Yesterday Was World Turtle Day
Mea Culpa
Through no fault of my own I missed World Turtle Day—on Wednesday. Actually this is my first year celebrating the holiday— albeit a belated celebration.
Once upon a time I owned a green turtle— purchased after seeing the circus at Madison Square Garden. This was the big top with three rings, aerialists who eschewed nets, clowns who emerged from VW sedans, lions jumping through flaming hoops, elephants attired in tassels, Cracker Jack boxes with surprise toys, kewpee dolls on sticks, goldfish sold in plastic bags, and the ubiquitous collection of painted turtles for sale.
My grandmother bought me the small green turtle, a glass bowl, and turtle food. My mother purchased a bridge for the turtle bowl.
I recall settling him/ her in the bowl, naming the turtle with a name that neither sounded too feminine nor too masculine. Even then I sensed that gender could be fluid. What I didn’t know was that a painted turtle was doomed. While I loved the yellow and red polka dotted turtle shell, I never realized how dangerous the paint was to a unsuspecting green turtle.
To a child living in a three room apartment with my parents and grandmother— owning a dog or cat was not possible. My mother grew up with a parrot who mimicked her and she forever turned against any pet in the avian family. So a turtle or goldfish was perfect. My foray into raising fish had gone amok when the goldfish I won at Jones Beach died suddenly. My grandmother thought loneliness killed the fish. My mother thought the fish looked sickly from the moment I emptied out the plastic bag into the fish bowl. My father believed that the fish had died of a broken heart after leaving his love behind.
The turtle seemed like a perfect pet.
The turtle food container warned about over feeding. But my grandmother— who loved cooking prodigious amounts of chicken soup and honey bread—thought I was starving the turtle when I titrated small amounts of food into the bowl. When I went off to school she treated the turtle to bits of lettuce and more turtle food.
One afternoon I found the turtle in a corner of the bowl—dead, stone cold, not moving, inert. I believe he died of over eating although that couldn’t be proved. Nobody mourned his loss, although my grandmother and mother did acknowledge that the loss of a pet was difficult. My mother wondered how attached someone could be to a turtle or “heaven forbid”a reptile. My cousins had pet snakes.
Because I was brought up in secular household I was unaware of any religious rites attached to the demise of a person or animal. Perhaps, I thought, there was an intricate and elaborate service for an animal. My mother thought cremation in the incinerator was the best way to dispose of the body. My grandmother, whose town in Poland had been destroyed and leveled by the Nazis, did not want the turtle to be burned. My father sat with an open book— probably on the Civil War. My father loved history and vocabulary words.
Because the turtle passed away in the spring and the earth surrounding the last tree on the block was not akin to a block of cement, I dug a shallow hole for the green turtle. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any prayers, hadn’t reached a place where I wrestled with God, and had never buried a pet. My friend Nina attended the burial and she recited a prayer her family recited before they ate dinner. That seemed proper.
Through no fault of my own I missed World Turtle Day—on Wednesday. Actually this is my first year celebrating the holiday— albeit a belated celebration.
Once upon a time I owned a green turtle— purchased after seeing the circus at Madison Square Garden. This was the big top with three rings, aerialists who eschewed nets, clowns who emerged from VW sedans, lions jumping through flaming hoops, elephants attired in tassels, Cracker Jack boxes with surprise toys, kewpee dolls on sticks, goldfish sold in plastic bags, and the ubiquitous collection of painted turtles for sale.
My grandmother bought me the small green turtle, a glass bowl, and turtle food. My mother purchased a bridge for the turtle bowl.
I recall settling him/ her in the bowl, naming the turtle with a name that neither sounded too feminine nor too masculine. Even then I sensed that gender could be fluid. What I didn’t know was that a painted turtle was doomed. While I loved the yellow and red polka dotted turtle shell, I never realized how dangerous the paint was to a unsuspecting green turtle.
To a child living in a three room apartment with my parents and grandmother— owning a dog or cat was not possible. My mother grew up with a parrot who mimicked her and she forever turned against any pet in the avian family. So a turtle or goldfish was perfect. My foray into raising fish had gone amok when the goldfish I won at Jones Beach died suddenly. My grandmother thought loneliness killed the fish. My mother thought the fish looked sickly from the moment I emptied out the plastic bag into the fish bowl. My father believed that the fish had died of a broken heart after leaving his love behind.
The turtle seemed like a perfect pet.
The turtle food container warned about over feeding. But my grandmother— who loved cooking prodigious amounts of chicken soup and honey bread—thought I was starving the turtle when I titrated small amounts of food into the bowl. When I went off to school she treated the turtle to bits of lettuce and more turtle food.
One afternoon I found the turtle in a corner of the bowl—dead, stone cold, not moving, inert. I believe he died of over eating although that couldn’t be proved. Nobody mourned his loss, although my grandmother and mother did acknowledge that the loss of a pet was difficult. My mother wondered how attached someone could be to a turtle or “heaven forbid”a reptile. My cousins had pet snakes.
Because I was brought up in secular household I was unaware of any religious rites attached to the demise of a person or animal. Perhaps, I thought, there was an intricate and elaborate service for an animal. My mother thought cremation in the incinerator was the best way to dispose of the body. My grandmother, whose town in Poland had been destroyed and leveled by the Nazis, did not want the turtle to be burned. My father sat with an open book— probably on the Civil War. My father loved history and vocabulary words.
Because the turtle passed away in the spring and the earth surrounding the last tree on the block was not akin to a block of cement, I dug a shallow hole for the green turtle. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any prayers, hadn’t reached a place where I wrestled with God, and had never buried a pet. My friend Nina attended the burial and she recited a prayer her family recited before they ate dinner. That seemed proper.
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