
When I was a child, as I told early readers of this blog, my parents had a small farm. They had bought it just before the depression. My father, a romanticist, always dreamed of being a farmer. It was a small farm and the primary reason for its being was to raise produce. But we had two horses to plow the fields and pull the wagon. We had goats. We had two cows so that with all the milk my mother decided to make a small dairy business out of it. Besides the milk, she sold heavy and light cream, sour cream and her delicious homemade cottage cheese. We had pet ducks and of course, we had chickens.
We raised the chickens for ourselves; either Rhode Island Reds or White Leghorn chickens. We ate eggs almost daily and, I am sorry to tell you, we ate the chickens when they were too old to lay eggs or we needed food. After all, the depression hit and everyone needed to eat. But we did not raise chickens as a business.

Every spring my mother would get a huge carton of darling, cuddly yellow chicks. I loved it when they brought the chicks into the house for warmth. I would play with them. Today I guess you would say I bonded with the chicks. But when they grew real feathers, they went out to the chicken coop and the friendship ended. Still I have never enjoyed eating chicken, I guess because of my bonding.
Continue reading “TheGardenLady’s Childhood Experience with Chickens”












