Sam greeted my parents' chickens like old friends. My mom and dad have a much larger flock than we do (about ten to our two) and they have Plymouth Barred Rocks (like Nellie) and Rhode Island Reds, real Yankee birds. They live in a dilapidated shed that wasn't good for much except looking rather picturesque against the backdrop of the forest. Now it makes a charming chicken coop.
Every day my dad gathers between seven and ten eggs in his special egg basket, reserved just for this purpose. He hoses off the mungus (a word for the gunk on the floor of a chicken coop, invented by my mom and her brothers) for my mom. She likes the eggs to come in clean and shiny, and mungus-free.
My parents give away most of their eggs to my uncle or a family down the road with six kids who my parents play surrogate grandparents too. Sharing your bounty is a real part of the culture around here. The first day I was home a friend from church brought over some fresh strawberries and my uncle brought some flowers over for my mom. Several other friends stopped by just to bring the local gossip. The next day we took some fresh eggs down to my uncle. He was always bringing us goodies from his garden when we lived here; beets, rhubarb, acorn squash. It's one of the aspects of living here that I really loved. People are a bit reticent at first, not as outgoing as westerners. But they'll give you the shirt off their back, and the squash from their garden.
