The Egg Lady

Mom liked to take walks. She didn’t have a car, so if we needed something, we walked to get it. Before school started, she would take me on walks to the school, getting me familiar with the route. We still lived in La Puente, and soon, I’d be starting first grade again.

One day, on one of our walks, we met the Egg Lady.

She was friendly, and Mom bought some eggs from her. After that, whenever we needed eggs, we’d take a walk to see the Egg Lady.

Then one day, Mom handed me some money and asked, “Do you know where the Egg Lady lives?”

I did.

So, off I went, alone, on my first errand.

At that time, La Puente still had a country feel. On one side of our house, there were no neighbors—just a walnut grove that wrapped around the back. On the other side was a pasture. Dad had bought two calves for the pasture after the corn was cut, but before that, it was our playground. My brothers and I made hideouts in the tall cornstalks, sneaking through the rows like explorers on a secret mission.

Past the pasture was our closest neighbor. Beyond that, another field. And then, finally, the Egg Lady’s house.

I knocked on her door and told her we needed a dozen eggs. She smiled and said, “Come with me to the chicken house.”

I followed her, expecting to see cartons of eggs ready to go. But instead, she said something that stuck with me.

"I don’t sell my eggs until they’re two weeks old."

That didn’t make any sense to me. Weren’t fresh eggs better?

Then she showed me why.

She picked up an egg and held it up to a light, showing me how she could see inside. “I have to check if there are chicks in there,” she explained.

I watched in fascination as she carefully inspected each egg.

When I got home, I couldn’t wait to tell Mom all about it.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?