Ch. 219; Vol. 10
“MOM! LOOK MOM!”
Puck awkwardly lifted the box turtle from the sidewalk.
“How did he get here, MOM?”
“I don’t know, bud.”
“Maybe he crawled out of that hole because drains go to the river and turtles like rivers.”
“I think that drain comes from the house actually…”
“I KNOW, MOM! A hawk must have grabbed him and flown him over here and dropped him!!”
“Well…”
“Mom, I think… I think that a hawk must have flew him here… I think that he is a grandpa turtle because his neck is all wrinkly.”
Of course this conversation all took place around Carrie and me trying to have a serious conversation about Grandma Snicketts on the front porch. Growing older isn’t fun.
About that time three neighbor kids from the bike gang cycled over to see the turtle as well.
Later, I found them in the back yard upturning pet tombstones…
“Puck…”
“WE JUST WANT TO SEE WHAT’S UNDER THE STONE, MOM!”
I also managed to prevent another calamity when four urgent characters went streaking past the window with a can of white spray paint.
In the end, though, it was all about the turtle.
“He’s already saying how he’s going to dig for worms in an archaeological dig for him,” Carrie told me.
When Mom and Linnea returned from who knows how many errands, including Linnea’s appointment about her back at the chiropractor – more volleyball injuries – Mom requested Carrie’s and my expertise on Linnea’s sophomore/junior academia…
“And is Linnea almost done with the meteorology program?” Mom asked.
“She has to finish it before the end of the summer of she gets locked in the basement for the rest of her life,” was Carrie’s charitable response, staring down our littlest sister.
While my roots were dyeing, Puck and his buddy walked through the house to break from the heat with Legos. Puck’s friend stared at me like I was the “thing from beyond”.
Carrie took her own break with a bowl of Baskin Robbins bubble gum ice cream. Snuggles boldly stood on her knee for a taste.
“Snuggles. This is not Pride Rock.”
Puck flashed by the window after giving the turtle a soak and exploring the fort in the glade and the window wells with his buddy.
“What are you doing, buddy?”
“We’re spying on the girls.”
All five of them, apparently.
An afternoon packed with all this fun later accumulated into a hot shower, fish taco dinner, Puck asking me…
“Do you do that every time you get your hair painted?”
…trying not to make Crackers feel neglected…
“I thinks she’s feeling elected, Mom.”
…despite her absolute fascination with Turtle, jumping into his box whenever possible.
“She’s going to disturv him, Mom.”
In the end, we drove him to the nearest park with The Bear. Crackers pawed the window in farewell.
A tranquil pond in the sunset of an August evening, Puck in jams and yellow boots, geysering tears and several shouts of anguish as Turtle trundled off his log into the greenery for a snack to further shouts of despair.
Some comforting words from The Bear…
“It’s ok to be sad, Puck. Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
Tucked in bed, happy again…
“I love you, Puck.”
Arm thrown around my neck, goofy…
“I LOVE YOU TOO! I LOVE YOU TOO! I LOVE YOU TOO ALL THE WAAAAY!!”
