THIS CHICKEN was different, with chunks of mouth-watering white meat on extra-large bones of the legs and wings. It tasted remarkably fresh and full of flavor.

The chickens came from a coop in the backyard. At holiday dinner in Ohio, my mother-in-law, Jan, and father-in-law, John, treated friends and family to several fresh birds transformed into chicken paprikash.

Eggs from the birds were used to create the meal’s dumplings and also sliced into the salad.

Garlic and thyme that seasoned the dishes came from a garden next to the coop, as did the salad’s radishes. Apples in the pie were from the tree by the driveway. Swiss cheese shredded into the salad came from Middlefield Cheese, just down the road. The garlic bulbs, by the way, were the size of tennis balls.

I sat next to “99.” The family had begun calling my wife’s grandfather 99 because that was his age. His more-common nickname was Pako.

When Pako and his wife, Ethel, moved into the home of my wife’s parents two years ago, he made one request. Pako wanted to raise chickens, just as he did as a boy in East Youngstown, Ohio, after emigrating from Hungary with his parents when he was four.

My wife’s brother, Doug, designed and built a coop. Once again, Pako is collecting and washing eggs, cleaning coop floors and nests, and feeding birds. In winter, John does most of the work, as the ground outside is covered in ice or snow, or mud.

During our four-day visit, my 11-year-old daughter, Rachel, collected and washed the eggs. She will share the experience with her urban buddies when we get back to Providence.

Pako arrived in America five months before Babe Ruth made his major-league debut with the Boston Red Sox and the Great War, later called World War I, began.

Pako’s father, Gabor, worked in the steel mills. Pako’s mom, Juliska, raised chickens, ducks and geese within a fenced-in backyard. The family ate the eggs and meat, sharing with extended family members.

Gabor also served as family gardener and made wine. As a youngster, Pako caught, killed, plucked, dressed and presented the chickens to his mother for cooking.

For years, Pako claimed that chicken didn’t taste as good as in the old days when a backyard bird was killed, cleaned and cooked.

Modern commercial birds are cooled or frozen to remove body heat. Ten decades later, Pako is again eating birds that he helped raise.

A couple of days after the family dinner, we ate at an area restaurant, where I enjoyed melt-in-your-mouth walleye from nearby Lake Erie, cooked in local herbs and served on a bed of just-picked baby spinach. In the same place 25 years earlier, I’d eaten a greasy, pre-packaged hamburger and French fries of unknown origin. Talk about knowing where your food came from and supporting the community today!

With the buzz about a coming green revolution and explosion of global environmental technology, let’s not forget the lessons of our fathers in shaping the future — farms, families, flavors, freshness, friends, familiarity, simplicity and the making of memories. In traversing these trying times, close-to-home never tasted better.

Scott Turner is a Providence-based nature writer. His columns appear here each Saturday ( scottturnerster@gmail.com).