“Thank you for being a friend. Traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant.” — Theme from the Golden Girls
The hen house feels hollow. Blanche, our dear Silver Laced Wyandotte, has passed away. She fell ill and within a day she was gone. Too soon. Too young. She passed away peacefully. Without too much pain, I hope. She passed away in the garden, with Dennis by her side.
Rest in peace, Miss Blanche. You’re a dear friend and you’re terribly missed.
The day-old chicks came in the post office yesterday, all twenty-five of them huddled together inside a cardboard box shipped all the way from the Murray McMurray in Iowa. We kept four — a mixed flock of two Rhode Island Reds, one Buff Orpington, and one Silver Laced Wyandotte — and delivered the rest to our friends at Soul Food Farm in Vacaville.
“Do you think Rose is still breathing?” I nervously blurted out. One minute the yellow fuzzball’s frolicking around with her sisters and the next she’s eerily motionless.
“She is, Jun,” Dennis reassured me. “She’s just sleeping.”
She squawks with all her might, hoping we’ve come for a visit bringing a handful of scratch or a bunch of bok choy or cilantro. Every night after sunset, Sofia gathers everyone back to the hen house with a somber squawk. “Baaaaawk!” She cries in a melancholy tone. “Baaaaawk!” She cries while she mulls over what remains of the day.
I’m making egg pie — a rich Filipino-style custard pie — in Rosie’s honor for Thanksgiving using the eggs her sisters laid. Every time we pick up their eggs from their laying boxes we say thank you to the girls. Thank you, Rosie. Thank you, Blanche. Okay, we’ve forgiven you — thank you, Dorothy and Sofia, too. Thank you, Golden Girls, for the eggs and for the immeasurable joy you give us.