A Day No Pigs Would Die

by Robert Newton Peck

  That was just the first time I had do with Mrs. Bascom. The second time was just day before yesterday. I was walking by her place on the dirt road (not through her damn strawberries) and she come out the house and called to me.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “Morning, Mrs. Bascom,” I said, but I sure didn’t stop to say it.

  “These flower pots are so heavy and all,” she’d said. “I don’t reckon you’d help me tug a few.”

  I looked good and hard for that broom of hers that was ten foot long and made of iron. Didn’t see it, so I climbed the stairs and got close. She was smiling.

  “Flower pots full of dirt are such pesky things,” she said. “No way to carry one except to tug.”

  “I can lift one,” I said, picking up a big pot.

  “My,” she said, “you’re such a strong boy.”

  “I can yoke our ox by myself, too,” I said. If she wanted to be friendly, I was game. It sure beat a brooming. So I helped her move the flower pots. In the Book of Shaker it says to do a good turn and neighbor well. Besides, it wasn’t chore time yet, and I could spare the work.

  “Thank you,” she said to me after we got the pots moved into a sunny spot. I never saw so many flowers, all of ’em pretty. Sort of like Mrs. Bascom.

  “Welcome,” I said.

  “Just you wait,” she said, and ran into the house. In no time she was back with a glass of buttermilk and a generous plate of gingersnaps, as big as moons.

  “Here,” she said, “I bet you’re hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry,” I said, “because I got a tapeworm.”

  “A tapeworm? You don’t.”

  “No, I don’t suspect I do. I seen a pig with worms once. Ugly as sin. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  I was drinking the good cool buttermilk and helping myself to plenty more gingersnaps, when I looked up at a man.

  “This here is Ira,” she said. “He’s my new hired hand.”

  “How do,” I said, trying not to choke on a gingersnap. He sure was big.

  “How do,” he said. “I’m Ira Long.”

  “I’m Robert Peck.”

  “Haven Peck’s boy,” said Mrs. Bascom.

  We shook hands, and Ira helped himself to a handful of gingersnaps. He ate about five on the first bite.

  “Say,” he said, “you the boy who helped bring Ben Tanner’s cow to calf? And pulled a goiter?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was a thing you done, Rob.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I seen them bull calves. Twins.”

  “Bob and Bib,” I said. “The one they call Bob is named for me.”

  “That’s an honor,” said Mrs. Bascom.

  “It blessed is,” Ira said.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say so I just took another gingersnap and stuffed it into my mouth so’s I wouldn’t have to talk. Sticking out my cheek, it made a shelf you could of set a dish on. Ira and Mrs. Bascom looked at me and started to laugh, and I go so fussed I just turned around a couple of times. Then I started to laugh, too. I still don’t know what was so all-fired funny. But it was.

  “Them two young oxen,” said Ira. “I hear Ben Tanner’s taking ’em to Rutland Fair.”

  The very mention of Rutland Fair made my heart jump. Jacob Henry had gone to Rutland Fair last year, and he told me that it just wouldn’t be believed. Anything that weren’t at Rutland Fair just wasn’t worth seeing. To hear Jacob tell it, the Fair was some spot.

  “You ever been, Rob?”

  “No. But I’d sure take a pride in going, with the pig I raised. Her name is Pinky. Guess when I get growed up, I’ll go every year. But we can’t go now.”

  “How come?”

  “We don’t have a horse, and I hear it’s quite a ways away. All we got is Solomon.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Mrs. Bascom.

  “Solomon’s our ox. He’s slow. But he’s big and strong and wise, like King Solomon. He’s in the Bible.”

  “That a fact,” said Ira.

  “Best I be going,” I said. “Thank you for the gingersnaps and the buttermilk.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Rob,” said Mrs. Bascom. “Anytime you come this way, be sure to stop for a how do.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Ira.”

  “So long, Rob.”

  That’s what I was remembering as I sat washing up Pinky. That pig sure did get dirty. She’d even got mud in her ears. When I first got her, washing her was no trouble on account of her being so tiny and all. But now! She was getting bigger than August.

  Papa come round the kitchen corner, carrying a gear for the quern. Mama had a small hand quern in the milk house, which she used to grind up meal. I turned the crank.

  “You’ll wash that pig away,” Papa said. “Won’t be nothing left of Pinky ’cept a lump of lard.”

  “I’m getting her clean, so I can put a ribbon on her neck and pretend I’m taking her to Rutland.”

  Papa hunkered down on his heels and watched me wash Pinky. She was clean as an archangel.

  “Rob?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think you could keep both your feet out of trouble if you was to go by yourself to Rutland?”

  I couldn’t talk. I knew he was funning me about going to Rutland. It weren’t for real.

  “Ben Tanner stopped by. He offered to take you to the Fair with him. Seems like Mrs. Bascom told Mrs. Tanner how much you wanted going. Ben asked me. He says he wants to show off them young oxen, and he wants a boy to work ’em in the ring. Said that they was too small just yet for him and that he’d feel foolish.”

  “Papa, is this a joke to play on me? If it is, I don’t think I can take it.”

  “You ain’t heard all, boy. Mr. Tanner says he’s sending some stock up a day early. He says if you want to show Pinky, she can go too.”

  “Papa, please …”

  “Now then. It’s more than a week off, so I don’t want to be talked to death about Rutland before you even put a foot on the Fair Grounds. Before you go, there’s the hen coop that needs cleaning out. Manure’s so thick in there, you got to kick a path to get eggs.”

  “Ill do it, Papa.”

  “Another thing. They won’t be no spending money. Not for nothing. You hear?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Mama will make you a lunch basket that’ll be breakfast, dinner, and supper. And you’re to do all the Tanners ask of you. And see things to be done before they ask.”

  “Yes, Papa. I’ll sure do good.”

  “If they judge hogs and judge oxen at the same time, your place is with Tanner’s yoke and not your own pig. Promise me, boy.”

  “I promise, Papa. I’ll do proud.”

  “And one more thing. It’d be right warm if you stop off and give Widow Bascom a thank you. You’re beholding to her for putting the bug to Mrs. Tanner’s ear.”

  “I will, Papa. I will. I will.”

  Mama was happy I was going to Rutland. Aunt Carrie wasn’t so sure at first. But later that evening she said she was going to give me ten cents for the Fair, providing I didn’t lose it, and didn’t tell about it to Mama or Papa. It was a secret.

  I sleeped out in the corn cratch with Pinky that night. She was so clean, Mama said, it would be a shame to waste it.

  Before going to sleep, I put my arms around Pinky’s neck and told her all about her and I on a trip to Rutland. And how she was going to win a blue ribbon at the showing. I told her about Widow Bascom and Ira Long, much as I knew. And how they giggled together in the dark.

  “Pinky,” I said, “having a big hired man around like Ira may be sinful. But I say the Widow Bascom is some improved.”

  Chapter

  10

  We’d learned in school that the city of London, England, is the largest city in the whole wide world. Maybe so. But it couldn’t have been much bigger than Rutland.

  Early that morning, Mama got me up. She packed my food basket
so full you’d think that nobody in Vermont had ate for a week, and this was it. Papa had gone to the barn to yoke Solomon, to drive me to the Tanner place. And when Mama wasn’t looking, Aunt Carrie slipped me the ten cents. She had it all knotted up in a clean white hanky and she wadded it so deep in my hip pocket, she halfway pushed my trousers down.

  “Don’t lose it,” she whispered to my ear. Lose it? After all that wrapping, I’d be hoped to ever find it.

  “It’s for a ride on the merry-go-round,” she said. “And if you don’t want to spend it, you can squirrel it away.”

  To make short of it, I got breakfasted and basketed, and packed off to Tanner’s. I never thought we’d get that far. Seems as though Solomon weren’t near as hurried to see Rutland as I was. Maybe he already knew he wasn’t going.

  “Papa,” I said, “tell me about Rutland.”

  “I never been.”

  Neither had I, so there really wasn’t much point in talking about it. A day or two ago, Papa as much as said to Mama that if he heard the word “Rutland” three more times they was going to have to send him to Brattleboro. That’s where the crazies go. I guess when they go crazy.

  When I jumped out of the oxcart, and Papa was turning Solomon for home, all he said to me was one word: “Manners.”

  It sure wasn’t far to Rutland. Not the way those dapple-gray horses of Mr. Tanner’s moved that rig. They must have been barned all summer at the speed they trotted. Ben Tanner drove, and I sat between him and his wife. Tight close. But it was all Mrs. Tanner and I could do just to hold tight.

  “Hang on, Bess,” said Mr. Tanner, and we were off.

  His grays were called Quaker Lady and Quaker Gent. Other than the fact that one was a mare and the other a gelding, you couldn’t tell ’em part. Except from the driver seat, when their tails were up. Boy, could they trot. We passed so many other rigs on the way to Rutland, I lost count. They sure were a pair. And Mr. Tanner was as proud of that brace of grays as he was of Bob and Bib. He just cottoned to things in twos. I was about to ask him why he didn’t keep a second Mrs. Tanner around somewhere, just as a matched pair to take out on Sunday. Or why he didn’t just wed twins. But I remembered “manners” and owed up to silence.

  “Never miss a chance,” Papa had once said, “to keep your mouth shut.” And the more I studied on it, the sounder it grew.

  We got to Rutland the same time everybody else did. There couldn’t of been nobody in Vermont who weren’t there, and all dressed for Sabbath. It was some sight to see, even before we got to the Fair Grounds. It reminded me of the story I heard about a man from Learning who had gone all the way to the city of New York. When he got back, folks all asked him what the city was like. All he said was: “There was so much going on at the depot, I never got to the village.”

  I didn’t know where the Rutland depot was. But it seemed to be about everywhere. And when we pulled up at the Fair Grounds, I was feared to blink for missing some of it.

  The first place we headed for was where the stock was Bedded down. Mrs. Tanner and I looked for what she called a “rest room.” As it was still morning early, I wasn’t of a mind to rest. But Mrs. Tanner sure was in a hurry for it. Bess was a big woman, and I never suspected she could cover so much distance in so short a time. We never did get to rest. All we did was find a pair of shanties, one marked LADIES and the other one GENTS. I knew right off it had something to do with where Mr. Tanner was going to put up his team. Even had their names on the door, and I thought that was real fancy. I sort of looked around for a shanty that said PINKY on the door, as they sure did things up fine in Rutland.

  But it seemed like Bess Tanner was still in a big hurry to rest. She mumbled something about “riding that fast over those cussed bumps” and what it did to her insides. Must have been the reason she was tired. Just before she pushed me through the GENTS door, she whispered a word of warning about the place.

  “Don’t speak to a soul inside there, you hear? Places like that are full of perverts.”

  There wasn’t much to do inside except take a leak, which I did. I looked around to see if I could spot me a pervert. As I was the only one in the place, there was no one to ask. I’d overheard Aunt Matty say “pervert” to Mama and Aunt Carrie, when they were talking. So I just figured that a pervert had something to do with grammar. Or maybe it was something like a cornet. But if’n there was a pervert in the place, they sure kept it hid. I sure hoped I’d see me one or two before we left Rutland, seeing as both Bess Tanner and Aunt Matty were so keen on them.

  Mr. Tanner was outside, waiting for us. And the next thing we did was to go see Bob and Bib. The best part was that Pinky was close by, only one shed away. I jumped into her pen and put my arms around her neck and hugged her tight.

  “Pinky,” I said, “we’re at Rutland. Ain’t it grand?”

  Right away quick we got Bob and Bib yoked and bowed. Bob was always left and Bib right. We went across an open show area, where some men were exercising some big horses with hairy hoofs, to find a photographer. We spent the better part of an hour getting our picture took. The man who owned the camera got up under a big black tent. His wife held a funny looking geegaw up in the air. It looked like some sort of snow shovel to me. But it was the first snow shovel I ever see explode. You never saw such a bang of light on a cloudy day in your life. I never saw the World War but it sure must of been like that. I almost jumped out of my boots. Bob and Bib didn’t take kindly to it either. They backed into me, and started fighting the yoke. I tried to still ’em but I couldn’t see. When the snow shovel went off, I was looking right at it … and it was the last thing I saw for quite a spell. It was a tribulation to me, too. Because we come to Rutland Fair to see a lot more than a damn fool snow shovel go off.

  It come time to show the oxen. You should of seen ’em. Big as August first. Mr. Tanner nodded to a yoke of Herefords and said they’d weigh up about a ton each.

  “Will Bob and Bib get that big?” I asked.

  “Bigger. On account that Bob and Bib are Holstein, and they’re the biggest and best.”

  I sure was proud to hear that. Even prouder when we went to the ox pull. When there was a pause in the contest, the man (who was talking through a big thing on his mouth that made his voice louder) called out Mr. Tanner’s name.

  “Exhibition only, and not for sale. From the town of Learning, a perfect yoke of matched yearlings by name of Bob and Bib, owned by Mr. Benjamin Franklin Tanner, and worked in the ring by Mr. Robert Peck.”

  That was my cue to take Bob and Bib around the ring three times and then out. But I couldn’t move. Until Mr. Tanner gave me a healthy prod in the backside with his goad and said, “Git!”

  There I be. Me, at Rutland Fair, marching around a big sawdust ring with all the people clapping their hands and pointing at Bob and Bib. It made my heart pound so hard I felt it was going to pump out right there in that ring. I was wishing that Mama and Papa and Aunt Carrie could see. Pinky, too. It was sinful, but I wanted the whole town of Learning to see me just this once. If only Edward Thatcher could see. And Jacob Henry, and Becky Tate.

  Parading my oxen around the ring and listening to the people clapping made me squint my eyes up tight. I could see all the folks I know, sitting there in those big circles of seats. “Manners,” I said to myself, and walked real tall. It was just like I was somebody.

  A man leaned over the fence and said to me, “What’s their line, boy?”

  “Out of Apron, Mr. Tanner’s prize milker,” I said. “The sire bull was his, too.”

  “Beowolf?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After three times round the ring, I touched Bib lightly on his right ear with my wand. The two little oxen made a smart left turn, and out we went through the gate. The people were still clapping and yelling. Some even followed us along, asking questions about Bob and Bib as we walked ’em back to their shed.

  Somehow, Bess Tanner was not about in the crowd. I figured she probably was taking another rest
. I’d given her up for gone, when I looked up and here she was coming on a dead run. I could just see the top of her head and her big floppy hat with all the flowers on it that weren’t real.

  Between her and us there was a passel of people, and they just seemed to melt out of the way for Mrs. Tanner. She was so short of breath when she got to us, she couldn’t talk. She needed a rest for sure. I kind of hoped that maybe she’d finally spotted a pervert, and was just itching to tell folks.

  “Quick,” she said to me between her wheezes. “The 4-H Club men are judging the stock that the children raised up.”

  “Hogs?” said Mr. Tanner.

  “No, they’re looking the calves right now. But the hogs are next. I’ll pen up the oxen. You take Rob with you, because I can’t run another step in these shoes.”

  “Let’s get Pinky,” said Mr. Tanner, and we were off. Over in the next shed, most of the stock was gone. Pinky was almost the only pig there. We threw the bars open on her pen, and were just about to drive her out. That’s when I noticed that she’d been rolling in something that wasn’t very clean.

  On her left shoulder and flank, she had a big dung stain. The rest of her was so clean (thanks to Mr. Tanner’s stock man) that the dirty spot stuck out like a mean tongue. I went down on my knees and attacked the dirt with my hands and fingernails. It not only looked bad, but it stunk worse. The strong smell of its freshness made my eyes sting.

  “Boy,” said Ben Tanner, “that ain’t no way to wash a pig.”

  “What’ll wash her?”

  “Same thing as washes a dirty pig and a dirty boy. Soap and water. Find soap. I’ll fill a bucket and we’re in business.”

  I must have turned Rutland upside down just trying to find some soap. I finally saw a bar of saddle soap in a tackroom, and made for it. But a man saw me and said, “Hey!”

  “Soap,” I said. “I’ll buy your soap. My pig’s dirty and the 4-H people are judging and we’ll miss out. Here, all I got is ten cents. It’s in this hanky and you can have it all.”