Zero Egg Day

Yesterday was a zero-egg day.

I spent ALL morning dealing with an I.R.S. audit.

To relieve my stress I went out after lunch to pick walnuts. Arriving in the grove I gasped out loud at the massive amount of nuts on the ground. The rain the day before had knocked them off and there appeared to be a carpet of big, beautiful nuts laid out before me.

I believe that the manure the sheep have spread is the catalyst for the quality improvement this year.

I enjoy picking up nuts by hand, it’s great exercise for your legs and derriere, but I was just too overwhelmed at the impossible amount of work confronting me. There was no way for me to pick up all the nuts before the bugs and worms attacked them.

I trudged back to the house, to ask my husband to start up the nut machine for me. He claimed it was too wet to use, but I argued that the afternoon sun had dried up the ground a lot, and I thought we should at least try.

He was busy with something, and said he would get the machine out shortly.

I went back to the walnut grove and started frantically picking up nuts. Believe me, nut harvesting can be turned into an arobic activity.

About a half an hour later, I heard the nut machine start up, and saw that my husband was moving it out of its shed.

There is a little, teeny, tiny plot of land situated between the road and the little river that runs along our nut grove. It's owned by some people who live in the big town of our departement. It’s an overgrown field, not much bigger than a postage stamp. Each fall, this old couple arrives and for three days, with their little tiny dog at their heels, they clear the brush and small trees that have grown up on the bank, off the land.

Last year, I offered to buy it. The woman scoffed at me and told me they couldn't think of selling it; it was her mother's land, and they were going to leave it to their son. The land can't be used to build on because it's in the flood plain.

This couple brings a huge picnic basket to tide them through the long day of work. The man wields a giant weed-wacker whose motor ceaselessly screams all day. The wife makes piles of debris and lights them on fire, filling our little valley with smoke for three days. My husband thinks their ritual is romantic.

After my morning of I.R.S. induced fun, I was looking forward to spending the afternoon picking up nuts surrounded by the peace and tranquility of nature. But that was not to be: try as I might to escape the mighty master, the gasoline powered engine, yesterday was not the day.

My sheep did graze peacefully, and every now and then I would glance over at them and smile . . . trying to figure out why they make me so happy to watch.

The dog was busy crossing the river to harass the couple's little dog.

I noticed that the nut machine was quietly sitting outside of its shelter, but my husband was no where to be seen.

After an hour of picking nuts, I went back to the house; walked past the nut machine, and noticed that there were tools on top of it.

“Why are there tools on the nut machine,” I asked my husband when I walked into the house.

“I pulled the rope to start the engine and it broke,” he replied.

“Ohhhh,” I moaned, as I cut off a slice of bread to devour.

On my way back to work, I took a detour to check for eggs. But there were no eggs and the chickens were no where to be seen or heard. I was bummed. The hens had been spoiling me with their daily eggs.

I returned to the nut grove and picked up nuts for three more hours. My husband went into town to get a replacement starter rope for the engine. The woman on the other side of the river was kept busy trying to chase Attila back to his side of the river.

In the early evening, I got the wheelbarrow and hauled my three crates of beautiful walnuts to the barn. Then I went in the house, sliced off more bread, and called the accountant back in San Francisco. Talked to her for over an hour. I had to end the conversation because it was getting dark and I needed to lock up the chickens so the proverbial fox wouldn’t eat them during the night.

After thinking earlier in the day that the chickens had disappeared for good, I was very pleased to find that they were all in the coop, roosting.

By this time, my husband had repaired the walnut machine and was out in the grove picking up nuts . . .his engine screaming much louder than the man across the river's weed-wacker. I briefly noted my hypocrisy. My husband soon returned to the barn with two bins of nuts. He had collected them in one quarter the time it had taken me to gather my three bins of nuts.

We were in the barn, washing the nuts he had gathered, when I walked outside, and was shocked, shocked I tell you, to find all six sheep standing there, with Blanche in the lead, munching flowers.

Attila was there beside me, and as I started to shoo the sheep back towards the gate THAT MY HUSBAND HAD LEFT OPEN, Attila miraculously switched into sheep dog mode, and quickly and efficiently herded the sheep back through the gate and into the pasture. My husband and I watched in amazement. We had given up any hope that the dog could be trained. Just that afternoon, my husband pointed out that the dog only did what you wanted when your wishes were in accordance with his desires.

But the dog really amazed us, even stopping when I shouted that command. I told my husband, that the dog achieved the feat in 1/100th the time it would have taken me to herd the sheep. And he does it without the aid of a gasoline powered engine! Attila really is a working dog and we’re soooooo proud of him.

However, I’m worried that we praised him too much for his artful display of sheep management and that now he’ll be looking for every excuse to harass the sheep.

Take note of how rotten my day started out: having to deal with I.R.S. matters.
But in the end, I had a great day -- and what brought me pleasure?
Watching my sheep in their pasture.
Seeing the dog masterfully maneuver the sheep through their pasture gate.
Finding the chickens peacefully roosting in their coop.