"What do you mean?"

  Us women were not really holed up as much as holding down the fort. 

  "This would be difficult for anyone." 

  The byte/bit of conversation stood out from the whispers of who was probably going to...

  "Okay.  Maybe we're thinking too linear-ly.  Is that a word?" 

  "I think I know what you mean." Someone offered. 

  "I mean, I get it.  It's not a criticism." 

  The lady of the farm/ranch came back inside with sixteen eggs.  Everyone assessed the haul on their own, then someone suggested that since there were thirty-four women and children, maybe we should make a casserole.  "Or, omelets?" 

  "My kids have their hearts set on flapjacks." 

  The lady of the farm began to take skillets and bowls and baking pans out of enormous cupboards that gave the home goods that incredibly shrinking woman feel. 

  "That's a principle.  That's a value.  Lemme see the next statement." The slightly older woman had her hair pulled into a bun and pens, pencils, even a piece of chalk were radiating out of the bun like a wagon wheel.  "She's just helping." 

  "'Cuz you're supposed to be doing this yourselves," a husband who'd snuck in for a piece of bacon palmed her stomach.  "We can," the young wife recited the timeless mantra.

  "WHAT ARE THEY ALL DOING IN THE BATHROOM together?!?" An irate-faced, red, puffy eyes, twisting angry mouth woman stood up as the hands of a child telling a secret fell away from her ear.  Everyone froze.  The smell of biscuits and muffins wafted from the oven.  "Has this place been swept?" A woman asked.