My weekend started out wonderfully.
All the kids and grandkids
were out of town on road trips,
so my husband and I were
actually alone for a change.
So, we took advantage of the situation
and did what every passionate couple does
on a free weekend-
We cleaned out the garage!!!!
The Bug Guys are coming to spray
this morning, so we prepared
by moving everything away from
the garage floor foundation.
Now, this wasn't some small task
like sweeping or moving shovels
or organizing screwdrivers.
This was an all out removal
of accumulated masses of
unneeded and unattractive things
that magically appeared somehow-
and no one wanted to take the blame.
Ice cream freezers, croquet sets,
party lights, canning jars,
paint cans, building supplies, tools,
cords, nails, brushes, rags,
and an occasional giant spider.
We plugged in the fan-
and the stereo-
and drank our way through
a case of beer-
and somehow we managed to
whip it all into shape-
at least till the Bug Guys leave.
But the whole incident reminded me
of several years ago
when we cleaned out the garage
at our first house.
We were just renting
and the landlords had left a garage
still full of their own mysterious junk.
It was a small block building
with a rusted tin roof
and a side door
that never shut right-
and all kinds of creepy things
lining the corners.
It was one of those weekends
that my husband thought would
be the perfect time
to clean out the mess.
You know-
a hundred degrees and
a hundred percent humidity-
no lunch breaks,
no great music,
and limited refreshments.
Anyway-
I have written before
about our chickens dying,
but apparently there were
a few renegade hens
that had roosted in
our dark garage
at some point-
unbeknown to us.
My husband and I were
sweating profusely,
attempting to move an
old coal stove
when we saw "it".
"It" was a gigantic pyramid
of chicken eggs
stacked in the corner.
I think time stopped.
We stared at the three foot
tall egg sculpture in awe
and disbelief.
We didn't move or say a word.
Then I started laughing hysterically.
Too bad my husband didn't
find it so funny.
"Okay- start hauling them 'outa here
and throw them over the back fence
into the bean field!" he growled-
the heat evidently overwhelming
his usually sweet demeanor.
I found an old bucket
and began filling it
with the fragile eggs-
ready to eradicate
the last memories of our
invisible egg-popping chickens.
"Pow!!"
The first egg exploded
with a green cloud of putrid,
vomit-inducing stench
that put my gag reflex into overtime.
"Pow! Pow! Pow!"
One after another,
the thin shelled, aged eggs
cracked like puke bombs
as I hurled them over the fence.
I was caught up in a fog
of rotting sulfur
and splattered with
a coating of poop-green yolk
that gelled on my skin
in the hot summer sun.
But...
The garage got cleaned out that day
and I was permanently scarred for life.
I still have problems eating eggs today.
And I never laugh first.
