Turtles and Other Tragedies

I grew up on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision of San Diego.  One of the dads painted a tennis/volleyball court in the middle and drilled holes on either side so you could pop in metal poles and adjust the net for the sport you fancied.  One of the moms organized a summer BBQ where we sat out in front of our houses, played volleyball and acted neighborly.

Of course I was too young to be aware of the dark side of the neighborhood.  The family that didn’t chip in for the paint/holes/net, the man who drank too much, the lady who wore her curlers everywhere in public, the people whose dogs were always out running wild (us!).  I was too busy making eyes at David, the Jewish boy who lived next door.  He had two older sisters who wore the latest jeans and knew all the words to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 on Sundays.

My best friend lived two doors down.  Her father was a Professor of Economics at the University and her mom stayed at home.  She had a younger sister and a Barbie collection that was worth enduring the canned Spaghettios lunches her mother served us when I went over there to play.  I was sort of envious of her but also aware that her mother spent a lot of time doing things my mother waved off with an, “Oh, who has the time?”   I was fascinated she clipped coupons, chased down loss leaders at grocery stores, and went to three different stores to find the real Holly Hobbie for Christmas instead of giving her daughter the less popular brown-haired friend, the Heather doll.

I did love my Heather doll.  She fit nicely into my collection of misfit toys.  There are some good lessons in there.  Valuing your time, befriending the unwanted.  First Born Prince bought three turtles in Chinatown over Thanksgiving when we were in NYC last week.  One of them died the first night we had them.  He had tears in eyes and his voice cracked as he explained what happened.

“Mom, my turtle died.  I picked him because he looked sick and like he needed food and I thought I could help him.  But now he’s….dead….[more crying]…”

I looked at him and he reminded me of myself at age 11 with my room full of odd toys and sick pets.  I had to decide how much was true sadness and how much was staying up late and the excitement of cousins and friends and too much Cornell Apple Orchards Pear-Apple cider.

“Aw, Charlie, I think it’s great you tried.  You can’t save the world, sweetheart.  Your turtle had the best last day of his life possible (for a creature born into the Chinese pet trade) thanks to you.”

He perked up a little.

“Really?  Do you think? How should we bury him?”