This is a story about my Moms Mother, Orma Miller. My Grandma was a unique lady, and this remembrance will give you an idea of her independence. I introduce you to Orma Miller. Grandma Miller’s Chickens My mom’s mother, Orma Miller, always had a large flock of chickens on the farm she shared with Grandpa. This was her way of earning extra spending money, and supplemented the cow-calf operation they had, as well as Grandpa’s job at the Michigan Reformatory. As a youngster I think she must have had over 100 chickens, (a child’s estimate), a combination of laying hens, chicks, and roosters. I remember the long, low ceiling coop designed to house those layers, long rows of roosting beds, where every day fresh eggs could be found nestled in the straw beds used by those hens. She had a large pen in the back and to the side of the coop, where those chickens could scratch and run. I remember each spring to supplement the flock and replace those hens or roosters who had turned into Sunday Dinners, she and Grandpa would order chicks from the Runsiman Mill-then Towline Feeds owned by Dave Steere. Those little yellow, chirping birds all huddled in a large box were put in the station wagon and home. Grandma had a special part of the coop set up with a small enclosure and a heat lamp for warmth so those little chicks could thrive. Soon they had grown to the point where they joined the flock. She had an egg route as you have probably guessed. Several ladies in town would usually order a dozen or two weekly. Ladies baked a lot more often and from scratch back then, more than is done today. I remember going with her on that route. Loading those eggs into the cartons then into that station wagon and off she would go. You must know that she was only about 4’10” tall and I laugh as I recall her driving that car. Seat forward as far as possible, her looking over that large steering wheel, and shifting that 3 speed on the column. She also sold fryers, and I vividly recall how I delighted on days she butchered those birds. She did it fast and clean, but a chicken with its head cut off is very funny to an 8 year old boy. I remember so many Sunday chicken dinners at her house. A great cook, although I don’t thinks she enjoyed it, there would be a pile of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and often dressing. Those smells, the talk, how I miss that. I recall at about 4 or 5 being chased by one of her large roosters all the way to the house. He was pecking at my heels, and I screaming all the way. I remember Brother Pat at the kitchen table on one of those Sundays and the smell of rotten egg looming over him. He had accidently broken one and gotten it all over himself. How we laughed once he was cleaned up. After a while the ‘Super Market’ made it easier for people to get eggs, chickens, etc. all at one place. The demand for farm fresh slowed and soon the chickens were gone. That coop slowly turned into some sort of storage shed, and then torn down completely. Funny but now with organic everything, her eggs and chickens would be in vogue, and if she were here she would be a part of it. Miss you Grandma.
Posted on: Sat, 30 Aug 2014 11:50:43 +0000