Prim's Egg

Prim

Zane followed clues hidden all round our home to finally arrive at the "treasure" - four small chicks peeping and scurrying under the red glow of the heat lamp. All four of us (Jeff, Zane, myself and our dog, Woody) have been transfixed by them since. Within those first few moments as we peered over the edge of the half-wine barrel-cum-nursery, we named our girls - Mrs. Peck (who pecked more than the others), Lily (who glowed white under the light), Rhonda (why wouldn't you name a chick Rhonda?), and Prim (after Primrose Everdeen from Hunger Games).

Prim is my chicken, which is to say, I got choose her name. She's my chicken since our small Williamson Loop flock in 1976 in Southern Oregon. Just as her name might suggest, she is the shyest of our chicken girls...she hangs back when I enter their yard, she's the last to approach the fresh kitchen scraps, even when Mrs. Peck and Lily clamor and squack for attention, Prim is reserved, self-possessed, demure.

In recent weeks, having overcome the gangly awkwardness of the adolescence, the girls have been developing their combs and wattles. Prim? Not so much. I imagine that Rhonda, Mrs. P, and Lily ( much like middle school girls) chide Prim for her lack of development. And, I have to admit, I succumbed to their assumption and supposed that Prim would be the last of the ladies to lay.

As an Americana chicken, I knew that she would lay green-hued eggs. (I'd asked Jeff to pick up at least one of her breed just for that reason.) She's different and bred to be so. From her beige and gray feathers, to her blue-tinted legs, to her bumpy, small comb, she's an odd one among our other hens who seem to preen in their classically chicken appearance - one red, one buff, one orange. But, today when I went to chat with the girls, in the nest was Prim's first, lovely offering.

In true prim fashion was she there watching me collect that perfect egg like the other girls? Oh, no. Not Prim. She had withdrawn from the group in humble pride, walking away, even in nonchalance, as if to say, "That's the best I could do. I'll try again tomorrow."

And I so hope she does. On this first day of her distinction as a hen rather than a poult, I found myself anticipating the coming days when more of her beautifully odd, uncommon eggs await.

I know it's a hen's job to lay eggs. It's not really unusual. But if I could talk to Prim, I'd say, "Congratulations, lady," and "Thank you. This is perfect."