I have a big hulking typewriter that lives near my desk. It is a black manual Remington Rand, and it belonged to my mother-in- law. I acquired it a few years back when I was participating in a writer’s group at KML. There, around the marble table I had a chance to write and to have my writing critiqued. At times I experienced some writer’s block as I had been used to writing as a solitary affair. One day I brought my typewriter in and it was empowering to peck away at the big keys and make that steno-pool sound instead of scribbling on a legal pad. However, I wasn’t really getting anywhere, the sound was distracting and eventually I made sure my typewriter stayed at home.
It, like many of my old artifacts, is a big hit with the grandchildren who use it as a cash register and get their fingers all over the typewriter ribbon while mimicking the transaction at the local grocery store. I am equally entertained by hammering away on its keys on a cloudy afternoon trying to sell myself on my efficiency thanks to the typewriter’s soundtrack. That brought back memories of my foray into typing class “back in the day.” My peers readily adopted the home position and were like lightning as they plinked away on repeat the story of the quick brown fox jumping over a lazy dog or whatever it was, we were supposed to type. I was not very speedy and the girl in front of me decided to refer to me as turtle. But that memory has not stopped me from hammering away on my antique typewriter and the click of the keys.
I love this old stuff, and much to the chagrin of my trail mates, it is one of my topics as we traipse through the woods every Tuesday. Land line telephones, old-fashioned thermometers, popcorn poppers, playpens, pencil sharpeners, canteens, hair dryers that sat on our heads, carpet sweepers, shoeshine kits. These all occupy space in my mind, and I feel compelled to share stories of them as we put one foot in front of the other. That was my topic of choice when we came across a snapping turtle the other day. Fitting right in the category of old stuff with her ancient looking shell, she lumbered across the field ready to lay her eggs. Witnessing that is one of the highlights for me here in New England, and her drive gives me great perspective on the challenges of life. I usually make a mental note to hang around in the fields a couple months later hoping to see baby turtles hatch but I have never been able to see that. I tell myself that is good. It is good, I suppose, not to check off every item on your bucket list.
Photo by Joan Heffernan
Newly emerged from her water home, with duckweed camouflage still on her shell, this snapping turtle laid her eggs in some freshly turned soil in my garden.
And snapping turtles are rather amazing. They have been the subject of great exaggeration over the years when folks talk about their jaws snapping branches in two or pulling duckling after duckling from the surface of the pond with their stealth movement. Yes, that can happen, but my reading tells me those turtles also eat vegetation and fish and worms and spend much of their time scavenging. They have been swimming in our ponds for around 90 million years, seeing the dinosaurs come and go. They are aquatic turtles who leave the water to lay their leathery eggs in sandy soil in June. The eggs rest hoping not to be unearthed by a skunk or a raccoon family. If they are left undisturbed, they will hatch in a few months. The temperature of the soil determines the sex of the baby turtle with warmer summers leading to more female turtles. And if that factoid doesn’t warm your heart about turtles, I don’t know what will.
All these snapping turtle facts seem to be a good reason to get my typewriter out and make a racket. And I will think about my fleeting turtle nickname proudly when I encounter these amazing reptiles that share the earth with us.