Egg Farm Lessons: from Tough to Transparent

My family relied on me to do my part. I had to grin and bear it. Or, at least, bear it.

With three eggs in my left hand and three in my right, I quickly, but carefully, placed them into the first row of the cardboard flat that I balanced between the edge of the wooden nest and the front of my thighs. I filled up the remaining rows with two dozen more eggs, shifted an empty flat from the bottom of my stack to the top, and began again.

Chickens squawked around my feet and peeked over the nest divider, ever curious about what I was doing with their eggs, while I sang along with the radio to the words of one of my favorite new John Denver songs. 

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy... 

My siblings and cousins were nearby, working to clear the eggs out of other nests. When we emptied a nest, we closed the lid, placed the eggs we had gathered on the rolling cart that hung on a track from the ceiling, opened another nest, and started the process all over.

Because there were three full chicken coops on the farm, I spent my Saturdays gathering eggs. While my friends laughed about Saturday morning cartoons at school on Monday, I grumbled about the injustices of being a farmer’s daughter. And aside from two heavenly weeks at the lake on our annual vacation, summer meant daily chores for my siblings, my cousins, and me.

Picking up eggs, placing them in the flat, and puzzling over why sunshine in John Denver’s eyes made him cry, I became aware of my toughness. The smell of chicken manure wafting through the wooden slats beneath my feet no longer grossed me out. I was in junior high now, and although I still hated doing chores, I was no longer a crybaby when Mom or Dad forced me out of bed in the morning to “get to work!” My family relied on me to do my part.

I had to grin and bear it. Or, at least, bear it.

I opened the lid of another nest and immediately spotted one of the rare joys of gathering eggs–one thing that did make me grin. It was a soft-shelled egg. Given that we had 40,000 hens laying about 300 eggs a year, these anomalies showed up every once in a while. This soft-shelled egg, with its translucent membrane, stood out in yellowish orange next to the hard-shelled white eggs that surrounded it. 

I gently picked it up and held it in my hand. The velvety texture was moveable and squishy against my palm. I rolled it around and let it flop back and forth from my left hand to my right and back again. Although I had to be careful not to linger too long–my older siblings or cousins would surely get on my case–I couldn’t help pausing for a few moments to admire this marvel. 

Like a mini water balloon, it had survived the hen’s expulsion, the sharp talons of the chickens nearby, the chicken-wire floor of the nest, and the crowding by all of those hard-shelled eggs around it.

Through the membrane, I could see a hint of the yellow yolk surrounded by the white. I could feel its gelatinous nature. It was not tough, but fragile. This strange little egg was brave enough to reveal what was going on inside. And though it looked much different on the outside than the other eggs, its insides were the same. 

The era and the family I grew up in had taught me hard shells were best. If you’re happy, don’t go wild. If you’re sad, keep it in. Tears are for sissies and babies. 

My mom tried earnestly to model the hard shell for her children. But even a hard shell can be cracked. Some of my best memories are the times my sisters and I made her laugh so hard (in public, no less!) that she had to wipe the happy tears from her eyes. 

I’ll also never forget the one time I saw her break down and cry from sadness. It was the day she found out her mother’s cancer had spread and there was no more fighting that battle. My grandmother died soon after, at age 58. No wonder Mom cried.

I’m in my 60s now and still learning to be less of a hard-shelled egg and more like that soft-shelled marvel–vulnerable, transparent, and honest about my feelings. I’m not afraid to cry when sadness overtakes me, act goofy with my grandson, or be crazy with my kids. I’m still learning how to express anger with a steady voice and to share the worries that keep me awake at night.

Does that make me more fragile? Perhaps. But either shell, hard or soft, will break when pressed.

Freely expressing my deepest emotions can feel as perilous as being a soft-shelled egg surrounded by chicken talons. But showing my feelings–through uproarious laughter, justifiable anger, paralyzing anxiety, or sorrowful tears–simply invites others in. It beckons them to hold me gently, to look for the beauty that exists beyond my weaknesses, and to love me as I am.

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