Ellen’s Blog

So…what with all the flooding in the midwest and fact that it is June and turtles are busy about the business of laying their eggs, I have seen an increase in the number of turtles who are making slow, but determined progress crossing rural streets and busy highways.  These turtle moms have left their watery homes for the sole purpose of laying their eggs in the soil-carved nests nature demands they construct.  As you see them on the road or highway, they are either going to or coming from this maternal duty that natural instinct has foisted upon them.

I like to help them. Rural streets are easy.  Small turtles are easy. Over the years, I have become prepared.  I keep my “turtle” gloves in the trunk.  These are really just the buck-a-pair “knitties” that you buy at WalMart.  (The ones you buy after you’ve lost every good pair of gloves and you realize that you won’t get through the relentless Wisconsin winter without some protection.) The “knitties” are an obvious choice for turtle gloves as several mis-matched pairs are always floating loose in the trunk.  My other essential tool is a portion of a cane fishing pole…handy for directional urging. 

When I say rural streets are easy, I mean because the traffic (especially the lack of it) cooperates.   Obviously, small turtles are easy because they are so portable.  Occasionally, you will come across a particularly recalcitrant one who insists on going the wrong way back into the street and danger, and you must transport them a considerable way off the road to ensure their safety. 

Yesterday, I came across the ultimate challenge for a turtle helper.  Busy highway…huge turtle.  I put on my hazzard lights, popped the trunk, grabbed my turtle gloves and pole.  This turtle had a shell reminisent of a German WWII soldier.  She was big, mad and confused.  Each car that passed had her snapping the air in vicious defense of her right to her place in the world. 

A few cars slowed.  The semis that passed made slight modifications in direction.  (I understood.  You don’t trash a truck over a turtle.)  Then, he came.  A navy blue pickup.  He made his deliberate swerve and sent turtle shell pieces and guts twenty feet into the air.  They hit the ground in sloppy plops of green and red and yellow.  I watched him study his handiwork in his rear-view mirror.  What a great story to tell his friends.  I’ll bet he doesn’t tell his mother though…

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 12th, 2008 at 11:39 am and is filed under Non-Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.