Moon over Martinborough

Featherston station

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.

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 tomatoes 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

There’s a guy named Ed who works at the Wellington Railway Station. He’s 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.

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.”

Eggs on the rocks - morning light

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 cartons 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. In some light, they turn sort of green.”

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 bloke,” 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?”

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 laborer 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 considered giving Ed some blue eggs. I really wanted to. But I was afraid he would think it was odd. I mean, you just don’t go giving eggs to strangers.

I signed the ledger, thanked him and left the office.

As I walked onto the railway platform and toward the Wairarapa train, I kept thinking about Ed. My moment with him felt like a little failure. I should have given him some eggs. What was it that had stopped me?

When you’ve lived in large cities like I have for years, you start to learn strange, unwritten rules — things you don’t even realize you’re learning until they’re already a part of your psyche.

Eggs in the afternoon sun

Keep to yourself on the streets. Don’t nod hello to people you don’t know. Be aware of your wallet at all times. Be careful never to look like you’re lost, even if you are. And of course, never, ever give gifts to strangers.

It’s as though in the city we build small walls around us. I think this is why I didn’t give Ed any eggs. I have lived in large cities for too long.

It takes a long time to unlearn these things, even after you’ve moved to the country.

On the train

I found Rick on the train. He was saving me a seat. As I went to put my two dozen eggs in the compartment above us, Amy walked by.

Amy is the ticket clipper that Rick and I really like. She’s got four or five large silver hoops in each ear, and her hair has a fantastic burgundy-purple tint to it. She’s the friendliest ticket clipper you’ll ever meet on the Wairarapa line. Once she even arranged for Rick’s Aunt Charlie, who was visiting from the States, to ride up front with the driver.

Amy saw the egg cartons through the bag. “You cooking omlettes for 50?” she asked me.

I laughed and explained why I had the eggs.

“Ooo, farm fresh eggs,” she said, and then she continued walking down the aisle.

When she was out of earshot, Rick whispered a wonderful thing to me.

“Let’s give Amy some eggs.”

I smiled. It was the perfect idea. Sometimes, Rick says just the right thing.

When the train arrived in Featherston, I pulled the eggs down off the shelf, took two of the small cartons out, and I handed them to Rick.

As we stepped down off the train, he ran up to the front to find Amy. She was on the platform, making sure everyone was off before she shut the doors.

“For you!” Rick said.

Amy broke into a wide, surprised smile. “Oh, thank you!”

“Some of them are blue,” Rick said, as he waved goodbye.

“Blue?! Fantastic.” Amy waved back as she hopped up on the train with a big smile on her face, her many earrings sparkling.

Holding a bowl of eggs

After that, we were on a roll.

As Rick and I were walking towards the Featherston-Martinborough bus, we bumped into Jocelyn. She lives in Martinborough and sometimes gives us a ride so we don’t have to take the  bus.

“G’day!” she said. “Want a ride?”

We climbed into her car and I immediately said, “Hey Jocelyn, want some fresh eggs? Some of them are blue.”

How can you not smile when someone says that to you? She laughed and said, “Sure.”

And I handed her the rest of the eggs myself. As I did, I thought of Ed. I felt like a wrong had been righted, and everything was okay again. We had given away all of our eggs. The co-workers would have to wait another day.

____________________

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