cried Lila, pulling back, momentarily startled.

The hen glared at her. She shifted her chestnut-red body and settled her tail-end firmly down over the nest of eggs. She ruffled her feathers protectively, sending up a dry spray of sweet-smelling sawdust.

Lila hesitated. The fierce look in the hen’s eye was off-putting, and she wasn’t sure she was up to what could be a nasty battle between bird and human. Lila recalled that the chicken had claws as well as a beak. She would no doubt win the battle, but at what cost to her hand, arm and maybe even eyes?

Fortunately, Wendell had ambled across the way for breakfast per usual, and Lila went up and collected the old chicken farmer from the kitchen. He carefully followed Lila back down the tight spiral staircase into the hen pen.

Wendell regarded the setting hen ruefully. “Ayuh, she’s gone broody,” he said. “Thet’s jest what I thought.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Lila, worriedly. “Is she sick?”

“No, she ain’t sick. She wants to raise up a brood of chicks. Some chicken breeds got thet natural motherin’ instinct bred out of ‘em by the scientists, but New Hampshires still make pretty good brood hens.”

“But is having a brood hen a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Wal, you know, she ain’t gonna raise up no chicks outta them eggs!” pronounced Wendell, grinning. “You ain’t got no roostah.”

“Right,” said Lila. She shifted slightly and the hen cocked its head in order to keep a wary eye on her. “Should I keep her? Will she still lay eggs?”

“Probably not. If Grammie Addie was heah thet hen would go into the soup pot. She’d grab thet chicken by the scruff of the neck – jest like a small dog – and haul her outta thet nest box so quick thet hen’d think she was nevah in theah.” He demonstrated a quick grab and thrust motion and the broody hen was momentarily distracted from Lila to eye Wendell suspiciously. “Course, you ain’t Grammie Addie,” he added, unnecessarily.

Lila vacillated. She knew she should cull the broody hen from her laying flock, however, she wasn’t ready to relegate her
first
hen to the soup pot!

The good-hearted Wendell, understanding the deliberation that was occurring in Lila’s breast, spoke up again. “Course, ‘twas me, I’d jest stick some fertile eggs under her to see what happens. You ain’t got nuthin’ to lose and you might git some baby chicks from it.”

Wendell’s words reinvigorated Lila. “Hey, that’s a pretty neat idea! Where can I get fertile eggs?”

“Wal, Trudy Gorse has got roostahs—she’s got them Araucana hens thet lay blue-green eggs, too. Some folks really like them Easter-egg-colored eggs.”

“Maybe I’ll go over and see Trudy this weekend,” Lila mused. She was eager to secure the fertile chicken eggs to begin the experiment with the broody hen, but she didn’t want to be absent from the homestead that afternoon since Mike Hobart had promised to stop by after work.

“Ayuh. Want me to change them eggs out for ya when you git ‘em? No sense bothering the old gal now.”

Rebecca poked her head down the top of the spiral staircase. “Lila—Maude is here for her eggs,” she called, interrupting them.

“Coming!” Lila called up. She turned back to Wendell. “I’ll change the eggs out when I get the new ones,” she continued, hastily. “Maybe the hen won’t be so feisty if she sees me GIVING eggs to her instead of TAKING eggs from her!”

He grinned. “Wal, jest let me know if you need me.”