I am used to seeing snappers in June when they emerge from the mud and crawl to the gravel of our driveway. Last year we had three at once digging holes and dropping eggs as I watched from the kitchen window.

The woman is old and walks in measured steps. There is a grace to her movements; her neck is long and straight. She still dyes her hair, a solid reddish-brown, not quite copper. She wears it parted in the middle and twisted neatly in the back. Lovely. She takes care of herself; her skin is beautiful, barely lined but for the laugh wrinkles around her blue eyes.

Elaine from the church called me to ask if I would donate three pounds of butter to the drive-by chicken pie supper scheduled for Halloween, the last Saturday in October. Sure, I said. And do you need me to do chicken picking, too? She did. By the end of the brief call, I feel like I ran five miles on Zoloft, my nervous system awash in endorphins. Why does she make me feel so good? And why am I really excited about chicken picking: pulling meat off of over-cooked chickens?