Hens and Chickens Page 8

  Wendell shook his head, sadly. “Not nowadays,” he said. “One realtor I talked to told me to rip the whole thing down and jest sell the land. Course, I couldn’t do thet.”

  “No, no, of course not,” sympathized Rebecca. “But … forty thousand dollars? Are you sure? Of course, I don’t know what Lila will think; I don’t even know where she’s disappeared to …” Rebecca broke off. She put her hand to her flushed cheek in order to cool it. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?” she asked, embarrassed.

  “Yep,” said Wendell. “But you go ahead and ramble. I ain’t got no place to go today and nuthin’ to do when I git there.”

  Rebecca regarded him with dawning wonderment. “Me either,” she replied, almost giggling. She sank back into the padded kitchen chair in pleasurable relief. “In fact, I think I will have another cookie!”

  Wendell Russell slid the cookie bag closer to her elbow. “Take two—they’re cheap,” he said, flashing his gold-toothed grin.

  Rebecca was reaching for the cookies when Lila burst back into the room. “Look what I found!” the younger woman exclaimed.

  Chapter 9

  The Discoveries

  Lila carried into the kitchen a long gown of blue satin as carefully as though it was a sick child. “Look at this!” she repeated, to Rebecca and Wendell Russell. “I found it hanging in an upstairs closet—in a zipper dress bag. Isn’t it awesome? There are four or five of ‘em altogether. They’re just like those dresses you were telling me about, Becca – Gunne Sax! I brought this one down to show you. I hope you don’t mind,” she added, turning anxiously to Wendell.

  “I don’t mind,” he replied. “They was probably my great-grandmother’s. She was quite a looker and was pretty proud of the way she got herself up, according to Grammie Addie, anyway. She was a skinny little thing, kinda like you,” he said, referring to Lila. “I never knew her, but I’ve seen pictures.”

  Lila lay the silky, midnight-blue gown onto the kitchen table and slowly unfolded it. The smell of cedar pervaded the air. Despite the fact that the dress had been stored away for decades, and that there was only natural light in the kitchen, the blue satin shimmered gloriously on the table like a pool of water. The ankle-length gown was trimmed with a dainty burgundy ribbon, so delicate it could have been cut from the same spool as the fine bookmarker ribbon found in expensive Bibles. The bodice was tight-fitting, and trimmed with several yards of the burgundy ribbon in an exquisitely-designed pattern.

  “It’s gorgeous,” gushed Rebecca, reverently examining the elaborately trimmed sleeve lying on the table next to her. “This dress is all hand-made, and the stitching is beautiful—the best I’ve ever seen, personally!”

  “She sews,” Lila said to Wendell, by way of an explanation.

  “Ayuh,” he replied. His bright blue eyes flashed in unconcealed admiration.

  “Yes, but my handiwork isn’t this good,” said Rebecca, quickly. “This dress came from a real, old-fashioned honest to goodness seamstress. You don’t see this kind of work anymore unless you can afford haute couture. It used to be that a good seamstress was an integral part of city or village life, but those days ended, Oh! a hundred years ago when the assembly line and mass production came into being. Now, we’re so overwhelmed with cheap clothing that has been cobbled together in China or Mexico or Thailand – or maybe all three countries at once – that we don’t even know what quality is anymore! Well, this, this is an example of how great our country used to be—back when we did our own work for our own people!”

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this before, Becca,” said Lila, somewhat taken aback.

  “I’ve never had occasion to!” cried Rebecca. “It’s a shame that the days of quality craftsmanship in this country are over, whether it’s sewing a dress or building a set of table and chairs.”

  “Wal, there’s an Amish fellow down to Unity who builds pretty good furniture,” interjected Wendell. “He makes coffins, too. I was thinkin’ of goin’ down and talkin’ to him about makin’ up a wooden casket for myself; jest in case. Maybe you’d like to go with me when I go?”

  “I’d love to!” said Rebecca. “Well, if we’re around, that is. I’d love to see his furniture.”

  “And Mike Hobart is a carpenter, too,” added Lila. “I don’t know how good he is, but he built his own post and beam cabin.”

  “Ayuh, he’s a pretty shaap fellow,” agreed Wendell.

  Rebecca offered a small, embarrassed laugh. “I guess I’d better get down off my high horse then,” she said. “It’s just always been a pet peeve of mine that nobody seems to care about the quality of anything, anymore. All people seem to care about is price! Do you know, they don’t even teach home economics in the schools these days?”

  “Um, what’s that?” said Lila, reaching for a cookie from the bag that had mysteriously moved back in front of Wendell. She held her hand under her mouth as she crunched the cookie to prevent the crumbs from dropping on the gown.

  “See what I mean!” said Rebecca. “Home Ec was my major in high school and college, and now – now not one person under the age of 40 knows what I’m talking about!”

  “Isn’t it like, how to bake a potato and do laundry and that kind of stuff?” mumbled Lila, mouth half-full.

  “How to sew, budget, cook, plan, organize, keep house,” listed Rebecca, earnestly; “and many, many wonderful skills that are much more useful throughout our lives than how to create an avatar on Twitter or how to download an app for our cellphones or how to …” she broke off, suddenly. “I’m preaching, aren’t I? I’m sorry; I’m not sure what’s going on with me this morning! I feel like someone let the genie out of the bottle!”

  “Wal, put the cap back on the bottle, quick!” said Wendell, with an unusual burst of energy. Surprised, Lila stared at the old chicken farmer. “I kinda like the genie being out,” he added, lamely.

  Lila’s eyes narrowed as she turned to examine her friend’s flushed face. “You know, so do I!”

  The next discovery of the morning occurred when Wendell Russell gave Lila and Rebecca a tour of the old “hen pen,” the family nick-name for Grammie Addie’s egg operation, which was an attached wigwam-looking, two-story shed that housed the 400 laying hens. The hen pen also included a separate egg sorting station, situated just outside the caged area on the ground floor, accessed by an unusual spiral steel-and-wood staircase. There was also the cold storage room, a 10X10 space hollowed out of the damp musty earth that kept the boxes of eggs naturally cool during the hot Maine summers. The coop and nest boxes were located on the ground floor of the hen pen, and on the upper floor wooden grain and sawdust bins were strategically situated so that measured amounts of sawdust and grain could be easily dropped to the hens below. In addition, the building included a unique Pappy-designed ventilation system that automatically – by way of natural convection – replaced the ammonia-laden air of the chicken coop with fresh cool air so that, according to Wendell, “Ain’t nobody that evah see the hen pen could believe there was 400 laying hens inside!”

  The tour of the hen pen consumed nearly an hour, and Wendell was a thoroughly honest guide. “She’s got quite a few windows broke,” he admitted, when the three were once again ensconced at the kitchen table. “And most of them nest boxes will likely need to be rebuilt, too. You’ll need to upgrade the electrical service—she’s only 60-amp and ain’t up to code. But altogether the hen pen ain’t ready to be tore down, yet.”

  “How much do you think it will cost to fix everything?” asked Rebecca.

  “Wal, you know …” Wendell began.

  “Don’t worry, Becca,” said Lila, impetuously. “Mike Hobart has offered to help us.”

  Wendell straightened up in his chair. “Course, I’d like to help, too. I kin do the electrical work; ‘twas what I done in the Navy. Shouldn’t cost much for electrical supplies—a thousand or two at most,” he said, reassuringly to Rebecca.

  “We’ll pay you,” Lila offered. “I’m going to pay
Mike, too.”

  “Wal, you know, what you do with Mike is between you ‘n him. But I don’t really need any money,” the old chicken farmer drawled.

  “But we couldn’t let you help us without paying you!” said Rebecca.

  “Wal, you know, I might be coaxed into a suppah or two now ‘n agin,” he said. He flashed a shiny grin.

  “Oh, my! That’s not very much,” said Rebecca.

  “Wal, maybe you could also try to bake me some of Euna’s hot water gingerbread. Euna Crockett—she was my grandmother’s best friend, lived over on the North Troy Road near where Ralph Gilpin’s got his house. She made the best hot water gingerbread I ever et!”

  “I’d love to try and bake Euna’s gingerbread,” said Rebecca, enthusiastically. “Do you know where I could get the recipe?”

  “Ayuh,” replied Wendell. He rose from the table, opened a white cupboard to the left of the gas range, and pulled out a dirty tan book stuffed fat with newspaper clippings, recipe cards and various other papers. “This is Grammie Addie’s cookbook; her Bible, she used to call it. She’s got a copy of ‘Euna’s Hot Water Gingerbread’ in heah.”

  Wendell handed the cookbook to Rebecca, who took it with sparkling blue eyes and eager anticipation. Rebecca gingerly opened the fragile cover and turned to the title page. “Oh, it’s the 1914 edition of The Boston Cooking School Cookbook by Fannie Farmer!” she said. “This is very collectible!”

  “How do you know THAT?” asked Lila.

  “This is the last version of this very famous cookbook that Fannie Merritt Farmer edited herself,” Rebecca explained, seriously. “Fannie died in 1915, and after her death members of her family edited her cookbook. In 1959, Fannie’s niece, Wilma Perkins, took over the so-called editing, but unfortunately it was almost a re-writing at that point.” Rebecca gave a little sniff. “Some people say that Fannie wouldn’t even recognize her own cookbook after her niece got done with it!”

  “You are REALLY into this stuff,” said Lila, eyes open wide with wonder.

  “I told you, I majored in home economics,” Rebecca said. She turned to Wendell. “This cookbook is worth at least $100. In fact, I’ll give you $100 for it right now!”

  “Wal, you know, I couldn’t sell it; course, ‘twas Grammie Addie’s.”

  Rebecca looked crestfallen. “Of course, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Wal, maybe we could work out some kind of temporary loan,” suggested Wendell.

  Rebecca brightened. “That would be lovely!” She slowly and carefully leafed through the yellowed pages of the cookbook “Look at these wonderful, inspirational newspaper clippings that she collected!”

  “Wal, you know, Grammie Addie liked down-home, cheerful kinds of things,” Wendell explained. “The newspapers was full of it in those days; not like nowadays when all there is in the paper and on T.V. is BAD news and sex,” he added. “Grammie used to go around sort of half singin’ stuff. Like this,” he continued, breaking into a full-throated, deep baritone:

  ‘When all the world is dark and gray, keep on hoping!

  When bad things sometimes come your way, no sense moping!’

  … I forget all the words exactly,” he continued, in his normal voice; “but ‘twas something like thet.”

  Lila was so startled by his singing that she stared blankly at Wendell like a child woken up from a deep slumber.

  “Your grandmother sounds like a lovely woman!” Rebecca interjected, quickly. “I never knew either one of my grandmothers. I’m very envious.”

  “Omigod, I just had a GREAT idea!” cried Lila. “We should use Grammie Addie in the marketing of our egg business! We could be The Egg Ladies of Sovereign, Maine – and she could be our avatar!” She turned to Wendell excitedly. “Do you mind? Do you have a picture of your grandmother that we could use?”

  Wendell didn’t have the least notion what an ‘avatar’ was, but he liked Lila’s enthusiasm. “I don’t know why I should mind. So long’s the photograph is one of Grammie Addie in her good dress; course, she’d probably want thet. In fact, I think I got a black ‘n white of her ‘n Euna Crockett in the bedroom.”

  “Both of them together? That would be perfect!”

  “Thet’s what I thought. Lemme git it.” Wendell hauled himself up out of the chair and exited the kitchen to retrieve the old photograph.

  Lila looked meaningfully at her friend. “Well, Becca?” she demanded, in a lowered voice so that the chicken farmer wouldn’t overhear. “What do you think?”

  Rebecca gave a little laugh. “I’m sold!”

  “I knew you would be!” Lila exclaimed, triumphantly. “I just knew you wouldn’t be able to resist!”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it possible when we left Massachusetts, but now I can’t imagine any other course of action than moving to Sovereign!”

  “You won’t regret it, I promise!”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Rebecca affirmed.

  Wendell returned with a 5X7 black and white framed photo of Grammie Addie and her best friend, Euna Crockett. The two women were standing side by side on the shed step of the old Russell homestead. Grammie Addie was holding a woven basket the size of a watermelon, filled with eggs.

  “This is too much!” said Lila, taking the photograph from his outstretched hand. “It’s perfect for our avatar.”

  Wendell reclaimed his seat. “Ayuh,” he said. “Thought ‘twas what you was lookin’ for.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  Rebecca coughed politely, securing Lila’s attention. “Isn’t there something we need to do before we start marketing a company we don’t have yet?” She looked pointedly at her young friend.

  Lila stared blankly. Her nimble young mind had already leaped ahead to future possibilities. “What?” she said.

  “Some, uh, financial business we need to take care of with Wendell, before we appropriate his house, his grandmother and everything?”

  “Omigod,” said Lila, laughing. “I totally forgot! I thought it was a done deal.”

  Wendell grinned. “Wal, you know, I think ‘tis pretty much a done deal,” he said.

  And the major discovery of the day was how easy it was to do business in Sovereign, Maine!

  Chapter Ten

  Settling In

  The next few weeks skipped by as Lila wrapped up her old life in Massachusetts and relocated to the old Russell homestead in Sovereign, Maine. Despite pleas from both Lila and Rebecca, Wendell would take no more than $40,000 for the house and 10 acres of field, carving out for himself the hired hand’s house – Bud’s place – and the balance of the 110-acre woodlot. He even brushed off an initial down payment.

  “If you put in a separate driveway entrance for me ovah to Bud’s place, thet’ll be enough for a down payment,” Wendell said.

  “But I have PLENTY of money,” Lila protested.

  “Wal, you know, there ain’t nuthin’ I need to buy that I ain’t already got,” Wendell replied. “And thet driveway entrance won’t come cheap. Them aluminum culverts cost ‘bout $800. Plus I’m thinking you’ll find plenty of things to spend money on around heah pretty quick.”

  And so the entire purchase price on the old Russell Place was to be paid in monthly installments of $300 for 15 years. “That’s not even a third of what I pay for rent!” Lila chortled to Rebecca, after Miss Hastings retired for bed that second evening in Sovereign.

  Rebecca was a bit more circumspect. “But you had a regular job with Perkins & Gleeful in order to pay that rent with,” she pointed out. “Now we’re depending on …”

  “… on our own smarts and hard work paying OUR way, not THEIRS,” finished Lila with satisfaction and not a little triumph. “If we get the axe this time, we’ve got nobody to blame but ourselves!”

  Wendell was to remove all personal items of value (except Grammie Addie’s cookbook, which was to remain on loan), and Lila would take immediate possession of the house. She and Rebecca were to dispose of an
y items left in the house that they didn’t want. Wendell was leaving the furniture, dishes, bedding and even the silverware. Lila could hardly believe their good fortune.

  “Wal, you know, I ain’t got no more room in Bud’s place,” Wendell said, simply.

  Within two weeks of returning to Massachusetts, Rebecca had contracted with the parents of a friend and neighbor, who wanted to be close to their grandchildren – but not too close – to rent her house. The new tenants took a year’s lease on the property, paid in advance, and the monies would be enough for Rebecca to pay her mortgage, property taxes, insurance and still have money left over for minor repairs.

  The new tenants wanted to move in by April 15th, however, which sent Rebecca into a frenzy of packing, sorting and storing, and resulted in several weekend visits by her daughter Amber. “She’s bringing some friends to help every time she comes,” Rebecca reported to Lila, “otherwise I don’t see how I could possibly get everything done in time!”

  Lila quickly gave notice and packed up her condo (which was as nothing compared to Rebecca’s breaking up of the Johnson family home), then returned to the old Russell homestead to prepare the hen pen for the arrival of the 100 certified organic laying hens she had purchased as a starter flock from a farmer in southern Maine. In addition, she had taken responsibility to coordinate the legal paperwork involved in the real estate transaction, both Wendell and Rebecca suggesting she take the lead. One sore spot cropped up almost immediately, however. Since Lila insisted on being the one responsible for paying the mortgage, Rebecca refused to have her name put on the deed. This was troublesome to Lila, who was conscious of how necessary Rebecca was to the success of the entire operation.

  “She thinks because she’s not giving me money toward the mortgage, she doesn’t have an equal right of ownership,” Lila confided to Mike Hobart one sunny afternoon in early April. A trusting relationship had replaced their fledgling friendship as the two of them had spent the prior three weeks working shoulder-to-shoulder cleaning, rebuilding and retrofitting the old hen pen. “But she doesn’t realize I couldn’t do this whole egg business thing WITHOUT her.”