My New “Hen Bag”

I t was love at first sight. When I saw it in a catalogue, I gave a little squeal. As Christmas ap- proached, I started hinting. It was simply too perfect - simply too me - to pass up.

But even if I had an inkling it was coming my way, I never expected it to arrive in quite the manner it did.

On Christmas morning, in the mad rush to exit our house and head to the larger family celebration, Mom sent me out to feed the chickens.

I have three chickens - two hens, Mercy and Gin- ger, and a rooster, Buster. I adore them all, even when Mercy gets a little shy and Buster intimidates guests and Ginger plays "Bet You Can't Find My Secret Nest Before The Population Of This Chicken House Qua- druples".

I followed my usual chicken-feeding procedure - quick hugs all around, shut the chickens in their pen, top off food, change out water, gather eggs. But as I yanked off the lid to the galvanized trash can of chicken feed, something colorful caught my eye.

Nestled on top of the chipped corn and oyster shell flakes was a bright red package. Upon closer ex- amination, it was an empty chicken-feed bag wrapped around itself several times and secured with a tangle of string and a flurry of masking-tape pieces.

Written sloppily in Sharpie - with plenty of cross-outs and backwards letters - was the following:

To Emma - Frum Buster and the Gurls - Meree Krismus.

Inside was the object of my desire - a roomy hand- bag shaped like a chicken, with realistic rubber feathers and an adorable redwattled face.

I immediately set about carrying the purse every- where I went. For the first couple of days, that was my grandparents' house, and its cargo was usually an Ellery Queen whodunit or two. It sat placidly on the kitchen table, red cloth handles flopped over its sweet yel- low feathers, as passing relatives admired its sheer adorableness.

Having given up on sled- sufficient snowfall for the time being, I dragged my family up to Andies Prairie for a day among the white stuff. The trip required a watertight container for spending money and per- sonal goods. The choice was obvious, really.

Sadly, the 'snow' had a healthy top crust of partially melted powder, making trips down the slope bumpy and extra-dramatic. Natu- rally, this resulted in some fairly amusing incidents. At one point, I looked over my shoulder and saw a snow tube bouncing like the little dot on a karaoke tape across the ample valley, its rider having been bucked part- way down the slope.

But what's to complain about when your favor- ite purse contains a little pocket just the right size for a chocolate bar and a tube of Icy Hot?

On Sunday, we met my dad for lunch in La Grande. Several customers - as well as the waitress - were all over my hen handbag, the waitress even going so far as to pose for a picture with it and show it to at least three of her coworkers. I'm not sure Dad knew quite what to think.

All I gotta say is this: If you buy Gucci, you're overspending.