Supper was good. I don’t remember what we ate, but my belly is not hungry anymore. Mom is clearing the table. No one is talking; we don't talk.
Mom mentions, “There should have been more eggs this morning.”
Eggs are gathered mid to late morning, after the hens have picked at the scratch for a couple hours and taken turns in the nest boxes.
Eggs matter. Mom depends on eggs to help feed her six children and two hired men, so a shortage will be dealt with - immediately. I gathered them today, didn’t drop any, but I still feel heavy even though Mom does not seem to be mad at any of us. This must be critter damage, and since the raccoon population this season is limited to our two pets, and skunks are not having babies yet, that leaves the obvious – rats. Without discussion, we all know the next step.
It's fully dark outside. We equip ourselves with two wooden baseball bats and a couple digging spades and file out the door. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, clench my jaw, and join the line of siblings, somewhere near the middle so as not to be noticed.
“Let's go.” Brother Paul is younger than me by eighteen months but leads the charge – always.
“Get that baseball bat, Mike. You can wash it afterwards if it gets any blood on it. Carol, you stay on this side of the door to the little chicks’ house. Those rats will be trying to get back to their den so don't let ‘em by you. John, you start at the other end and make a lot of noise. Hit as many rats as you can and don't hit any chickens! ”
“Noise. Goodie. Make noise, I can do that.” Johnny is on board.
The boys and I silently creep to our stations; the sound of dry crunching straw under our feet. I hate this dusty dirty job. Baby sister, Kelly, is too little for this task; older sister,Teena, is too important.I go with the boys.
Paul knows when we are in place and flips the switch for the single hanging bulb.
“Aaaarrrgghh!!!!”
Mike accidently smacks the dust-laden hog fence with his bat. The chickens that were perched there sleeping are now squawking, almost screaming; they’re scared of these kids who usually rock them to sleep, now armed with bats .
The rats run up the fence posts, up the walls, and up my legs. If I don't take careful aim, I'll break a window. A chicken flies up and breaks the light bulb. Things are getting too wild; the job is called off.
We gather and count dead rats in the bucket.
Mom will be happy.
Mom mentions, “There should have been more eggs this morning.”
Eggs are gathered mid to late morning, after the hens have picked at the scratch for a couple hours and taken turns in the nest boxes.
Eggs matter. Mom depends on eggs to help feed her six children and two hired men, so a shortage will be dealt with - immediately. I gathered them today, didn’t drop any, but I still feel heavy even though Mom does not seem to be mad at any of us. This must be critter damage, and since the raccoon population this season is limited to our two pets, and skunks are not having babies yet, that leaves the obvious – rats. Without discussion, we all know the next step.
It's fully dark outside. We equip ourselves with two wooden baseball bats and a couple digging spades and file out the door. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, clench my jaw, and join the line of siblings, somewhere near the middle so as not to be noticed.
“Let's go.” Brother Paul is younger than me by eighteen months but leads the charge – always.
“Get that baseball bat, Mike. You can wash it afterwards if it gets any blood on it. Carol, you stay on this side of the door to the little chicks’ house. Those rats will be trying to get back to their den so don't let ‘em by you. John, you start at the other end and make a lot of noise. Hit as many rats as you can and don't hit any chickens! ”
“Noise. Goodie. Make noise, I can do that.” Johnny is on board.
The boys and I silently creep to our stations; the sound of dry crunching straw under our feet. I hate this dusty dirty job. Baby sister, Kelly, is too little for this task; older sister,Teena, is too important.I go with the boys.
Paul knows when we are in place and flips the switch for the single hanging bulb.
“Aaaarrrgghh!!!!”
Mike accidently smacks the dust-laden hog fence with his bat. The chickens that were perched there sleeping are now squawking, almost screaming; they’re scared of these kids who usually rock them to sleep, now armed with bats .
The rats run up the fence posts, up the walls, and up my legs. If I don't take careful aim, I'll break a window. A chicken flies up and breaks the light bulb. Things are getting too wild; the job is called off.
We gather and count dead rats in the bucket.
Mom will be happy.
͠
Once in a while, I’ll just have to share one of these memories. They’ll resonate with some readers.
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