One of the farm jobs I disliked was gathering eggs. I was a very short child and had to stand on my tip toes to reach some of the chicken nests to gather the eggs. I could not move fast enough to avoid the hens pecking at my hands because I could not see high enough past their nest. I would just cry. This would prompt daddy to gather the eggs for me and I would cup the eggs in my shirt so that I could carefully carry breakfast to grandma's kitchen just across the street from the barnyard.
The first time I took the eggs to grandma's house for breakfast, no one was really paying any attention to me standing next to grandma's big kitchen table after we made it from the barn. The eggs were secure in my shirt. Not one egg cracked during my journey. I do not know where the adults were after getting to grandma's kitchen. Suffice it to say that they were not paying too close attention to my actions.
Where ever the adults were at the time. I remember taking each egg carefully out of my cupped shirt and putting them one by one on grandma's kitchen table. I then watched, fascinated, as the eggs bobbled across the table and then fell off onto the kitchen floor. To this day I remember how fascinating this whole thing was. The eggs wobbled back and forth and picked up speed as they reach the edge of the table. It was amazing to me how the eggs broke open and splashed when they hit the floor. Grandma noticed what I was doing as the last egg rolled off the table. That was the day we had an eggless breakfast but a lot of laughter over the whole thing. I do not recall gathering eggs after that day.
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