Moon over Martinborough

I was carrying two dozen farm fresh eggs as I stepped up onto the train at Featherston station. It’s not what most people carry during their morning commute, but when you live in the country and work in the city as I do, you start doing strange things.

For example, just the other week I took a bell pepper plant (called a ‘capsicum’ here in Kiwiland) to the office. It’s now growing beautifully in a pot next to my desk. Perhaps I’m on a slippery slope. Soon I’ll be taking in live chickens and setting up chicken runs in the meeting rooms.

Featherston station

Anyway, on this particular day I had a very good reason to take two dozen eggs to work. Our four hens give Rick and me more eggs than we can possibly eat, so I was taking some to my co-workers. I felt like Little ‘Kiwi’ Riding Hood, merrily going to work with my country bounty.

But, of course, things didn’t exactly go according to plan.

I found a seat on the train, placed the eggs on the overhead shelf, and settled in for the 55 minute train ride.

Before I continue, let me admit to something of a character flaw. I can be forgetful. It’s always been this way. Perhaps even our geriatric rooster, Old Man Henry, has a better memory than me.

So, it wasn’t until I’d already walked the 15 minutes to my office and turned on my computer that I remembered the eggs, which I’d left on the overhead shelf.

I turned to my co-workers. “I brought you farm fresh eggs today.”

They ooh-ed and aah-ed appropriately, craning their necks to see where I might have put them. I’d been saying I was going to do this for weeks.

“And I left them on the train.”

They moaned loudly as though on cue. Lucky for me there were no farm fresh tomatos lying about at that point, or they would have thrown them at me.

Then someone said, “Why don’t you call Lost Property?”

Land of forgotten things

If you ever need to know, Ed is the guy at the Wellington Railway Station who is in charge of lost property. He has a low, rumbling voice, and when I called and told him I’d left two dozen eggs on the train, he audibly guffawed.

Eggs on the rocks

Then he said, “That’s a first.”

“So you don’t have them?” I asked.

“No. What train were you on?”

“The Wairarapa line.”

“Huh. That explains it.”

In Wellington city, ‘Wairarapa’ is synonymous with ‘the country.’ It seemed that, at least in Ed’s mind, someone leaving two dozen eggs on the Wairarapa train made much more sense than someone leaving them on, say, the suburban Johnsonville train.

After all, you never knew what those crazy country people get up to. You just might find a herd of cattle in the luggage car.

“What were they in?” Ed asked abruptly. “Box? Bag?”

I described my eggs: four egg containers of a half dozen each, all inside a white plastic grocery bag. For some reason – perhaps to distinguish these two dozen eggs from any others that might have been left on the train that morning – I added the fact that some of the eggs were blue.

“Blue?” Ed barked. “You can eat those?”

“Sure. They’re delicious.”

Ed harrumphed. Then he quickly explained that the cleaners hadn’t cleaned the Wairarapa train yet. “Call back later. See if they turned them in.”

I imagined hungry cleaners stealing my eggs. They’d have breakfast for weeks.

Calling back

When I called back that afternoon, Ed recognized my voice immediately – something I’ve noticed happens a lot more here than back in the States, no doubt because of my accent.

“It’s the egg guy,” Ed said warmly, as though he were greeting an old friend.

I was surprised by his friendliness. “That’s me. Any luck?”

“Got em right here,” Ed said. Then he paused. “Those blue eggs – they’re quite nice, aren’t they?”

Holding a bowl of eggs

Something had changed in Ed. Perhaps he’d been charmed by the sight of blue eggs. They are pretty magical, really.

“Yep,” I said. “They’re from a South American breed called Lavendar Aracauna. The chickens are grey with tufted feathers on their heads.”

“Well, you learn something new every day.”

Picking up the eggs

That evening I went to the train a couple minutes early so I could stop by the ‘Lost property’ desk and talk to Ed.

He was an older man, with buzz-cut grey hair. His uniform sleeves were rolled up sloppily, revealing thick forearms. I imagined he must have been a labourer on the tracks years ago, before he took this desk job.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jared. I’m here for the eggs.”

He smiled as he got up slowly and turned to a table behind him. He grabbed my white plastic grocery bag and handed me my eggs.

As he pulled out a ledger for me to sign, he said, “I told my mates if you didn’t show I was going to have a fry up. Never ate blue eggs.” He was all laughter and warmth, jokes and smiles.

I opened the bag, took out two half-dozen containers, sorted them so one had nothing but blue eggs in it, and handed it to him. “Finders fee,” I said.

He paused, eyeing the box. “No.”

“Sure.” I pushed it toward him. I could tell he wanted those eggs.

He put out his broad hand and took them. “Thanks, matey.”

He smiled and waved, holding his eggs, as I left.

The co-workers would have to wait another day.