The Garden of Groveton

One of the greatest advantages of living on farm during the Great Depressions of the 1930's was that we had lots of food –very little money, but lots of food. Ironically, it was all organically grown and free range. The cows and chickens got lots of fresh air and exercise.

Today organic vegetables are regarded as premium food and free range chicken costs more. Okay, so it’s better and better for you, but you pay. We didn’t even imagine a day when chickens would be like laying machines caged so they cannot move and that vegetables would be grown in hot houses in California to be flown to our urban supermarkets.

You have heard the expression, "Eat Local." None of those New Zealand apples for us. We ate the ones from our own trees. Although we did occasionally eat a few from Willie Smail’s orchard just down the road. The Smails used to watch their orchard very closely, but they lived quite a way from it, so Dorothy used to get me to go with her to secure some of their Macs. We would creep through the woods and slip into the orchard from the rear, pick a few ripe ones and exit the same way. Although they were excellent apples, we didn’t really need them and we know Mother would frown if we told her what we had done. It was the fun of it that counted, and the thrill. Thrills were not easy to come by in the Garden of Groveton.

In our garden we grew great, huge red tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes and onions that we would eat raw and in great quantities all summer long. The potatoes, cabbage, carrots, parsnips and turnips could be stored for winter eating in our cellar. I remember dumping wagon loads of potatoes down a chute into a huge bin in the cellar and then going down into that cold, dark place in December to pick out a pot full for Mother.

The chickens were kept in the chicken coop. Where else? They would range out into the yard to pick and peck, but at dusk they ducked back through the hen door and reserved a spot on a roost for the night. The roosters mingled with the hens. When Mother wanted one for Sunday dinner, I would be dispatched with a sturdy coat hanger opened out with the end bent into a hook. The trick was to pick out a nice plump rooster and snag him by one foot with the hook. There would be lots of wings flapping and hens running and dust rising, but that rooster must die!

We had a block of wood resting on its end behind the house with an axe leaning against it. There was no point in being squeamish when chicken pot pie was promised. Off with its head and into the scalding water to pluck the feathers. Premium quality fresh free range chicken for supper –we called the meal at night supper– with organically grown potatoes and carrots on the side.

We ate okay, Depression or no Depression.