Friday, April 24, 2009

The First Time I Made Jerky

When our family was stationed in Miami, FL, my Dad was just coming out of an intensive training school in Memphis, TN where we had lived for six months or so. But upon looking around the Opa Locka area where the base was, he and Mom had found the neighborhoods less than appealing for family rearing. So Mom, Angela, and I moved in with my mother's parents in Honoraville, Alabama, a small rural town about 30 minutes south of Montgomery. Granddaddy was a full-time farmer and a substitute mail carrier in the same town in which he was raised. Grandma was working at a hospital in the nearby city of Luverne, but her real forte was home-cooking and teaching life lessons. The two of them lived on some land that had been purchased from the bank after Granddaddy's cousin, Robert, had been foreclosed on.

My sister and I had, until this point, been raised in the city or the suburbs, and were delighted to be around so many animals. I look back on that 7 month period as one of my favorites of my childhood. One summer morning, Angela and I were playing in the yard when we heard the sound of Granddaddy's truck coming down the red-dirt road. He was coming back from checking on his 30000 chickens and doing some maintenance work on the chicken houses. My sister and I ran to greet him as he pulled into the driveway. I love my Granddaddy. There has never been a sunnier human being than Marlyn E. Teague. He isn't just cheerful, he's sunny. Even the way he opened the door was happy. "Hi there, boys and girls!" he always pluralized it even when it was just Angela and I.

His enthusiasm took over his entire body. He picked up his booted feet, walking with a sort of bounce that most men lose when the world has broken their spirit. His arms bent in an L-shape, fists clenched and shaking with the excitement of life, he chimed; "Oh, BOY! I got somethin' for you girls and boys in the back of my truck!" Granddaddy's sky blue eyes shined as his cheeks pushed his eyes into a squint from the size of his smile.
"Whaddaya think o' this?" he asked as he pulled a white plastic bucket out from the bed of his truck. Angela and I gathered around beside the jovial old farmer, as he lowered the bucket. We peeked inside to see a small round turtle poking his frightened little head out of his shell. Angela squealed with excitement, and I let out a joyous "Cooooooool."
"Now you two are going to have to take care of this little fella'."

We named him Michelangelo. It was perfect because I was a huge fan of the cult TV show, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Plus, I was able to convince my sister to go with it, because we were naming him after "both of us" (Michael + Angela = Michelangelo). We played with him for the better part of an hour or so. Mom, Grandma, and Granddaddy got out our yellow kiddie pool, and Angela and I were excited to "swim" with our new friend. We returned Michelangelo to his milk-crate ecosystem and left him on the picnic table under the Alabama Long Leaf Pine trees in the back yard. The summer nights in Southern Alabama were a perfect 70 degrees, so we were assured that our pet would be just fine out there.

The next day, Angela and I arose and rushed out to play with the turtle. He was doing just fine, but didn't look to excited to see us. We weren't too worried about it. Michelangelo accompanied us on our adventures that summer morning. Angela carried him around, as I concocted some story about me being some kind of explorer. Or a ninja. Or a ninja that explored things. But as the morning turned to afternoon, our tummies began to growl. The kiddie pool was still out in the yard, so I put about an inch of water in it so that Michelangelo would be able to swim around if he wanted to while we went inside for our turkey sandwiches and Cheetos. I set him in the water, and he immediately came out of his shell and kick happily through the water.

Lunch was good. We listened to Grandma and Granddaddy talking about people they had seen that day, and all the news about them and their families from the last year or to. It seemed like someone had always died recently. No one I knew, but I paid attention respectfully. After lunch, I decided to take my BB-gun out and shoot the Sun-Drop can I had emptied during lunch. At seven years old, I shot that gun so much and so often, that I rarely missed my target even from 35-50 ft away. Angela played inside, as I spent the afternoon walking with my gun down to the pond on the property. I took out a dozen or so dragonflies, pretending that they were enemy soldiers (just really far away). After saving our farm from the bad-guys, I decided to go in. I was drenched in sweat and the air was so thick, I had to chew it before inhaling. It was probably 4pm or so, and about 88 degrees outside, and humid. The trek back to the house took about 15 minutes or so, and I managed to shoot holes in 3 or 4 more anthills before I reached the yard. I could see the little yellow pool in the back yard from the cow pasture. I wondered how Michelangelo's afternoon had been. I approached the pool excited to at the chance to play with the little guy without my sister wanting a chance to hold him. I looked in the pool, and realized that there was no water in it. The scorching summer heat had evaporated the inch of water I had left in there only 3 hours before. And there in the middle was Michelangelo, limp and unresponsive.

Michelangelo was dead; completely dehydrated and burnt crispy. I turned my turtle into a banana chip. I screamed as I ran into the house calling for my Mom and Grandparents. I cried as I explained to them what had happened. Granddaddy tried not to laugh as he listened to my tale. Mom had the idea for us to give Michelangelo a proper funeral. Granddaddy got out his post hole digger, and took us out to the corner of the yard. I was the pallbearer, carrying the dearly departed to his final resting place. Granddaddy sang "Amazing Grace" as he plunged the post diggers into the ground. I placed my desiccated friend into the ground and we covered him up. I asked Granddaddy to say a few words (since he had known him the longest). I love that Granddaddy was able to somehow be the support I needed him to be, while simultaneously finding this whole situation hilarious. I look back on this experience and laugh now too.

I'm just glad that Angela and I got a whole day to spend with Michelangelo. The time we had was special, and made a lasting impression, I think, on both of us. We are all better for having known Michelangelo, even though his blood is, technically, on my hands. And that's how I learned how to make Turtle Jerky.

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