GRANNY KILLS CHICKENS!

My little brother was terrified of our Granny.

The last memory he had of her was a visit to her little farm before we moved to Arizona. Brother was 4 years old.

As we pulled into the farm’s lane, we saw Granny…hair standing on end, wearing an apron, a knife in her hand and blood spattered all over her!

Granny, Iva Persilla Martin Bullington, was killing chickens that day, culling the flock and getting ready for a nice chicken dinner for her family who was coming to visit.

As Granny ran to greet us with wide open arms and bloody apron, my brother screamed at the top of his lungs and ran as fast and as far away from this grisly image as he could.

We older ones were all used to seeing Granny this way. She was as farm as farm gets. Living in rural Runnells, Iowa in Polk County since she was a girl, a little chicken blood never bothered her. Or us. Just brother. And it bothered him the rest of his life, leaving a lasting impression of our beloved Granny burned into his memory banks of a scary, ghastly killer come to get him - Aaack! - and she wanted to hug him!

My memory of that day was much more pleasant. I remember the fried chicken, cozy kitchen, and the long visit afterward sitting on the front porch.

The next time I saw my Granny, I was a grown woman with a son of my own and we all had five-generation pictures taken. Our Granny, her eldest daughter Bernice, Bernice's eldest daughter, Patsy (my mother), Patsy's eldest daughter, Cheryle (myself), and my eldest son, Michael (yes I 'blew it' - no eldest daughter!).

I would post that picture here, but my son has it. I'll have to ask him if I can borrow it someday.

Here's a picture of her:


My brother? He can’t even say the word “Granny” without remembering chicken blood and hair that stood on end in the wind, but MY Granny made the best fried chicken in the world.

Memories. They are what make us who we are.