Frequently, my husband broaches the subject of chickens—not just as a conversational tidbit, but as in raising them, feeding them and collecting their eggs, protecting them from the packs of wild dogs that roam every path and by-way of Pine Grove. Larry’s eyes take on that longing look as he gazes backward to his farm-boy childhood. He sees the farm fresh eggs of free range chickens. He smells the big platters of fried chicken on his mama’s Sunday dinner table. My eyes, on the other hand, take on a panicky look as I gaze back to my more urban youth.
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