COLD, COLD HEART

I can remember a particular Summer day up above Chapel Gap,  my Uncle Roy's farm, the farm my grandparents lived on.   I figure I woulda been around seven years old, maybe eight.  I had a cane pole and I really wanted to go fishin' in a tiny pond not too far from the house.  A bunch of us kids were there that day, which was typical.  Brother, sister, cousins.  A lotta kids within a fairly narrow range of ages.  No matter how hard I tried, no one wanted to go fishin' with me.  

Already no stranger to doin' my own thing, I got the classic tin can from my Granny, flipped over a couple rocks down by the barn and came up with a few worms, which I dropped into the can, along with a little dirt.  I was doin' it just like I'd seen on TV.  Just like Opey, exceptin' the Dad part.

My Uncle Roy had tied a hook on my line and fastened a bobber a couple feet on up.  I made my final plea for company, then set out alone.  Up the bank, through the garden gate, then on to the pond.  Maybe a couple hundred feet away, tops.

The pond wasn't much more than a bigass mud hole- shallow, orange/brown water.  A place for Uncle Roy's few head of cattle to drink, wade out and cool off a little.  Shit.  I'm sure it was a hot day, Summer and all, but I don't remember it exactly.  Relief from the heat at Granny's was screen doors and noisy, old floor fans, round cages welded in circles and spokes.  Heavy things.

I don't know how much time passed, me impatient, loftin' my line out as far as my cane pole would reach, my bobber and the unfortunate worm, it's tiny body punctured and slid mercilessly along the steel hook, hittin' the surface of the dirty water with a couple tiny splashes.  Then, nothin'.  My eyes glued intently on the red and white plastic ball attached to the nearly invisible plastic string, I watched for the slightest movement.  Dragon flies hovered, then tapped the surface of the pond before jettin' off, like they were tryin' to get away from somethin'.

Then, after what was a near eternity to a little kid, the bobber seemed to slide along as if pushed by an imperceptible breeze, and vanished with a jerk. Completely.  Thrilled, I backed away from the bank, but couldn't get any line back.  The bobber remained under the water's surface.  I dropped my pole and ran back toward the house as fast as I could, shoutin'.  I was sure I had caught a whopper.  The others would envy me, wish they had accepted my invitation.

I ran in the house, heart poundin', arms flailin' as I explained what was happenin'.  I believe it was Uncles Roy and Bobby and Donnie that followed me back to the pond.  The other kids followed.  They took hold of the line and slowly dragged in my catch.  But it wasn't a fish at all.  It was a snappin' turtle.  A prehistoric monster.  Small, but a monster just the same.

Uncle Bobby freed the creature from my line, then headed back to the house with the turtle hangin' from his hand by its tail, hissin', mad as Livin' Hell.  We all followed, awestruck.

After some discussion, a few of them took my turtle, cut off its head, nailed it to the utility pole, then proceeded to dress it out.  There was talk about how different parts of a turtle supposedly tasted like other animals- like chicken, or beef, or fish.  

They cut off the turtle's stubby legs, it's tail, and cast them aside.  My Uncle Keith showed us how the turtle's disembodied head would still bite when poked with a stick.  The story of how a snappin' turtle would latch onto you and not let go until it heard thunder was told.  Aside from the older ones, who were busy situatin' twigs just right so as to watch the turtle's head flinch and snap 'em in two,  most of us steered clear of the head that lay on the ground.  I wasn't wearin' shoes and the sky was clear.  Nightmares were certain to follow.

The butcherin' continued, with none of these boys seemin' to really have a grip on how to proceed or just what parts were supposed to be worth eatin'.

Other than the head, the rest of this creature's discarded extremities seemed to pose no threat.  The tail would even move when the flesh of the cut end was pinched.

I would wind up with the heart.

The turtle's heart continued to beat.  If it stopped, you could press on it with a finger and it would resume its designated function.  I went inside and asked Granny for a jar, which she immediately scratched up for me.  Going back outside, I dipped my small jar into the bucket that was used to prime the pump when drawin' water.  I dropped the still beatin' heart into the jar.

With the jar set at the edge of the porch, I squatted as the heart continued to beat, pullin' the well water in, then pushin' it back out  into the jar.  As I watched, the little color that the heart initially had began to fade, the beatin', almost imperceptibly, began to slow, until it ultimately ceased altogether.  Still.

I dumped the contents of my jar on the ground beside the porch and collected the heart.  It was now a pale grey, nearly white.  It had become hard, even colder than before.  No longer did the heart respond to nudges or pressure put upon it.  It was thick, lifeless.  Without purpose.  I spent a while longer with the heart, thinkin' I might get just a little more from it, but I did not.

Fish~