Fresh Round Eggs

grew up on Baremeadow Street. It sounds exactly the way it was. Mostly open, green meadow, cat-o-nine-tails, a pond and wild flowers lined the sides of the old country road that lead to the Nimo's farm at the end. Beyond the meadow were the woods. They were MY woods. I knew every pathway in those woods for miles. I loved just walking through them, absorbing the atmosphere. There was always an adventure to be found too. It was a truly magical place thickset with trees to climb, wild boysenberries fat and juicy, the scent of rich soil and pine trees, the sound of the small brook within, and birds' songs echoing throughout. It was my secret place. When I wanted to be alone and think, I would walk through the woods. I felt safe there. Whenever I hear the word "home", I think of Baremeadow Street, the woods and the farm.

In the spring and summertime, the meadow buzzed with the sound of insects during the day, and birds from the woods dashed about, swooping and diving for a snack. Through my bedroom window at night, the meadow's crickets and frogs sang me to sleep. If I couldn't sleep, I would sneak outside and go next door to run barefoot in my nightgown, in Mr. Anderson's moonlit apple orchard. If Heaven has any scent at all, I'm sure it's apple blossom.

Nimo's Farm was a ways down from my house. Ma would send me down to the farm to get fresh milk and eggs on Sunday mornings. I didn't mind the walk at all. I would feed and pet the cows on my way down. I would walk up to the barbed wire fence and hold out some grass, and they would walk right up to me and let me pet the soft spot just above their noses. Their breath smelled sweet because of the grass they constantly munched on. When I spent enough time petting the cows, I would walk up the little cobblestone pathway to Mr. Nimo's door and just walk in. He always expected me on Sunday morning. Sometimes, Mr. Nimo would let me help collect the eggs to bring home. Fresh eggs taste so much better than store-bought, or maybe they were better because I worked for them. I learned that chickens don't like to have their eggs taken away. We had to wear leather gloves because they peck at your hands if you're not fast enough. I broke more than I took home most of the time. I also learned that not all chicken eggs are created perfectly egg-shaped like in the store. I found some perfectly round ones and a really weird, oblong one. I liked to take those home to make Ma laugh.

One Sunday, Mr. Nimo said he had a prize for me for helping him collect eggs. The way he said "prize", I just knew it was going to be something special! He told me to be very quiet, and follow him to the hay loft. We quitely climbed up the creaky wooden steps to the loft. Dust puffed out beneath our feet. The hay loft was a huge space, filled with sweet smelling hay and dust rising like a mist. The orange sun flooding through the open shutters made everything look even more golden.

Mr. Nimo lead me to a round pile of hay. On the other side were seven, playful, eight week old kittens. He said I could choose any one I would like to bring home. I was elated! It took me a very long time to decide which one to take. Eventually, I chose a little calico female. My family named her "Maggie". She grew to be the biggest cat I have ever seen. She was my pet and friend for eleven years. We went through alot together, Maggie and I. She was always there for me, from my first slumber party to my first broken heart.

When my parents decided to move from Baremeadow Street, I was devistated. I was angry for the first six months in our new house. I hated it, until I met my boyfriend (my fiance now, nine years later). Now I have my own home with him which we are busy decorating and furnishing.

I visited Baremeadow Street a few weeks ago. The meadow is filled with duplexes, and Nimo's farm is now a horse bording stable. The woods are gone, along with my childhood. I drove away craving fresh, round eggs. I don't know why. I've forgotten how they taste.

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