CARM Posts
1. I think that I, and my many brothers and sisters, must have eaten our weight in dirt as children, running barefoot through the fields, the chicken yard, the pig pen . . . . Glorious!
2. But the fields, the chicken yard, and the pig pens were full of dirt of all kinds. We plucked the eggs from where the hens had hidden them; squished through the hog wallow to see the new piglets; weeded the string beans; smashed pecans and black walnuts on the back stoop - all without coming in to wash up. We'd suck on sour grass, eat new corn right off the stalk, or apples right off the tree, or fresh peanuts grandaddy pulled up still covered with the black sandy loam that was Eastern North Carolina. Black, sandy loam that felt glorious between your toes, and made you want to dig in it. Heck, the water table was so high, if you dug far enough, you could get to it.
3. That is true. Fortunately for us, Daddy had a day job as a sheet metal worker - Granddaddy ran the farm - but still, many nights all we had for supper was collards. Not that we cared; Momma was a good cook, and with a bit of fatback and corn mean dumplins, collards makes a whole meal. The best part was the pot likker; we always saved that for Granddaddy. I have a neat description, btw, of a hog killin from those days - it's longish, so not really postable here. Getting up a chicken for supper is quicker:Grandma Reel would start out by drawing a big circle in the dirt, chopping the chicken’s head off with a hatchet and putting the chicken in the circle to flop until it was still. The chicken never flopped out of the circle. I’m not sure what bad luck it would have brought if the chicken did flop out. Grandma Stapleford had a different style: She held the chicken by the feet and put its head on the ground, then put a board on the chicken’s neck, standing on either end and yanked the chicken’s body from its head. The next step in either case was to toss the body into a pot of scalding water, so you could pull out the feathers and pinfeathers.
4. Not sure where granny got the circle thing; likely she just did that because her mother had, and her own mother before her. Chopping off a chicken's head is a fairly humane way to kill it, and it's life before that was reasonably pleasant. We fed ours scraps from the table as well as chicken feed, and Granddaddy would let them out of the chicken yard from time to time to peck around for worms and bugs. Come nightfall, they'd all head back to the henhouse, but they were too stupid to go through the gate; they'd just pile themselves up on the fence, nearest the henhouse. We'd have to go throw them over the fence, or herd them to the gate. We mainly kept pullets for eggs, not to eat. Every so often, Granddaddy would decide to restock the chicken pen, and we’d all go down to the hatchery. The hatchery was a wonderful place - almost as good as the Green Grocery. It wasn’t just a hatchery, but a feed and farm supply store located at Five Points. There were barrels of feed you could stick your arms in, up to the elbows, and wiggle your fingers. There were smells, like fresh-ground corn. There was always grain dust in the air, and on the floor. We would always get a mixed batch of chickens. A batch of pullets went for $.30 a head; roosters went for $.10 a head; and a mixed batch went for $.15 a head. They came in a flat, square box of thin cardboard, with quarter-sized holes. We would bring them home, and set them in the kitchen next to the gas stove for a few days, so we could be sure they were all right. Then Granddaddy would put them in the biddy pen until they were big enough to go into the regular chicken yard.After a while, the biddies would start to sprout white feathers, and their combs would grow. Some of them would start to poke out their chests, and make adolescent attempts to crow. This was a mistake. The biggest and juiciest of the obviously male chickens then started to disappear: chicken for supper! Old laying hens past their time were stewed. You had to boil them a LONG time to render them chewable; but the dumplings were great. For their part, the pullets would start to lay tiny brown eggs - a signal that they were old enough to join the rest of the herd in the main chicken yard. Granddaddy always kept one rooster there, figuring, perhaps, that it made hens happier. It also kept down chicken yard warfare.The rooster was the worst thing about the chickens. Free of any competition, the resident rooster would grow to enormous size - easily as tall as a six or seven-year-old child, when stretched to fighting length. Our chores included feeding the chickens and fetching the eggs. The rooster’s chores included protecting his hens and eggs from us. We used to go into the chicken yard in pairs: one, with a large stick or broom, to do battle with the rooster; one, basket in hand, to collect the eggs. How wonderful to know, now, that they were the first cousins - a million times removed - of T Rexs! That rooster would be sooooo proud!
5. The sheep slide sounds like fun! You are right about the machinery et. al. We'd often cut ourselves on sharp implements or bits of barbed wire, so Mom would have to haul us down to the clinic for tetinous shots. We'd complain bitterly, but Mom had a really lurid side, and her description of the symptoms of "lockjaw" had us begging for the shots. (Her description of being "hanged, drawn, and quartered" as always kept me from seeing "Braveheart.") Cars? When I was growing up, nobody had seat belts; even when I was an adult, you occasionally saw lap belts in the front seat, but nobody wore them. There were no proper child's seats; you carried babies in your lap, or loose in the back. Heck, I frequently saw piles of kids stuck in the back of pick up trucks, along with a couple of dogs. It's a wonder anyone grew up.Added in edit: Another way my brothers and their friends found to harmlessly hurt themselves was to dare each other to pee on the electrified pig fence.
2. But the fields, the chicken yard, and the pig pens were full of dirt of all kinds. We plucked the eggs from where the hens had hidden them; squished through the hog wallow to see the new piglets; weeded the string beans; smashed pecans and black walnuts on the back stoop - all without coming in to wash up. We'd suck on sour grass, eat new corn right off the stalk, or apples right off the tree, or fresh peanuts grandaddy pulled up still covered with the black sandy loam that was Eastern North Carolina. Black, sandy loam that felt glorious between your toes, and made you want to dig in it. Heck, the water table was so high, if you dug far enough, you could get to it.
3. That is true. Fortunately for us, Daddy had a day job as a sheet metal worker - Granddaddy ran the farm - but still, many nights all we had for supper was collards. Not that we cared; Momma was a good cook, and with a bit of fatback and corn mean dumplins, collards makes a whole meal. The best part was the pot likker; we always saved that for Granddaddy. I have a neat description, btw, of a hog killin from those days - it's longish, so not really postable here. Getting up a chicken for supper is quicker:Grandma Reel would start out by drawing a big circle in the dirt, chopping the chicken’s head off with a hatchet and putting the chicken in the circle to flop until it was still. The chicken never flopped out of the circle. I’m not sure what bad luck it would have brought if the chicken did flop out. Grandma Stapleford had a different style: She held the chicken by the feet and put its head on the ground, then put a board on the chicken’s neck, standing on either end and yanked the chicken’s body from its head. The next step in either case was to toss the body into a pot of scalding water, so you could pull out the feathers and pinfeathers.
4. Not sure where granny got the circle thing; likely she just did that because her mother had, and her own mother before her. Chopping off a chicken's head is a fairly humane way to kill it, and it's life before that was reasonably pleasant. We fed ours scraps from the table as well as chicken feed, and Granddaddy would let them out of the chicken yard from time to time to peck around for worms and bugs. Come nightfall, they'd all head back to the henhouse, but they were too stupid to go through the gate; they'd just pile themselves up on the fence, nearest the henhouse. We'd have to go throw them over the fence, or herd them to the gate. We mainly kept pullets for eggs, not to eat. Every so often, Granddaddy would decide to restock the chicken pen, and we’d all go down to the hatchery. The hatchery was a wonderful place - almost as good as the Green Grocery. It wasn’t just a hatchery, but a feed and farm supply store located at Five Points. There were barrels of feed you could stick your arms in, up to the elbows, and wiggle your fingers. There were smells, like fresh-ground corn. There was always grain dust in the air, and on the floor. We would always get a mixed batch of chickens. A batch of pullets went for $.30 a head; roosters went for $.10 a head; and a mixed batch went for $.15 a head. They came in a flat, square box of thin cardboard, with quarter-sized holes. We would bring them home, and set them in the kitchen next to the gas stove for a few days, so we could be sure they were all right. Then Granddaddy would put them in the biddy pen until they were big enough to go into the regular chicken yard.After a while, the biddies would start to sprout white feathers, and their combs would grow. Some of them would start to poke out their chests, and make adolescent attempts to crow. This was a mistake. The biggest and juiciest of the obviously male chickens then started to disappear: chicken for supper! Old laying hens past their time were stewed. You had to boil them a LONG time to render them chewable; but the dumplings were great. For their part, the pullets would start to lay tiny brown eggs - a signal that they were old enough to join the rest of the herd in the main chicken yard. Granddaddy always kept one rooster there, figuring, perhaps, that it made hens happier. It also kept down chicken yard warfare.The rooster was the worst thing about the chickens. Free of any competition, the resident rooster would grow to enormous size - easily as tall as a six or seven-year-old child, when stretched to fighting length. Our chores included feeding the chickens and fetching the eggs. The rooster’s chores included protecting his hens and eggs from us. We used to go into the chicken yard in pairs: one, with a large stick or broom, to do battle with the rooster; one, basket in hand, to collect the eggs. How wonderful to know, now, that they were the first cousins - a million times removed - of T Rexs! That rooster would be sooooo proud!
5. The sheep slide sounds like fun! You are right about the machinery et. al. We'd often cut ourselves on sharp implements or bits of barbed wire, so Mom would have to haul us down to the clinic for tetinous shots. We'd complain bitterly, but Mom had a really lurid side, and her description of the symptoms of "lockjaw" had us begging for the shots. (Her description of being "hanged, drawn, and quartered" as always kept me from seeing "Braveheart.") Cars? When I was growing up, nobody had seat belts; even when I was an adult, you occasionally saw lap belts in the front seat, but nobody wore them. There were no proper child's seats; you carried babies in your lap, or loose in the back. Heck, I frequently saw piles of kids stuck in the back of pick up trucks, along with a couple of dogs. It's a wonder anyone grew up.Added in edit: Another way my brothers and their friends found to harmlessly hurt themselves was to dare each other to pee on the electrified pig fence.
posted by Mooms at 1:12 PM
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