It’s Steinbeck-y cliche to find inspiration in a turtle crossing a road, but I see them crawling over the burning asphalt every day and can’t help but feel a surge of respect. Such resilience! Tenacity! Such faith!
And whenever I see a jigsaw of bloody shell in a streak surrounded by tire marks, my heart falls.
“If you were the life-valuing left-wing democrat-voting liberal hippy thing you claim you are, you’d stop your car and pick up those turtles and carry them across, but do you? No. Never!” Jon cried the other night. “People like you just rattle your heads and wag your fingers but you don’t actually do anything.”
I love him, but sometimes he can be an ass.
However. He has a point.
So now, every time I see a turtle, I stop. Get out of my car. Talk to them a little (“Hello, Mr. Turtle…”) on approach and take them into my hands. If you’re gentle, they don’t dart into their shells. Instead, they’ll twist their necks to look at you, judge your intents. Are you good, or bad?
I just want to help solve a simple problem; to carry, to be carried, who wouldn’t want that?