Just the other day as I was cresting the hill on the road near my childhood home, the Egg Lady popped into my head. I haven’t thought about her in years. Egg Lady? Who is the Egg Lady, right? The Egg Lady for me is a sweet and carefree childhood memory.

Many years ago, before the dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I was a child. I was a country child with a home nestled in the middle of cherry orchards on the lakeside and cornfields on the other. I enjoyed being a country kid. I was raised on fresh garden vegetables and farm raised chicken eggs.

Just up the hill from our house lived the Egg Lady in a white, two-story farmhouse that stood proudly among the red cowshed, piggery, and coop. Every Saturday, my mother would need more fresh eggs. Situated on the kitchen shelves built by my father, sat four empty, plastic peanut butter buckets. Yes, they were buckets. If an empty egg carton was cut in half, the two halves could fit perfectly inside a bucket. Safe. Protected. These buckets labeled “Peanut Butter” were the protective vessels that I, along with my brother and two sisters, would grab as we headed out to the Egg Lady’s house.

Promptly after a summer morning of Saturday cartoons, we would each grab a bucket, dash to the garage and hop on our bikes. My bike was a purple Schwinn with a white banana seat and high handlebars. It was a sweet ride. With buckets dangling from our handlebars, we would ride down our dirt driveway as the gravel crunched under our tires. At the end of our driveway, we would turn left onto the paved, country road toward the Egg Lady’s house. Off to our right was a forever view of Lake Michigan with cornfields and fruit orchards sharing the same space of beauty. The four of us would pedal and pant as we climbed the gradual hill to the Egg Lady’s farm. Wind whipped. Chains creaked. Seats squeaked. The glorious sounds of riding our bicycles along the country road. We never complained about having to make this ride.

After riding our bikes a quarter mile down the road, we arrived at the Egg Lady’s house. Without hesitation, one of us would jump off our bike and knock on the farmhouse door. Moments later, the Egg Lady would appear. She was a tiny lady with round glasses and short, permed hair. Brown farm boots, jeans, and a worn flannel was the only attire I knew her to wear. She would greet us and lead us into the kitchen that seemed to always smell of freshly, baked bread or pie. The wood floors creaked as we went to the back pantry to fetch the eggs. We would exchange our empty egg carton halves for full ones. Sometimes we would watch as she candled each egg under a bright beam of light. Each egg would light up clear and translucent like a light bulb. This simple and silent process of candling captivated my siblings and me. We waited patiently and with awe to see if our eggs were without chicks. Finally, she would gently pack our egg cartons into the peanut butter buckets then snap on each lid. Leading us past the baked bread and pies, she bid us farewell as the screen door snapped shut behind us.

With our precious cargo dangling from our handlebars, we waved goodbye to the Egg Lady and headed home. The ride home was slower and yet easier as we coasted downhill back to our driveway that again crackled with gravel under our tires. Four dozen eggs would be delivered to my mother from the Egg Lady’s farm. The Egg Lady. A lifetime when all that mattered was getting a peanut butter bucket full of eggs safely home to mother.