Back in the day, early 1940's, no self respecting woman would buy chicken at a grocery store.  Farms were being sold, people were moving to town, and farm women had always raised their own chickens--then killed and dressed the chickens themselves. 

Every town had a chicken market.  My grandmother would take me with her and we would go to the market--which was a store on Adair street in Pryor.  It was crammed with squalking chickens in cages or running around loose.

Any time a cage was opened, a wise chicken would flee the coop and start running.  There were brown, red, speckled and white birds.  Birds of every color.  The noise they made could be heard clear out on the street.

And the smell--I can't describe the smell.  You can only imagine. 

Gran knew what she wanted.  Not an old hen.  Not a skinny hen.  She wanted a fat young bird--and paid close attention to choosing the one she wanted.  Once she picked it out, the grocer would kill it, dress it, wrap it in butcher paper and put it in a bag.

Then we would go home, cut it up (with a wish bone) and fry it immediately.  Always for lunch--which all the Okies I know call "Dinner."  At night it's called "Supper."  Hence the Okie saying, "Winner, winner, chicken dinner."

Of course chicken house stores didn't last.  Everyone downtown complained about the smell.  And finally women had to buy chicken from grocery stores.  But the chickens they sold had to have the head still on to show it was fresh.  When I went to France, I found it interesting that they still do that there.