The Farmwife vs. The Utility Room

The utility room. Farmwives everywhere know what I’m talking about. It’s a phenomena that transcends location and is universal to farm utility rooms everywhere. I grew up 1000 miles away from Nebraska on a hog and grain farm and the situation was the same. Muddy, dirty floor regardless of how many times you swept it. Coat racks burgeoning with smelly coveralls and toboggans (or stocking hats as they call them here). Then, there are the cupboards hanging over the washing machine. For some reason that I cannot explain these cabinets become a minefield of worthless collection and peculiar findings. I can still see in my minds eye the cabinet above my mama’s washing machine that had a random collection of 20 gauge needles and scalpels, although there weren’t actually any surgeries or shots happening in the house. There was a giant jar of pocket knives, pocket change, and pens that didn’t work and my dad’s ever present bottles of mint Chapstick. Today these are my own cupboards, with the difference that my husband likes Burts bees. 

This evening as we enter what is known as the witching hour to parents across America, that hour before suppertime and daddy being home when I was peeling potatoes and trying to get supper going, I heard a strange crash and then perpetual plops and dripping coming from my utility room. This is the point where I should say my husband and I engage in fierce standoffs as to who will be the first to cave and wash the chicken eggs. Earlier in the day I had noticed our egg basket precariously heaped, several baseball hats full as well few cartons haphazardly stacked on my dryer awaiting a good rinsing. An investigation showed me some ratchet straps had spontaneously discharged themselves from the cabinet above and fell square on that giant pile of eggs. Not only have they fallen, they have splattered and were dripping down the front and through the seal into my dryer full of clean clothes. They were puddled in snow boots on the floor and on coats that should have been neatly hung. I called for my dog to come lick some of the mess, but she was no doubt next door in my in-laws garage. Not to worry. Concerned kids soon figured out what it happened and came out with spray bottle of cleaner and paper towels and slopped around, happily spraying at will and making egg yolks handprints in the glass dryer door. It goes without saying, but eggs are sticky and hard to clean up.

My hand was now forced and I would have to be the one to wash the remaining eggs to free them of their yellow, slimy coating. (You’re welcome Glade ). When you look at those eggs, though, you can’t help but be grateful for food and for those amazing chickens. And that we have way too many eggs to eat. And that the dryer is squeaky clean and the floor washed. 

It’s like Caroline Ingalls always said...”There is no great loss without some small gain.”

Thank you kindly,

Bethel Smith