From the age of nine, I stayed with my grandparents during most of the summer every year as I was growing up. They lived in Irving, Texas, a very small rural community outside of Dallas. They weren’t really farmers, but they had a huge truck garden and chicken house on their property. Much of the produce from the truck garden was meticulously chopped, seasoned, cooked and canned by my grandmother and put away into the canning closet for later consumption.
A good part of it was traded for goods or services between neighbors. The eggs and chickens from the chicken house were traded for fresh churned butter or cuts of pork from a local producer on the edge of town. Of course, we had eggs every morning for breakfast and chicken for dinner at least once or twice a week.