When we were kids in the 30’s we had a chicken graveyard. Me and Jewell, Golda and Georgia were the oldest grandkids that lived around granny Cagle’s at that time.

When one of granny’s little chickens died we would bury it. We would get a match box for the casket and dig a grave. We would call the younger kids to come to the funeral and we would sing religious songs. One would preach the funeral and we cried real tears. We buried the little chicken, then we’d get a flat rock from the Baron gravel bar for the headstone and then we would put wild flowers on the grave. After the funeral we could hardly wait for another one of granny’s chickens to die. At the end of summer we had 12 chickens in the graveyard. The next summer, we went on to bigger and better things.

~Louise