The house is odd because it's in the style of architecture developed by Buckminster Fuller; it's a geodesic dome. It sits close to a very traditional house on its one side. In fact, all the rest of the houses for 8 miles are Traditional homes, suburban ranches or southern colonial with faux columns. There's even one or two that could be called mansions with long tree-lined lanes leading to them. And there's an upscale Country Club just up the road with large traditional houses around the golf course. And mixed in with all that is the occasional farm that hasn't been sold for residential development yet and a couple small houses that have been there for at least 50 or 60 years. The geodesic dome sitting on a flat level plane that once was pasture land or a tobacco field clearly looks strange.
However, I have grown so tired of store-bought eggs that seem to be growing more and more tasteless. Last week I friend two eggs because I hadn't had any for awhile and was hungry for eggs over easy, toast, and orange juice. All I could taste was the canola oil I had fried them in and maybe the salt and pepper. The yolk (the best part)had no taste and neither did the white. I was disgusted and that's when I decided I was going to check out the egg house.
I did my errands in Abingdon and on the way back I turned into the lane with the sign that said, "Eggs For Sale." The driveway led me to the back of the geodesic dome where several trucks and cars were parked. There was also a golf cart and a gas grill. Clearly, active people lived here.
I remember growing up in small town Indiana. My sister was married to a farmer so we often got fresh eggs from her. But if her hens weren't laying, I guess hens take vacations,
we'd drive out to some farm to buy eggs from a nice country farmer's wife. So I remember what free-range eggs from free-range chickens taste like, and I hadn't had that taste in my mouth for a very long time.
I knocked on the back door, and a very up-to-date woman answered. "Do you sell eggs?" I asked. "I sure do," she answered. "I want a dozen," I said without asking the price, "Oh, I'll take 18, a dozen and a half, if you've got them." She walked across the entry room and brought me a dozen and a half; she said her mother only takes half a dozen each week. Three dollars is all they cost me. I was delighted for buying; she was delighted in selling. We smiled at each other.
Then we exchanged names and chatted a bit. We could see my lane from her back yard.
I told her I was a storyteller and she wanted to know where I told stories. (Everyone asks if I tell in Jonesborough, meaning the National Festival--I wish!) She gave me her e-mail address so I could put her on my mailing list for Bristol events--she said her daughter would love that.
I drove away cheerfully! Not only had I bought a dozen and a half eggs, but I had met a new neighbor as well. I wondered how many other people have (not) stopped at that odd house. I was so glad I finally did.
When I drove into my driveway, I felt like I should go in my house first and put on an apron--I was just that nostalgic for the days my mother and sisters and I would drive into the country to buy eggs.
I carried them gingerly and all by themselves into my house. I opened the cardboard containers. The eggs were brown and large. I carefully removed one egg. I fried it in margarine and salt and peppered it. I flipped it over so I could make an egg sandwich for lunch. I laid two pieces of Arnold's harvest wheat bread on a small plate and put my gold and white beauty between the slices. I poured a glass of orange juice and put it all on a tray so I could eat lunch in front of the fireplace. The taste of my egg sandwich was wonnnddderrrfulll.
If you don't have a farmer's market near you, take a drive out into the country and don't be afraid of odd houses.
Mimi
