Scrambled Eggs

By Bruce C Martin

Editor: Bruce tells us this as a story he wrote for a competition. It was not published, and he never heard whether it was worthy or not. It sank without trace says Bruce, but he thought he'd submit it to OC Life just to see what we thought. Bruce claims he knew the people (names changed) in the 1950's, and tells the story, gleaned from many cups of tea with them. They are long gone now Bruce claims he was privileged to have known them. We rather like your little story Bruce and we're sure others will too. It's certainly a different way to scramble eggs.  Enjoy!, and especially the $100 you get from us for getting published this week.

"We have fifteen dozen eggs to sell in town this week Bert!" "That will help with the grocery bill." Bert nodded in response as he took another puff on his pipe. Town was twelve miles away and was reached by horse and jinker every Saturday morning, for supplies. The extra cash from the sale of eggs was important to this struggling dairy farming couple and their two children, at a time of great economic hardship and toil.

Bert, a softly spoken World War One veteran, did contract ploughing around the district with his draught horse team while Mary milked the cows, fed the calves, and generally held their farm together. Although still a young woman her face and slight stoop told the story of daylight till dark exertions. 

The Smith's farmhouse was situated on the crest of a hill surrounded by tall pines, and access in and out was via a steep rutted potholed, scoured out driveway, down the steep slope, over the culvert in the gulley, then up the equally steep track of similar condition to the front entrance leading out to the Three Chain Road.

"Bert you are not going to put that young horse in the shafts for this trip are you?" "That horse is still quite skittish!" Bert, in his easy-going quiet voice said. "It'll be right luv, this horse needs a long run." I hope that he is right, Mary thought as she packed the eggs under the seat of the jinker, once the horse was harnessed and ready to go.   

There was a windmill in the gully, just next to but through the fence from the culvert, and this particular morning a strong wind was causing the tower to flex as the spinning fan, with a couple of fans missing, was threatening to destroy itself. Bert, with reins in hand started the horse off at a walking pace, down the scoured out wheel tracks to make it as comfortable a ride as possible, but upon reaching the culvert with the creaking, spinning windmill just through the fence, the horse jibbed and started to back up. Bert patiently coaxed the nervous animal to go forward, but it was having none of it and was threatening to put them over the side of the culvert which would have tipped them out. "Quick Mary grab the reins!" yelled Bert as he leaped out and took hold of the horse's head. He then managed to get the horse and rig turned around and back they went up the hill. "Are you going to change horses Bert?" "No Mary, this horse is going to town whether it likes it or not!" 

Back at the top of the hill Bert pointed their nose back down that awful hill and standing with whip in one hand and reins in the other, split the air with a mighty crack and baritone bellow, sending horse and jinker plunging and pitching down towards the culvert with Mary hanging on for dear life and screaming. "BERT!! the eggs, STOP!! Through the gulley and over the culvert they went bouncing and swaying with scrambled eggs from broken shells sloshing around their feet and splashing against the kickboard. Bert somehow kept his feet and didn't draw rein until they flew past the front entrance, where they pulled up to assess the damage. There was not going to be much egg money from this trip, but no stupid horse was going to get the better of this horseman. 

A few weeks later an American Serviceman turned up at the farmhouse gate when Mary was hanging washing on the line. He strode over to her, shadowed by Mary's Blue Heeler, introduced himself formally and then said. "Just call me Hank mam!" He then explained that his unit was camped up on the Three Chain Road where their roadworks were teaching young plant operators road building before they were shipped to the Pacific theatre where war was raging. In his most polite manner, he asked if he could buy eggs and milk, and offered to pay whatever they were currently getting. This was heaven sent and lasted a few months and during that time Hank approached Bert and said. "We'll gravel that god damn driveway for you boss!"

By the time the dust had settled and the last dozer scraper, and roller left the area the Smith's had a magnificent solid road all the way from the farmhouse out to the Three Chain Road.

The rhythm of seasons has not changed the pace of life on that farm with the windmill next to the culvert. Mary is still milking cows, feeding the calves and selling the eggs, and Bert is still contract ploughing. The farm still has gates needing repair and fences that need restraining, but the driveway is still as good as when the last roller trundled out the front entrance, and that is all that matters.