Turtle Soup

by Lorraine Cookson

Mountain Laurel was in full bloom, any bride would be proud to carry a nosegay of the delicate flowers.

Standing on the jutting pier was fisherman of all ages, their combined weight made the pier list to one side. I sat on the lowest end and readied my rod.

No one seemed to mind the pesky mosquitoes buzzing around their heads; all hands were occupied with the task of snagging fish. Production slows when the sun beats down and the pond was prey to the suns burning rays. Fish were dormant yet my expectations ran high.

It took a lot of different techniques to find were the fish were hiding. Many a lure found its way at the end of the swivel hanging from the fishing line. A spinner with a worm finally brought results and a brook trout hung from the metal stringer I had fastened to the stanchion of the pier.

Lunch hour came and left, I stayed put. Three pan fries now hung on the stringer. Ah, but the evil gods lurking close by would not let me brag for long. My hopes for more for two more trout deflated like an inner-tube with a slow leak.

A voice rose above the chatter coming from the group, “Snapper!”

The warning vibrated around the pond. One could hear the plunking of rods being dropped onto the wide planks of the pier as all hands stopped to goggle.

We were amazed at the size of the large turtle. Its head was the size of a baseball, its limbs pudgy and its claws were extended. It swam under the pier and we could hear its large shell skin the underneath of the boards.

Quickly, as if we all had drills for such an emergence, the fishermen leaned over to retrieve their stringers.

Unbeknown to any of us, the culprit had feasted on most of the fish that had been fastened to the stringers.

“Creep!” I could not help the degrading remark as I broke down my rod, snapped the lid of the tackle box and tossed the remains of my trout into a plastic bag.

The moment I slid into my vehicle, I became a woman obsessed. I turned the key to the ignition and mumble a how many different ways there could be to retaliate on the amphibian. At a red traffic light I pounded the dashboard and began to laugh then asked of the interior, “I wonder what turtle soup taste like!”

Just a thought.

“Lorraine

Remember Londonderry it is “Turtle Time!” Read our story from last year and find out about the turtle that cried. Plus much needed safety tips on how (or how not to) handle snappers. Read “Londonderry Turtle Time!“

This short story is by one of our Featured Columnists Lorraine Cookson, who lived in Londonderry for four years. She looks to everyday experiences and memories from her childhood to channel her creativity. Although writing is her first love, she also enjoys fishing, camping, gardening as well as building miniature bird and doll houses. Camping and Fishing experiences seem to worm their way into many of her stories.

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