Posted on August 8, 2003 in Book of Days Childhood
Note: This is part of a series based on exercises from A Writer’s Book of Days. It’s something of a rebellion against the Friday Five and similar tupperware content memes.
Today’s topic: Write about something that was stolen.
And, again, spectres from my childhood rear up like the gelantinous creature plaguing backwoods residents of Little Egg Harbor, New Jersey. (Thanks to Jeremy for the link.)
We had a tortoise who my brother named Mr. Hobbs. Like the many Californians, we just picked up our pet when he happened to cross the road near Devil’s Punchbowl. Mr. Hobbs had been owned before: we knew because there was a quarter-inch hole drilled in a rear flange of his shell.
We brought him home and set him to the task of mowing the back lawn. He ate enthusiastically and he kept the weeds closely cropped, too. My mother allowed us to take withered lettuce out to him. He dug himself a hole in the back yard and rested there.
I remember laying on the grass, watching him take in grass through his beak, the prelude to the composting process that ended with several large, irregular, rhombus-faced cubes he’d leave around the yard.
One morning my cousin Ann and I went to search for him. He’d vanished overnight. The mystery of what happened to Mr. Hobbs endured for years. Then one day, I found a tortoise walking across the street. I checked the shell. The hole was in the right place. I brought it to my mother. She told me to bring it back across the street. This was not our tortoise.
Years later, my mother and my brother would claim that the neighbor boy had stolen our tortoise. If so, why did my mother make me take our lost property back? I believe that the incident I related above betrays the truth: the kidnapping of Mr. Hobbs was an inside job. I wonder how much money was exchanged.
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Tomorrow’ topic/prompt: On the other side.