and pretty soon the yard’s full of birds, and all we can see of Juli is her poop-covered shoes.
That’s not all we can hear, though. She’s warbling inside that coop, going, “I don’t need money, no fortune or faaa-ya-yame.
I got all the riches, baby, anyone can claim. Well, I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?
My girls. Talkin’ ’bout my little gir-ur-rls, my girls… ”
At this point I wasn’t checking the chickens out for rubbery red stuff or feathers.
I was looking at the bottom of Juli Baker’s feet, wondering how in the world a person could be so happy
tunneling through a dilapidated chicken coop with poop stuck all over her shoes.
Garrett got me back on track. “They’re all chickens,” he says. “Look at ’em.”
I quit checking out Juli’s shoes and started checking out birds. The first thing I did was count them.
One-two-three-four-five-six. All accounted for. After all, how could anyone forget she’d hatched six?
It was the all-time school recordeveryone in the county had heard about that.
But I was not really sure how to ask Garrett about what he had said.
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