Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Great Turtle Rescue of '93



Back in the summer of '93, while living at our farmhouse in Ansel, Coleman and I went for a day adventure with my sister, Jane. A day adventure usually consisted of getting in the car and driving, seeing where the road would take us, without a lot of forethought. We would decide which way to turn when we got to a crossroad.

On this morning, we turned to the left and headed down Highway 64. The ditches on both sides were lined with wildflowers, so our first stop happened just a few miles from home. I used to carry a vase in my car for these spontaneous stops; our kitchen table had an almost constant array of whatever flowers were available at any given time during the summer. Coleman had borrowed a library book to identify these Minnesota wildflowers and it was fun to see if we could match them with those we'd found. It was something I'd enjoyed doing with his older brother, Trevor, as well.

Back on the highway, bouquet firmly ensconced in the cup holder, we found ourselves heading, in a roundabout fashion, to the small town where we had attended elementary school. On the outskirts of this town, there's a back road leading to the farm where we'd grown up. We thought it might be fun to revisit our old neighborhood, which consisted of woods and fields and a smattering of houses set back from the road. About five miles down, where the road takes a sharp turn to the right, sits our grandparents farm. Farther up that road we would drive by our farm. We decided to turn left and head down past what we knew as The Frederick Place. It would lead us to one of the lakes of our childhood, not a swimming lake, but better known for duck hunting, wild rice, and the occasional UFO sighting. You heard me. A small road, with trees almost enveloping it, would lead us there.

Just before we got to the lake, we felt a strong urge to stop and walk to the creek which runs into it. It, too, was a childhood haunt, and we were curious what time had done to it. We had heard the story, when we were children, of how our mother had saved the life of her cousin, Aaron, when they were young and the creek ran deep. She had been sitting on the bridge when Aaron got into trouble and couldn't hold his head above water. Our mother, a strong woman and undoubtedly a strong child, had reached into the water, pulling Aaron up by the hair and then onto the grassy bank. It was a story we coerced out of her from time to time. Perhaps we wanted to hear stories that confirmed what we already knew about our mom, but we also liked hearing about her own childhood. It was intriguing, to see our parents as young once and how life was for them, before we came along. That creek held our family history.

It was believed that a Native American encampment had once existed in the area around the lake. It made sense to us, as it was on the edge of the foothills, with ready access to water and game, and there appeared to be burial mounds in the woods we spent so much time in. This was never confirmed, to my knowledge, but it captured our imagination. Several artifacts had been found in the area. Neighbors tilled up arrowheads in their garden every spring. Although rarely talked about, we had grown up with an awareness of our own small portion of Native American ancestry. It was a portion I secretly cherished.

As we got closer to the creek, the most obvious change was that the bridge crossing it was gone, replaced by a small beaver dam, now in disrepair. To describe the surrounding greenery as lush is not hyperbole. The tall, green grass almost towered over Coleman, who was 7 at the time and already pretty tall himself. Youthful energy propelled him forward, so when we got to the creek, he had already spotted it.

'It,' was a large snapping turtle. Apparently, in crossing the dam, it had caught one of its rear legs between two branches that would not yield. It was underwater when we arrived. How long it had been there, in that predicament, we could only guess, but its leg had turned a pale yellow color that was almost white. Our guess was it had been quite some time. It had survived, we supposed, on whatever bugs and such floated down the creek, catching them in its mouth as they passed.

Coleman bent down, carefully moving the underwater branches around its leg, and with a few simple movements, the turtle was released from its wooden chains, swimming slowly away, but able to move through the water and into freedom. We celebrated his release, talking excitedly about how wonderful it was. We even speculated that perhaps the turtle had sent out a message and we had listened! I can still recall the joy we felt. It was hard to leave. We wanted to stay a while longer and just bask in that feeling of being a part of something that might seem pretty small in the face of nature, but we knew was pretty darn big to that turtle. And to us. Back in the car, we talked again about how great it was, that we had listened and followed our hearts down to the creek.

After driving further, to check out the lake, we moved on. We knew the rest of the day would be epilogue. A peacefulness had settled over us and in the car as we drove down the road.

After passing by our old farm, we headed back out to the highway and down to the grocery store outside of town to pick up something for lunch. Inside the store was a large barrel of fortune cookies wrapped in plastic, the kind you find in most Chinese restaurants. Coleman reached in and retrieved one. When we got out to the car he opened it. It said, "You will witness a secret ceremony or ritual." And so it was, and had already been. We saved it. We didn't want to forget.

And we haven't. I have a picture of him on my desk, standing on the dam, as a reminder of that wonderful day, a reminder to listen and act on those nudges we get that can change our lives, or the lives of someone else. In this case, the life of a snapping turtle, here on Turtle Island.








Coleman, standing on the dam at the Great Turtle Rescue of  '93.

Map of  "Turtle Island," as it was in 1491, courtesy of Mr. Google.

18 comments:

  1. What a wonderful day for you both and the turtle too of course. yes those hunches are good to follow.

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  2. I love that story, Teresa! And I do believe that you were drawn there on purpose. Wow!

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  3. Well, this is beyond beautiful, and speaks of the same message as my blog tonight. Surprise, surprise... ;) It's like we're caught in the same current, listening to the same voices on the wind. I find that so comforting.

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  4. Linda, It was such a memorable day. I know you live, following those hunches, too. It does provide some mighty fine guidance, doesn't it? :)

    Cheryl, Thank you! Yes, we do believe so, too. :)

    Kristy, hey girl, isn't it cool? Love your new post! Our synchs just keep on coming! :) Thank you, so much.

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  5. Teresa, A lovely story that proves lie to the theory that you can't go home again. Revisiting the places of our youth can be disappointing, but you made memories with a new generation. I loved the tone of the piece..just a great job of writing!

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  6. Thank you, #1 Nana, for taking the time to read and comment. I appreciate very much.

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  7. What a sweet photo! It is always a wonderful thing to protect nature ~ love it! Beautiful memories! xo Catherine

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  8. It always surprises me that you have such clear recollections of past times. Just like yesterday, almost.

    And what a cool memory to share with you son!

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  9. What a dear story. That is a kind of Savior land for you. Your Mother saved her brother, Coleman saved the turtle and the photo saved the day. A precious post.

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  10. Cat, Thank you! Protecting nature is essential to our well-being. It's a very symbiotic relationship.

    Linda, I seem to have a photographic memory, entire days and specific times are clear to me, going back to when I was very young. Images impressed and easily brought forward. I've cultivated it, yet it also seems to be a part of my nature. Yes, it was a wonderful time to share with him. We have quite a few of those, for which I'm very grateful.

    Manzanita, Thanks so much. Savior Land. I like that.

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  11. This is a riveting story with so much vivid detail of setting and circumstance. How wonderful to be touched by nature in such a symbiotic way.

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  12. Thank you, Paul. One of those stories that was just waiting to be told. :)

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  13. Such a lovely post Teresa, such a beautiful read. i think that there is something to these 'calls' that we hear/receive. I too have experienced strong feelings to do something previously unplanned and for it to reveal something great.
    You mention having a small portion of Native American ancestry - it is possible that I also have a small portion of Native American ancestry as my 2x great grandfather was American and other family history researchers say that he was Native American but I can't prove or disprove it yet.

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  14. Hi Marilyn, I recall you mentioning your possible NA ancestry in a previous comment. I am so glad you reminded me of it. Very interesting....

    My paternal great grandmother was NA and it's believed there is some on my maternal side, as well. I have always felt a deep affinity with that aspect of myself, and it seems it's becoming an even stronger "pull" in recent years.

    Yes, these calls do provide for some very nice outcomes. Thank you for your comments.

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  15. This is such a thought-provoking story. Why we by intuition change our road to go somewhere else and might find something surprising or something we need to to. I have often wondered about this. The turtle needed your help and you were there.

    The ancient map is very exciting with all those Native American names. Is Minnesota = Objiwa - Chippewa. I'm not sure of the names now, but I dare not go away from my comment. The last time it just disappeared!
    Cheers
    Greethe

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  16. Hi Grethe!
    Thank you, ever so much, for your comments.

    Minnesota is a Dakota Sioux word meaning, "sky-tinted water," which originated with their naming of the Minnesota River. Chippewa, Ojibwe, and Anishinabe are Algonquin (which is sort of a larger tribal designation), and are used somewhat interchangeably, although some bands here in Minnesota seem to have a preference. Anishinabe means "first men." A "band" is a word designating a particular NA group and their location here in the state, i.e. the Red Lake Band, or the Mystic Lake Band, each of which live on their own reservation. These bands have their own government, operating outside the formal state structure. It's a sad history, really, in that they, like all NA people, were herded onto reservations and forced to give up much of their way of life. I better leave it there, or I might start talking about casinos and that's a subject for...someone else.... :)

    Have a very good day!
    Teresa

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  17. Thank you Teresa, for telling me this. I have always thought that the NA-language is a language using perfect words for describing a person or nature or anything. If I i.e. say the word Anishinabe or Chippewa, Comanche etc., then it sounds like a beautiful language. Sioux! Cherokee! And the names for their men and women, "Running Wolf" or "Little Blue Sky" etc.
    It is so sad that they had to give up their way of life. We have been so cruel to them.
    Thanks
    Grethe.

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  18. Yes, Grethe, it is a beautiful way of speaking, languages within languages with many dialects. Indigenous tribes have had a tough go of it around the world and throughout history, all at the hands of "the powers that be." Thank you, for your comments.

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