GARDEN ROAD

In the 1950's, most farms had a brooder house where chicks were raised until they were two months old. Since their chicken houses had long since fallen down, Jude's mom decided to use the brooder house to raise some Rhode Island Reds as she was very fond of brown shelled eggs. She had it on good authority that brown shelled eggs were better for you than white ones. A portion of the large, square building was sectioned off and she began raising the chickens for their eggs.

One day, Jude and I were playing in the feed room of the brooder house. The feed room was connected to the brooder house and in it were the feedbags of corn and mash, the staples of the chickens' diet. We had found an old pot and decided we would make some "food" for our play dinner. On that particular day, for whatever reason, just playing pretend was not good enough for us. We had to have some mash to put into the pot. When Jude came in carrying some eggs he had just gotten from the hens' nests, I said, "Jude isn't your Mom going to be mad that we're using her eggs for playing?" No, he didn't think she would mind at all. We cracked the eggs into the mash and mixed and mixed and we were haiving a great time. "Hey, doesn't this look just like a cake mix?" I asked. A cake mix that isn't cooked just isn't much of anything. I don't remember who thought of it first...but, Jude went outside and found some small twigs and dried grass. We placed them on the cement floor in the middle of the feedroom and got the matches that his mother kept on a shelf inside the door and started a small fire. I was sure the egg and mash mixture that looked so much like real cake batter would cook into a perfect "cake." Well, it didn't look much like a cake and, after awhile, we tired of the game. We carefully put out the fire, cleaned up the mess (as best we could for an 8 and 9 year old) and went home to our respective dinners.
As I was setting the table, we heard the wails of the fire trucks coming down Garden Road. Fire trucks on Garden Road? We never heard fire trucks on Garden Road. My father ran into the front yard to see where they were going. As he ran back into the house, he yelled, "They're turning into Jude's driveway!" In the back of my head I heard a distinct "ut oh." Dad ran to the back door and said, "There's smoke coming from the J's brooder house!" Yes, we had almost burned down the brooder house, feed room and Mrs. J's Rhode Island Reds.
Luckily, the black smoke could be seen a long way off and Jude's mom had called the fire department and saved the whole building from going up in flames. To say that my parents were upset and angry would be putting it mildly. I don't remember how I was punished that day but I am sure I was given a stern lecture if nothing else. However, Mrs. J. was a very special woman and didn't want us punished. She said the fact we were safe and nothing was destroyed except a few bags of chicken feed and the lesson learned that day was punishment enough.
We never did anything like that again. Although there was that one winter's day when we went hiking and were gone for hours without telling anyone and taking my sister Margie and little sister Gayle along. . .but that is a story for another day.