COUNTRY ECHOES

was an unanswerable question. My chickens may have been a sleepy
congregation but at least they had sense enough to go slowly on a
hot day. They stretched their legs contentedly into the powdered
earth.

‘Mae,’ the voice came again, ‘don’t forget to
feed the hens at five o’clock.’ OH JOY! THAT WAS ALL?
Don’t forget to feed the hens? I WAS feeding the hens —
spiritual food –, and I could now proceed for at least another
half hour. That would leave time enough for the physical.

Perhaps it was a strange pulpit I was using – fence posts neatly
crisscrossed for drying. The pile was at least six feet high. It
seemed to be a yearly addition to our dooryard. The hens loved to
dust themselves in the shadow they provided and many had now
expertly wriggled their plump bodies into their individually
preferred excavations.

Mother stormed about those ‘awful holes’ every year, and
in her more irate moments erupted, unannounced from her shuddering
back door wielding a waving broom or a threatening dish towel,
depending upon the extent of her aggravation. It was then that my
congregation took to the burdock patch to the northwest of their
communal house.

But my chickens always returned to their dusting area and
usually any lazy summer afternoon I could find my dust-laden posts
surrounded by my dustier audience. Ah! They were not afraid of
their minister! They hardly moved as I approached. This wasn’t
my mother with her beastly broom of considered extinction. This was
Mae, their itinerant preacher, bringing them first a solo, sung in
the grand grown-up lady manner, then a prayer, and a sermon
straight from The Word.

Perhaps they suspected that this was the youngest of six
children trying to get somebody to really listen to her. Could this
have been the basis for our human and feathered affinity? It could
also have been that they knew I secretly hated washcloths. I
admired the way chickens could shake themselves and have the
clean-up job completed as quickly as I could say, ‘In the
beginning –.’

Mae had to be hauled to the sink at least three times a week for
a good going over. Mother would get that determined look in her eye
and say, ‘Mae, you are getting that grimmy look again. When did
you wash, really good?’ I was glad she had learned not to
expect an answer. Shucks! I couldn’t remember! Washing was so
unimportant. And then I was apt to hear, ‘I never have to tell
Margaret to wash. Why must you be such a little ?’ I was glad
she had stopped before actually comparing me to another group of
livestock we habitually sheltered on our surrounding acres. Their
little three-cornered coops were awfully smelly.

Mother was brisk, but also kind. Dirty or not, I was her child
and after the daily meals were finished, her ample lap always
cradled my head. Mother sensed I still needed my three-meel-a-day
loving and as she discussed the news of the day with my brother,
Charlie, her right hand made rythmic little drumming patterns on
the oilcloth table covering. Her left hand caressed and patted my
‘grimmy’ head. The four older sisters commented wryly
‘that they pitied any man I would ever marry. Why! I would love
him to death!’ But Mother knew I needed more love because I had
to buck up against the four of them.

That is the way Mother was, always active, and very sharp. She
was a fine disciplinarian, and while sometimes my rebellious young
heart would seek the easy way out, Mother knew she had to bear down
on me harder than some of the others. She knew there was a
presentable side to me as well. You should have seen me in my white
summer dress with a ribbon sash and a matching ribbon in my
hair.

Sundays were very special at our house. Mother often managed to
pick a chicken or two out of the sweet apple tree. She could make
chicken dumplings which I shall never forget. How eagerly the
platter of fowl and the bowl of dumplings were passed around the
table.

Nor will I ever forget that table. It was a wobbly one in spite
of all attempts to stabilize it. Therefore, we were regularly
reminded, ‘Don’t bump the table or you’ll spill the
coffee and the water.’ This admomition was served up with every
meal. But it wasn’t only our dining room which had unreliable
fixings.

The living room was illuminated by a silver-colored hanging lamp
with a transluscent white shade. Ah! The joy of it! It gave such a
lovely soft light until – until –. How it all started I will never
know. One evening Mother appeared with a broken chimney from this,
our favorite lamp. She always kept an extra chimney on hand so we
soon had our light shining again.

Our joy was short-lived. At the end of about an hour
‘CRACK’ went our new chimney without any apparent cause. In
the weeks that followed there was broken chimney after broken
chimney. ‘CRACK’ would go a chimney in mid day,
‘CRACK’ went another at midnight. Whether or not the lamp
was lit was of no consequence.

Pressure, drafts, wick heat, all were taken into accord. We had
used this lamp for years, and now we had only broken chimneys. The
mystery was never solved. Both lamp and shade were relegated to the
attic.

As I think about it now, Praise God, the message which I was
bringing to my odd congregation still has nary a crack in it. It is
living truth! It surely should remind us again to ‘not set our
affections on things of this earth.’ A generation past, or now,
today, it remains the same. June or January, rain or shine, there
is no difference. And the best part of all, it is for eternity.
And, I’ve come to the conclusion after a final reading of this
that it is all fact, and no fiction. Also, I would much rather
speak and write for people.