Eggs...and signs of hope

Here it is, Easter night.

I am two weeks out from leaving for NY for this big surgery.

I boiled some eggs today, no, not for hiding in bushes for kids and egg hunts, but for egg salad sandwiches for lunch.

The egg carton, holding 18 eggs originally, became empty, so I put it on a pantry shelf with a couple of others I've saved.

The cartons represent hope for me.

Because I have hopes that I will be able to have a small barn on the hill someday, which would house a couple of rabbits, a goat or two, and most of all, Rhode Island Red hens. Just about six of them should be enough.

We've usually had chickens throughout our lives and I've loved caring for them. The last time we had them, I painted a sign that read "Egg Plant" and tacked it on the side of the chicken house.

I swoon with the sounds of cooing hens, their little private songs of happiness are treasures to me. I enjoy caring for them, and looking for eggs every day, after hearing the proud cackles of hens who've just laid a few of their gifts in golden nests of straw.

So, I save the cartons for when my future hens will be producing eggs enough for us and our neighbors. I might sell cartons of fresh eggs down on the Main Street of our little town on Saturdays in the summer, next to baggies filled with homemade cookies and maybe a pair of spurs.

My little barn will smell of leafy green hay, the only type goats will eat. Grain will be stored safe from mice in cans with sturdy lids. I'll run water to it, too, to keep the rabbits' water dishes full and the goats' buckets. And I'll be reminded of my lifetime of living with livestock. I'll coo to my hens, sing to my bunnies, lead my little goats out to stands of luscious summer grasses on the hill, teach my dogs to respect my small group of animals.

Things to look forward to and to plan for. God willing.