Egg Plant

 I’m on a bit of a ‘Daddy’ kick right now...

It was supposed to be:

A) Easy.

B) Efficient.

C) Convenient.

It was:

D) None of the above.

Maybe you’d like to hear about it . . .

When he was eight years old, my Dad’s daily chore was the gathering of the eggs.

The household used many.

And the extras were sold.

It was an important job for a small boy and Dad took it seriously.

Well, most of the time.

One Christmas, after church services, the family was invited over to Dad’s Aunt’s house for Christmas dinner.

The food was plentiful.

The cousins, ditto.

Dad was in small boy heaven, playing.

Five o’clock rolled around. Egg gathering time.

And no, chickens don’t get the Sabbath off . . .

“Mark,” his mother said. “Time to go home and gather the eggs.”

Dad wheedled a bit, knowing that his chances of getting out of the chore were slim to nil. Finally, the two of them agreed that, if he was quick, he could gather the eggs and return for a bit more play time.

Happily, Dad put on his coat and headed out into the frosty air.

Now, I should explain here that his mother was an accomplished seamstress.

And yes, this will be relevant . . .

She had taken one of Dad’s Dad’s old suits and made it smaller for her youngest son. It fit perfectly.

All that remained the original size of the original suit were the pockets.

But Dad never complained. More room to hide/store things.

It was this suit Dad was wearing as he charged out the door.

I should also explain that the chicken coop was nestled snugly half-way between his Aunt’s house and his home.

What could be more efficient that to gather the eggs on his way to his house.

Only one problem needed to be addressed. He had nothing to carry the eggs in.

Then, with small-boy ingenuity, the solution popped into his head.

He had oversized pockets! And pants pockets for any extras.

Genius!

Dad proceeded to stuff the fresh, warm eggs into every available space. By the time he had finished, he had 37 of the little moneymakers somewhere about his person.

Carefully, he waddled home, excited at the prospect of delivering his cargo and returning to his play.

He opened the kitchen door.

The warm air rolled out to envelop him as he stepped forward onto the linoleum.

Disaster rolled out with it.

Frosty shoes refused to grip the shining clean and very warm floor.

Both feet shot out from under him.

There was nowhere to go but down.

Picture it if you will.

37 eggs.

Stuffed into various compartments.

None of which were intended for egg transport.

One egg survived.

One.

Yeah, his mother was fairly disgusted as well.

Let’s just say he never made it back to play with cousins that night.