The year was 1972, and, sad to say, the bottom fell out of the wholesale egg business. How can a farmer make any money on gluttonous chickens, the high price of feed, and medium-sized eggs selling for only 39 cents a dozen? So on we moved to greener pastures. (No pun intended).

No more farm life with acreage and barns full of 25,000 chickens to sustain our family. We purchased an older home in a quaint historic village. It used to be a boarding house when the stagecoach traveled through the Catskills _ an interesting structure with trees for floor joists in the cellar.

The building must have been well over 100 years old. In the backyard stood an old-fashioned barn used back in the horse-and-buggy days.

Perhaps this was one of the pluses that sold that house to my husband. He had plans for that old barn _ chicken plans.

Once a farmer, always a farmer. My husband actually missed all those chickens, and especially farm life.

Early in the morning he could hear a rooster crowing up the valley. Memories flooded back, and so home came a beautiful black speckled hen with her entire brood of fluffy yellow chicks. She sat in her cage with wings outstretched. All the little chick heads were peeking up through her feathers. The picture was worth a thousand words, as you looked at peeping creamy polka dots on a backdrop of black feathers.

Of course, the chicks didn’t stay small for long. The cage got too small and the bathroom where the cage stood got even smaller. So Mom and her chicks went to the barn, along with another dozen or so. Yup, more chickens.

There were many hens _ and a rooster to crow _ that provided delicious eggs for our breakfast omelets.

As time went on, the fowl got older and egg production was nil. We decided to put them in the pot.

My husband took care of the "not so nice" part and our youngest daughter did the plucking. I cooked ... and cooked ... and cooked "those things." I tried every which way and all we got was tough meat like old rubber bands ... yuck.

An elderly neighbor was so delighted when offered the remainder of the cull. I never did inquire how they cooked "those things." (I was embarrassed when they were so thankful.)

Again we were without chickens. But not for long, because we shortly acquired a gorgeous Rhode Island Red rooster. He was one photogenic fellow and strutted around as if he knew it. Picture perfect.

My husband decided the rooster was lonely and so we acquired a lovely big snowy-white goose. Both were aptly named: "Red" and "Goosie." There was the inevitable territorial battle between the two and finally, after many flying feathers, they both settled down to an ignoring co-existence. "Red" was the boss.

A comical fiasco was when our black cocker spaniel, Georgie-Porgie, tried to "bird-dog" the goose. He would chase poor flapping Goosie through the backyard.

Finally he would have to stop his tormenting, for the rooster always came to the goose’s rescue, landing on top of Georgie’s back with leg spurs bared. "Yip," he would say as he shook the rooster off and turned to seemingly smile at us with white downy hind-end feathers sticking out of his mouth. "Got her," he seemed to say.

Neighbors commented on our two beautiful "lawn ornaments" "... and so life like."

What hams they were. Folks would stroll by in the evening and our two "show-offs" would be nestled on the side lawn listening to the music coming through the open patio door. Amazing how those birds just wanted to be around the family.

It was a sad day when old Red left this earth. How he was missed, and especially so by his now-buddy companion, Goosie. We tried to appease the goose with a large old roasting pan filled with water. Certainly that would appeal to her.

She readily hopped in the water and wiggled down into the roaster _ and that’s exactly what she looked like _ all ready for the oven, feathers and all.

All kidding aside ... we had to do the humane thing. Friends of ours gladly gave Goosie a new home on their farm. There were other geese to welcome her and all seemed well. The last time we saw our happy Goosie was when we visited her.

Wow, there was our goose with several other geese and a flock of goslings trailing after them. Our goose turned out to be a gander _ and that was one happy bird.

And that’s the true story.

Elaine W. Kniskern is a 74-year-old resident of Schenevus and a grandmother of five.