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Among the brown eggs was one as white can be–with a secret message meant just for him.
Four-eyes. Blind Berry. The day I walked into my sixth-grade class with new glasses, those became my new nicknames. It was 1953, but it feels like it was yesterday.
“I’m never going back to school,” I told Mama when I got home after another day of teasing. “I can’t abide it.”
Mama sighed. She knew how much I hated my new glasses. But when I couldn’t see the board at school she took me to an optometrist. “This boy’s blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other,” he’d said when I completed my eye test. So it was four eyes for me.
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“People just need time to get used to them,” Mama assured me. “Pretty soon those glasses will be old hat and things will go back to normal.”
But I couldn’t wait that long. The thought of one more school day was too much. It was like all my friends had disappeared overnight just because I had gotten glasses!
At supper I sat quietly throughout the meal. With seven of us kids at the table, Mama didn’t even notice. But afterward she glanced around at each of us in turn and we could tell she was looking for someone to put at the end of her finger. Nobody wanted to be picked.
Sure enough the fickle finger of fate turned directly on me. “Douglas,” Mama said, pointing, “you get yourself down to the henhouse and gather them eggs.”
My brothers snickered. Gathering eggs was girl’s work. First glasses, now this! But there was no disobeying Mama. I dragged myself to the door. “Make sure you take the basket,” Mama said. “I don’t want to catch you carrying those eggs in your pockets!”
I had filled my pockets with eggs in the past. How was I to know so many of them had thin shells and would break? I had no regrets. Even a pocketful of egg yolk was more dignified than a basket.
I lifted the basket off the shelf, hung it on my arm and stepped outside–where my brother Buddy Earl was waiting to witness my humiliation. “Hey, Little Red Riding Hood!” he said, walking with me toward the henhouse. “You want a nice ribbon to tie on the handle of your basket?”
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“You want to go back in the house with a knot on your head and your hand over it?” I hissed, raising a fist.
Buddy Earl jumped up on the back porch and darted to the door, but not without one more parting shot. “Don’t let the big, bad wolf take your little egg basket away!”
I stomped off, following the old path past the garden, the basket swinging in rhythm with my steps. I would never admit it to my brothers, but I liked gathering eggs.
I had a quick swing on the barn gate, the rusty hinges squeaking, and then walked the last steps to the henhouse. I was careful where I stepped–I didn’t want to bring anything back to the house but eggs.
The sweet, elusive fragrance of musty hay and straw touched my nose as I pulled the door open and heard soft clucking sounds and the rustling of feathers and wings.
In the semidarkness I made my way to where the row of nests hung on the wall. I strolled along the row, scooping up the mocha-brown eggs, when something caught my eye. Something white.
There, in the last nest, shining like a beacon in the night, was a pure white egg among the brown. How can this be? I thought as I picked it up. All our chickens were Rhode Island Reds and Dominickers. They sure didn’t lay white eggs.
I held the egg up to get a better look. Yep, it was white as a bleached sheet. I could have spotted it even without my glasses. I held it out to the chickens.
“Okay, ladies , which one of you slipped this in on me? All right, don’t everybody step forward at once.”