Wynken, Blynken, and Nod went on the long journey today. Like all good schmoos, they will fulfill their destinies as the roast and the boiled. The people who tell you that pigs are clean animals must be viewing them under a wholly different set of circumstances than presently prevail here, and the boys called us out to the trailer to witness that, washed, the pigs were pink instead of grey. We had to run a separate load of wash to deal with the blue jeans and work shirts that participated in the loading and washing; the sounds of that activity reached the house from all the way down by the white barn: expletives drowned in squeals of a timbre to take the paint off a pickup.
They made their ride in our red and yellow stock trailer. Brown when we bought it, the trailer was in need of a good coat of rust-resistant paint. Now it looks like something out of a circus, and the boys slide down in their seats when the truck pulls by another vehicle. Sometimes we do a thing that leaves us wondering ever after what on earth we were thinking when we did it. That red and yellow stock trailer is a case in point. Once we painted a ’58 GMC pick’emup truck a vibrant shade of bathtub blue. Streaky. We drove it until it threw a rod, and then abandoned it on the side of the highway; we were hoping that coat of paint couldn’t be proved against us. And, anyway, we didn’t have the money for a tow.
The weather is grey and damp and cool still, but the trees are performing their spring miracle, and in a matter of about three days they have gone from virtually bare branches to full, if juvenile, foliage. The black tree trunks are almost obscured by various shades of green and bronze, and the squill has begun to bloom light blue, and lighter blue, under the maple trees. Trillium looks like small white doves scattered on the forest floor, which maybe is why the red variety is called “wake robin”. Soon there will be blood-root, like white and yellow candle flames above their round leaves. The apple trees are now in full bloom, reminding us where they crouch at the edge of the woods.
We lost a turkey poult today. S-5 found him when he went to check the birds at noon. He said the poult seemed to have stuck his head in a crack in the pen, and then been too stupid to pull it out again. A case of invincible ignorance. We are always distressed when something in our care dies; death is so irreversible. This accident leaves us with only one tom turkey, and three hens, one of which will have to volunteer for Thanksgiving dinner, so we can see whether we like roast Bourbon Red.