Monday, June 9, 2008

Blue eggs and Hammy

On Friday I promised you a story about my little brother and an egg. And it is a doozy. Something you should know before hand -- my brother used to be called Hammy when he was little, that is relevant only to the title of the post, but I still thought you should know.

Okay, where was I?

It all started on a hot summer day (or maybe it was a mild spring day, I don't actually remember that detail). Emily and I had found a perfect blue Robin's egg laying in the grass, and struck by its beauty, we took it home, put it on the porch, and forgot all about it.

I decided to ride my bike down the lane, I had gotten to the end by the road and was on the return leg of my sojourn, when I heard a blood-curdling scream. Really folks, blood-curdling. It was bad.

I knew that something terrible must have happened to cause a person to scream that way. I worried that someone was injured, possibly missing a limb. I pedaled as hard and as fast as my eight-year old legs could pedal.

I spun around the barn and saw my Mom and brother standing on the front porch. I threw my bike onto the yard and rushed up the front steps.

Then I saw a little bit of something yellowish dripping down my brothers chin. On the porch I saw some crushed blue eggshell.

To his three-year old mind, that bright blue Robin's egg looked just like a malted milk egg, so despite the fact that he found it outside and it wasn't his, he crunched right into it.

In his is kind of hard to tell, and to a three-year old they are pretty much identical.

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