LITTLE FARM IN L.A.

WHO LOVES A GARDEN

Who loves a garden
Finds within his soul
Life's whole;
He hears the anthem of the soil
While ingrates toil;
And sees beyond his little sphere
The waving fronds of heaven, clear.
     -Louise Seyour Jones

I dragged out the following from my stack of stuff. Now that we're gardening in earnest, reaping harvests, gathering eggs, planting anew, it just seemed appropriate.

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     Los Angeles  was quite a bit smaller in the 1930s and '40s, of course. Our neighborhood grid is probably South Central today. Then it was South West. We lived between Vermont and Raymond, Vernon and 43rd, a short walk to the streetcar line.  This will be familiar only if you know L.A.

     Home was a bungalow-style house, built circa 1920 among others of like style. The lots were about 60 feet wide by 150 feet deep. Gramma brought her Missouri upbringing to California and created a backyard mini-farm. By the time I came along the apricot tree near my bedroom window was mature and gave generously of its fruit every year, delighting the resident mockingbirds. Adjacent to the back of the house was lush lawn, bordered by shrubs and flowers.

     A satsuma plum and kadota fig tree yielded their share, each shading a different part of the chicken coop area. Oh, yes. There were chickens clucking and crowing only a hop and skip from Exposition Park and the Colisseum.

     Two small coops occupied the left rear of the yard. One held growing pullets, raised for laying hens, the other, young roosters, destined for Sunday dinner. A large coop, lined with nests, occupied the right rear yard. A complement of twenty-four layers scratched and crooned or clucked loudly as they proclaimed their accomplishments inside the nests. One preening rooster ruled with lusty voice, formidable beak and sharp spurs. I fed the flocks and gathered eggs. When I fed the layers, my right hand clutched a stout stick. Big Red, the longest reigning rooster, considered me his mortal enemy. We dueled as I tried to scatter feed without being gored.

     Gramma built nests for access outside the coop by humans and inside by the inhabitants. To coax my pet hen, a plump White Rock named Biddy (what else), out to play, I crooned to her from a nest door. She came to me and we strolled around the back yard, or she sat on my lap, talking to me and perhaps sharing an apple. There really is a pecking order, by the way. Biddy was queen among hens. She scattered all before her. I could point out which hens descended in dominance down to the most bullied.

     Contrary to prevailing wisdom, chickens experience sentimentality. Biddy was Big Red's favorite. She followed him everywhere and bedeviled any hen who dared try to replace her. When B.R. died, Biddy, uncharacteristically quiet, refused to leave her roost. In three days she died. She was heartbroken. So was I.

     Gramma kept a cage for some "setting" hens to hatch eggs occasionally; but we usually took a springtime trip to the feed store and picked out newborn chicks, incubator cage ready and waiting at home. Gramma could accurately pick future hens out of a dozen with maybe one or two roosters. She judged by the thickness of their beaks - she said. Amazing!

     A healthy diet of mash, corn and supplements guaranteed plenty of fresh eggs. I earned my allowance feeding, gathering eggs, mucking out the coops, raking in lime. Neighbors gladly emptied my basket for $.60 a dozen. The egg money was my pay for work done. I learned to kill and dress chickens, my mind separating dinners from pets. We bred some rabbits in a raised cage for dinner fare. For all Gramma's urging, I never could do in a rabbit. That didn't keep me from enjoying a meal that featured one. Farmers need brains that work on different levels, you see.

     In front of the coops and cages was fenced garden. A path divided the whole. On one side were vegetables and a freestone peach tree. Neat furrows boasted eggplant, kale, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, pole beans, peas, squash and a row or two of corn. Neighbors shared the bounty. On the other side stood rose bushes and, depending upon season, prize dahlias of all hues and sizes, assorted annuals and perennials, all competing for an invitation to show off inside the house.

     Our corner grocer only saw Gramma's purse open for a few canned goods, fruit (boxes full in canning season) and baking supplies. Milk, butter, cheese and bread arrived at our door. The German butcher offered fresh-ground beef, his own sausage, a good roast, leg of lamb, thick pork chops, the works. He always offered me a cold frankfurter, made in-house, to munch on while we shopped. I still like cold hot dogs.  I didn't know there was a Depression. The Little Farm in L.A. provided fresh, healthy food to feed our bodies and an exquisitely beautiful and fragrant flower garden to nourish our souls.

    So, here I am today, not in California, but in Texas, returning to my roots, raising chickens and crops with two of my daughters. Thanks for the lessons, Granny.  I can't believe how much I remember.

9/8/11