Russian Poulette

It’s all fine and good to say we let our chickens run free because we want them to have a happy life…and they do.  But someone forgot to think about the treacherousness, the lying-in-wait nastiness, the absolute noxiousness of the forgotten egg. 

We bought six egg layers this summer.  Little red hens. So our grandsons would have something to do when they came out to the farm.  When I asked the farmer, “Where are you housing these chickens”, he said, “I’ll just let them run free and the kids can hunt for the eggs”.  Oh, so cute, I thought.  That will be fun.  And it was.  The kids came out on the weekend, trundled off to the barn and with the farmer’s help found at least four separate hiding places where these secretive little hens had cloistered at least four to six eggs.  As we were about to leave the barn, our son noticed a hidden cache of eggs behind an old piece of wood.  Twelve, thirteen eggs were piled amidst straw and a few raggedy feathers.  Ohhh.  I wonder how long these have been here?  And therein lies the farmer’s dilemma.  Actually, the farmer’s wife’s dilemma.  Cause you gotta know the farmer won’t be crackin’ these babies anytime soon.

The farmer said, “They’ll be fine”.   And I said, “Uhuh” and rolled my eyes while the grandsons gloried in the mother lodeness of their discovery.  I do a lot of eye rolling on the farm. 

Well, there they are, all washed up nicely and looking quite innocent.  I’ve placed them in a big bowl, separate from the um…..fresh eggs and in the fridge they go.  Now comes the dangerous part.  When I need an egg, I will break each one in a saucer – outside -  while pinching my nostrils with one hand.  It will be quite the maneuver, going right along with the eye rolling feat.  No way of knowing until that egg hits the dish, if it’s fresh or, heaven forbid, rotten to the yolk!  And if you’ve never smelled a rotten egg, I cannot even begin to tell you the absolute putrid smell that will envelop you and everything in the surrounding area for at least two, maybe three kilometers wide.

Here’s the thing.  If only those food lab people had invented a chicken who laid “best before” eggs.  Wouldn’t that be phenomenal?  Every little brown egg would be date stamped or bar coded and we’d know exactly which ones to toss in the manure pile.  But no, oh no, farmer’s wives have to have our challenges, our stressors, just like everyone else.  So, tomorrow morning, picture me outside on the deck, egg in one hand, nostrils pinched with the other.  Playing Russian poulette.  And we’ll see how my day goes on from there.

What's In A Name

We begin our life with a name that was carefully and lovingly chosen by our parents to identify us as their child, a signature that will stay with us forever unless we choose to change it, inscribed on our birth certificate and farther down life’s road, in finality, on our death certificate.  Just think of all life’s in-between times when our name is spoken, written, copied and notarized.

My name was delivered to my mom via Canada Post (some might think Pony Express) in a hand written letter from her sister, Patsy who lived in British Columbia, halfway across Canada from our little northern Ontario outpost.  She had sent mom a poem that she had clipped from a newspaper, or some such periodical of the day.  And under the poem, she wrote “Barbara Rose”.  As it turns out, mom had already picked out a fine name for me.  I came very, very close to being named Veronica.  I am forever indebted to Aunt Patsy and her timely letter.  Not that I was overly fond of Barbara, but I’ve come to appreciate it over the years.  Mom added a third name “Shea” to my moniker, in honour of my dad’s mother, Annie O’Shea.  Most people call me Barb and I’m fine with that. A very few have called me Barbie on occasion and always with great affection, I know.  Mom was the only person who always called me Barbara and under certain circumstances when she wanted to press home a point, I sat up and took notice when she called me  “Barbara Rose”.

 When I asked my grown children if they liked their own names, all three said they did.  Happily for me and them, I had chosen well. I’m a serious word person.  I remember writing their names over and over again, first, middle and last.  It had to look right on paper and sound right when spoken.  Even today, it pleases me to hear their names spoken, a permanent, enduring and endearing connection from me to them.

Choosing a name for a child is serious business today.  There are books – huge books with zillions of names all laid out alphabetically.  And there’s the internet of course, and a library full of novels – so many names to choose from. Rock stars, and television personalities are renowned for naming their offspring with odd and obscure names.   Do you go back through your family history, looking for a favourable character’s name or do you look in the birth announcements in the newspaper for the ten most popular names of this era?  And then when you find one that you like, do you modify the spelling so that (you think) it will be different and unlike any other until your little one attends daycare and there are five other kids with the same name?  Poor teachers, is all I can say. 

Although first names are undoubtedly very important, I think second and third names are significant as well.  I would imagine that John Smith is very dependent on his middle initial and if he doesn’t have one, heaven help him, unless he’s a fugitive of the law and then that would work for him.  And what about the unfortunate child whose initials spell M.U.D. or A.R.S or some such laughable acronym  -  what were their parents thinking?

Some individuals can’t wait to change their name, either through marriage or legally, for as many different reasons as there are names in that big baby book. Back in my day, it was common for ladies to take their husband’s name as their own. Not only did they take his surname, they were often identified by his first name as well, e.g. “Mrs. George Brown.” Talk about becoming invisible! Some ladies accumulate three or more surnames over the course of their lifetime, depending on number of marriages - Liz Taylor comes to mind.  What a pain that must have been - all those documents and forms to fill out - but she likely had a personal assistant to do the tedious work.   Although this practice continues today, an ever growing number of modern ladies retain their individuality and their birth names by choice - saves a lot of form filling.

While researching family history, I have come across some pretty funny names that my ancestors held.  And if there are a lot of similar names in kindergarten today, not much has changed over the centuries because Rose de Lima, Joseph and Mary Louise  ran rampant (the names, that is), in my purely French Canadian family and if it weren’t for those all important middle initials, I would be spinning in circles trying to trace some of these folks.  Comically, similar names show up on both sides of my parent’s lineage which has caused me some confusion at times.  Who knows, I may at some point discover that my parents were related way back in history and that wouldn’t be the first time this was revealed in someone’s past.

Since my interest in family history began, I have found myself traversing cemeteries far and wide, and if there’s one thing I know for sure, it is the importance of placing a loved one’s full name on their headstone - not just for people like me who are doing research, although it is immensely helpful -  but because it is the final stamp that we place on this earth, our last word, so to speak.  So whatever name you were born with, whether it is one you like or not, honour it and the parents who chose it - for they gave it to you with great love.  Thank You, Aunt Patsy.

Barbara Rose Shea Forget