It’s Spring again. Another 365.something day tour around our own little star. Isn’t it grand? Do you take for granted your travels on Spaceship Earth? Our home isn’t stuck on some foundation with a permanent address that can be viewed on Google Maps.
No, far from it. We’re traveling. We are travelers without knowing from whence we came or where we go.
The Old Ones know this. They take nothing for granted.
Except cookies and peanuts.
From yours truly.
Opie and Opette come to dine nightly, as does Vincenzi the Fox. Gladys and her crowd come by during the day.
Most recently we’ve been guested by Verne, one of Hecate’s kits. There are two others who also come by and say hello, although usually after we’ve shut off the lights and are in bed. We hear them talking; “Pass the peanuts?” and “Is that fresh water?” and “Any more cookies?”
And we’ll see them and other Old Ones through the year and through the years. All of them come to us. We’re a house of magic. So they tell us.
We believe. Old Ones don’t lie.
Say hello to Verne, all.
It’s tough being an ignored Young Turk(ey)
Okay, so they’re names are really Bert and Larry.
Remember Gladys? Remember my she was an advance scout? Or maybe she just got tired of all the gobbling?
Not quite accurate.
She got tired of all the testosterone.
There was Gladys, merrily prancing through our yard, munching and mensching with the other Old Ones, then voobah, Bert and Larry show up.
She ignores them.
You should see the look on their faces when she does. There they are, strutting their stuff for all to see, and she’s all “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
I’m so glad I’ve found the love of my life. No more courting. No more prancing. No more fluffing, strutting, whatever.
As a joke, I strutted for a neighbor, Debbie. We sometimes walk our dogs together in the morning. She mentioned seeing two Toms in our backyard and I did a good 100ft riff on Turkey machismo. Debbie laughed so hard she almost dropped the leash.
So much for me strutting, huh?
Say hello to Bert and Larry, folks.
Okay, so far just one; Gladys.
Gladys has been coming around the past few days. Every year, as Spring approaches, we’ll have a single Turkey come by.
We think the single turkey – this year it’s Gladys – is an advance scout. Maybe an advance guard.
But then again, Turkeys. She could’ve simply tired of all the other hen’s gobbling – it’s turkey gossip, you know, all that gobbling. And the things they say! – and needed some time by herself.
Whatever, Gladys has been stopping by, inspecting our yard, making sure the proper amount of seed is available, making sure all the other Old Ones are playing nice, keeping things sorted. One year Agnes aka The Aginator aka The Turkinator literally patrolled the yard. Whenever there was a wildlife skirmish, she was right in there keeping the peace.
And Turkey forbid someone should near her private pile of seed. Chippie War Dance time, that.
We’re making sure Gladys gives our yard her claw of approval.
One can never have too many Turkeys, you know.
Say hello to Gladys, folks.
Did you celebrate the Turkey Day of Infamy?
Non-USA readers may know that yesterday was the USA Thanksgiving, also known as Turkey Day of Infamy.
Oh? You’ve never heard of the Turkey Day of Infamy?
It’s widely known around these parts. Turkeys gather, flock, peck, commiserate, consolidate, and those who remain celebrate making it through another season of bloodshed and horror.
I mean, consider Thanksgiving from the turkeys’ point of view.
Oh, the turkanity!
Yesterday, before we took off to feast (to our everlasting shame!), we took a moment to thank the turkeys who remained with us.
We interviewed a few. Can’t share those. Such fowl language, you’ve never heard. (ha)
But quite the flock, folks.
Such is life in The Wild.
Ham with a side of Cranberry? Really?
I haven’t shared notes about our resident turkeys since The Chuckster and then to mention we hadn’t seen them in a bit. Prior to that, I wrote about Two Toms a’ Struttin’ and noted that, with that much testosterone hanging, turklets (we’ve been instructed they’re not “hatchlings” or some such. The proper translation from Toiga, the primary Turkey language, is “turklet”) were sure to be around.
We’d been hearing turkeys calling each other for a while. Hadn’t seen anyone, though. No turkey signs, either. You know, those signs they carry. Ban Thanksgiving!, Humans are Turkeys, Too!, Support the Turkey Lobby!, and Try Ham with a Side of Cranberry! So Good and So Good for You!.
Anyway, one day as I was working on Gable Smiled and had a sense I was being Turkied. Sure enough, lifting my eyes from my monitor, what do I behold?
There were more than seven, of course. I counted fourteen at one point (they came three times. Wanted to be sure I understood this was to be a turkey-less Thanksgiving this season).
And there were turklets. More like turkteens but still turklets.