Sweet Return by Anna Jeffrey

feel to own acres and acres of land.
    On Sundays Joanna did chores such as making sure the feeders and waterers worked properly, and repairing the fence, roosts and nests. Since becoming an egg farmer, she had become adept with a hammer and saw and tools in general. She couldn’t complain about that. Who knew when those skills would come in handy somewhere besides the chicken yard? Since her dad’s passing, she hadn’t always been able to find some man to do those kinds of chores.
    Often, when she arrived at the Parker ranch on Sunday mornings, she found Clova, who was a great cook, starting a big Sunday dinner. Much of the time Clova was the only one around to eat it, but the habit was so ingrained in her from years of cooking for ranch hands that she continued to do it. Joanna was often the beneficiary of the tradition and of Clova’s hospitality, and she looked forward to a delicious meal.
    Joanna cooked poorly. Since her mother had never spent much time in the kitchen, Joanna and her sister hadn’t learned to be cooks in their youth like most young rural women. Thus, Joanna particularly enjoyed the aromas and ambience of Clova’s country kitchen. They represented a hominess missing from her life since the passing of her grandparents years back.
    This morning, she caught Clova just leaving for the hospital in Lubbock. She was dressed in black Rockies and her new black lace-up Ropers. She had on a red long-sleeve snap-button shirt and heavy turquoise bracelets on each arm. Her long thick hair was held at the crown with a turquoise-inlaid barrette. She looked prettier than Joanna had seen her look in a long time.
    After a good-bye, Joanna pulled on her work gloves and proceeded to gather the eggs, with Dulce clucking and scratching and pecking behind her. She gathered eight dozen eggs, finding only two cracked. This unusually large number pleased her immensely since the hens laid fewer eggs in the fall. If she could collect the same number in the evening’s gathering, that would mean she would have sixteen dozen eggs for the day. Not a record, but more than she had expected.
    On the way back to the egg-processing room, she picked up Dulce and carried her along, talking and making clucking noises at her. Dulce was one of the few hens that would allow herself to be picked up and carried without squawking and making a racket. An Ameraucauna, she wasn’t as hysterical by nature as some of the Leghorns were. The white Leghorns might be the best layers, but they had been known to start a riot in the chicken yard.
    Leaving the door open, she put the hen on the ground outside to peck for bugs and plants while she worked with the new eggs. Then she stepped into clean coveralls and set about washing the eggs. All alone, working at her chores, she experienced a taste of why Clova was so lonely. Except for the occasional low of a cow, the call of a bird or the noise she made herself, Joanna heard not a sound.
    To keep her company, she switched on the old radio that stayed on a shelf above the sink. As she sang along with a Carrie Underwood number, she heard Dulce’s clarion call just outside the door. Joanna looked out and saw the hen hopping to the ground from a large clay pot that was filled with a dead plant. Behind her, in the center of the plant, lay a fresh blue egg.
    Joanna laughed. “Dulce, you take the cake. You are such a good hen.”
    Dulce continued to cluck and strut proudly.
    Once the eggs had been washed and laid out to dry, she set about cleaning inside her room. Her operation wasn’t subject to inspection by the USDA, but that didn’t mean she gave cleanliness and sanitation short shrift.
    By the time she finished cleaning, the washed eggs had dried. She packed them into tan cardboard cartons decorated with her logo, WALSH’S NATURALS, FARM-FRESH FREE-RANGE EGGS , and put them away in the refrigerator. As she did this, her thoughts drifted to Clova’s oldest son again. Because he hadn’t called her home