Ninety-nine percent of the time, our grandchildren know what to expect from me. It’s the other 1 percent that keeps them guessing. And that’s when the unexpected leads to adventure.
Here’s the latest surprise.
William, 16, and Fenn, 14, had no idea what was in the Styrofoam cooler. And when they opened the lid of the white cube, the fellas were still wondering, “What are these?”
I handed Alan’s and Heather’s sons an oblong avocado-green object, a little bigger than those miniature plastic footballs that cheerleaders toss into the stands at high school football games. But much, much heavier. Maybe a pound-and-a-half each.
“Be careful.”
“What are they?”
“Mule eggs.”
“Grandpaaaaaa.”
“You know better. Mules don’t come from eggs, but emus do.”
Then, I explained that our neighbor had given me two freshly laid emu eggs. Clyde Jones figured that we’d have “fun” watching them hatch.
He was right.
But then I thought, “What would be more fun is to let grandchildren turn the eggs into a learning experience.”
Earlier, I had encouraged Alan and Heather to be “open-minded” about the forthcoming Sunday afternoon surprise.
And they were.
We all smiled when the teenagers pounced on the project. Before bedtime, they had launched into research about the long-legged, flightless birds that look like something out of Jurassic Park. But emus’ real roots are in Australia.
A couple of weeks later, our emu researchers can rattle off a list of facts about the Dromaius novaehollandiae, including that none of us will ever beat one in a footrace. Emus can motor up to 50 mph.
Besides their enthusiasm, I applauded their commitment. Pooling their resources, William and Fenn bought a digital incubator. And they set up a scheduled egg-turning and moisture-control regimen. Posted on the basement wall is a calendar with the 52nd day marked. In addition to an Easter bunny hopping around, two little emus could be pecking out of their shells.
Since the original pair of eggs, the science project has more than doubled. The incubator is now at maximum capacity. Five individually marked emu eggs are under the watchful eye of William and Fenn. And they know that successful hatchings are up against poor odds.
But as I’ve reminded grandchildren before, “In the Big Leagues, if you can produce more than three hits out of 10 pitches in your career, you’re a likely candidate for Cooperstown’s Hall of Fame.” It’s not strikeouts that count. What matters most is your batting average. In life, too.
Since Clyde “gifted” us with the eggs, we’ve learned this, too:
§ Second to ostriches, emus are the second tallest bird.
§ A single emu egg equals about a dozen chicken eggs.
§ Male emus sit on the eggs and turn them about 10 times per day. (How about that, ladies?)
§ An adult emu can weigh from 65 to 120 pounds.
§ Australia was home of the Great Emu War of 1932. (Look it up.)
§ Emus’ commercial value is for their meat, oil, leather, feathers and eggs. (Look that up, too, but keep your day job.)
§ Emu meat is high in protein, iron and vitamin C and low in fat and cholesterol.
§ Emu meat is similar to beef in color and texture. (But you won’t find emu steaks on our supper table. Will you, William and Fenn?)
§ Emus can be sociable. (But shhhh, I haven’t leaked the news to our pasture menagerie yet.)
One final emu nugget is that—under human care—emus can live up to 30 years and beyond.
Wiliam’s and Fenn’s children could have the chance to “enjoy” our neighbor’s gifts, too.
Maybe I could still be around to watch.
That’d really be fun.
But I can’t count my emus until the eggs hatch.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
