278 animal, vegetable, miracle
ing phone numbers in advance. A CEO wears many hats—accountant,
supervisor, egg scrubber—but this company’s special strength was public
relations. Advance planning had taken into account not just winter pro-
duction, but also egg color. The products from her different breeds of
hens crossed a palette from soft green to pink, tan, and chocolate brown.
Lily arranged them so every carton contained a rainbow, and printed out
her own label, “Lily’s Lovely Layers,” with a photo of herself holding one
of the lovelies. She pasted this over the Brand X names on the recycled
cartons friends had saved for her. By the time she made her first sale, cus-
tomers were practically lined up in the driveway.
Lily was beside herself, dancing around the kitchen with her fi rst dol-
lars. Seeing my young entrepreneur realize her dream made me feel proud
too, and also mystified, in the way of all parents who watch their kids ac-
quire skills beyond our ken. When I was that age, the prospect of selling
even a Girl Scout cookie mortified me to tears. Now I watched my nine-
year- old stand a couple of inches taller each time she picked up the phone
to arrange an egg pickup, always remembering fi rst to ask, “How are you
today, and how’s your family?” In the evenings she sat down at the kitchen
table with the account book I’d helped her set up to keep track of cus-
tomer information, inventory, and expenses. Finally she was entering
numbers in the “Income” column.
I soon wondered if I’d have to walk down the driveway and get in line
myself. I reminded Lily that our family still needed eggs too. We’d stayed
well supplied for the past year from her three old pet hens, which I had
presumed were not going to go on payroll. But now their eggs went straight
into the Lovely Layer cartons with all the rest. They could be mine, I
learned, for $2.50 a dozen. Taking into account the cost of feed, this price
gave Lily a small profit margin and still pleased her customers.
I, however, balked at it. Of course I didn’t mind rewarding my hard-
working daughter, that wasn’t the problem. She had been diligent about
caring for her hens, closing them safely into their coop every night, even
cracking ice off their water bowl on cold mornings. She kept her ears per-
manently tuned to the chicken voices outside, so knew immediately when
a coyote had crept into the yard, and barreled screaming for the front door
before the rest of us had a clue. (I don’t know about the coyote, but I