Little farm in L.A. nourished family during hard times
By Gloria Thiele
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12:01 a.m. PT May 3, 2008
Skyrocketing food prices. Contaminated food recalls. Corn and rice shortages.
Kudos to community-supported agriculture. Let's go further. Nevada County boasts acres of big backyards. Hoist that hoe. Plant that plot. Reap a family harvest. Save money. Be healthy. Really go green. Give the kids a fresh-air job to contribute to the family good, cultivate self-esteem and experience a rewarding, old- fashioned nature education.
Case in point: It was the Depression. Our Los Angeles neighborhood, a short walk to the downtown streetcar line, was composed of circa-1920 California bungalows.
The lots were about 60 by 150 feet. My farm-bred grandmother, from Nevada, Mo. (named after Nevada City, by the way) created a backyard mini-farm.
When I was born in the '30s, the mature apricot tree near my bedroom window delivered bounteous 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 shaded a different part of the chicken coop area. Yup! There were chickens clucking and crowing a mile from Exposition Park, the museums and new Colosseum.
Two small coops occupied the left rear yard. One held young pullets, raised for layers, the other, young roosters, destined for Sunday dinner. A large coop, lined with nests, occupied the right rear yard. Twenty-four laying hens scratched, crooned and clucked 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. While feeding the layers, my right hand clutched a stout stick. Big Red, the longest reigning rooster, considered me his mortal enemy. We dueled as I attempted to distribute feed without being gored. Nests had access outside the coop for humans and from inside by the inhabitants.
To coax my pet hen out to play (a plump white rock named Biddy - what else), I crooned to her from a nest door. She came to me and we strolled around the backyard or she sat in my lap, talking to me and perhaps sharing an apple.
There really is a poultry pecking order. Biddy was queen. She scattered all before her. I could point out which hens descended in dominance.
Take note. Chickens may possess 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, heartbroken.
Gramma kept a cage for some "setting" hens to hatch eggs occasionally; but usually we took a springtime trip to the feed store and picked out newborn chicks, warm incubator ready at home. Gramma unerringly picked future hens out of a dozen with maybe one or two roosters. She judged by the thickness of their beaks. 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 cents a dozen. No one complained about crowing roosters in those days. Food was food. I learned to kill and dress chickens, my mind separating dinners from pets.
We bred rabbits raised in cages for dinner fare. I never could "do in" a rabbit, but nevertheless enjoyed a meal that featured one. Rabbits and chickens provided the garden fertilizer, too.
In front of the coops and cages was a 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, rose bushes and, depending upon the season, prize dahlias of all hues and sizes, assorted annuals and perennials, competed for an invitation to show off inside the house.
Our corner grocer only saw Gramma's purse open for some canned goods, fruit (boxes full in canning season) and baking supplies. Milk and bread arrived at our door. The butcher offered his own sausage blends, California-raised beef, lamb and pork. He always gave me a cold frankfurter, also made in-house, or a pickle to munch while we shopped.
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.
Your little farm could do the same. Think about it.
Gloria Thiele lives in Grass Valley.
