Maggie Pill Mysteries

Buy now One of my earliest memories of farm life is my mother washing out milkers with the hose, her back bent, her brow knitted as she focused on the task. People who knew her as the kind-but-strict schoolteacher or the music-loving choir director might have been surprised to see how hard she worked at home, but that was life on the farm in the '50s. It was a family farm, which meant my father stayed on the land his parents owned, becoming a partner by sharing the work with his father. My grandmother was the gardener, growing vegetables to can, and the raiser of chickens for eggs and meat as well. We kids were often given tasks like gathering eggs, picking potato bugs, and pulling weeds to make Grandma's work easier. Though raised as a "city girl," Mom could drive a tractor or kill a chicken for Sunday dinner, thought she later confessed to me that when she had to chop the head off one of the flock, she couldn't make herself eat the meat. Mom, Grandma...

You don't know what you don't know until you try to write about it. Chickens, for example. The fourth Sleuth Sisters has chickens, and though I grew up with them, I guess I wasn't really paying attention. We always had chickens because, like the punch line in the old joke, we needed the eggs. My grandmother was the expert, and now that I need details about raising chickens, she's not here to help. I've been reading online about feed, temperature, water, and safety measures, which brought back some childhood events, like playing catch with eggs--that almost never ends well. My most memorable chicken experience was terrifying. My little sister was probably three years old, and we were playing in the yard. The rooster was a mean sort, and he attacked my sister, knocking her down. I recall turning to see her flat on her back in the mud while the rooster stood on her chest. Dad was nearby, and he shooed the bird away and hurried to comfort my sister, who was sobbing...