My parents grew up during the Great Depression. Dad grew up on a farm where it was common to eat what you could raise or hunt.
Mom, having grown up in the same era, understood this in a way we might find a little more difficult today. I know Dad brought her rabbit, squirrel, and occasionally had her cook him a mess of frog legs.
One day, when Mom was running the Kewanee milk route alone, she got quite a surprise when one of Dad’s “acquisitions” crawled out from under the seat of the milk truck.
The acquisition?
A soft-shelled turtle—that Dad had intended to make into turtle soup.
Since I wasn’t there and only heard the story later, I can only imagine the look on my mother’s face.
If I’ve given you the impression that she didn’t like animals, that’s not strictly true. She did—but mostly puppies and kittens. She didn’t like unwelcome surprises, and this one definitely qualified.
I don’t know whether she was driving when it happened or if she had already stopped at the next farm.
I only know that she got out of the truck and refused to get back in until the turtle was gone.
The farmer at the stop had to remove it for her. Mom wasn’t about to touch that turtle, and she made it very clear she wasn’t getting back into the truck until it was gone.
The farmer ended up with the turtle.
Dad missed having turtle soup—
…and so did the turtle.
Through My Eyes, Gently 