David Cohen illustration.
A Fondness for Box Turtles
In the 1960s, my Marion, North Carolina, neighborhood had yards with flower beds and vegetable gardens, with cow pastures and woods nearby. One day my father called me from play and said, “Come here and see what I found in the backyard.”
We went there together, and he pointed to a box turtle that had wandered through the woods into our yard.
I picked up the turtle and fingered its brown-and-yellow shell, feeling the ridges and furrows. Though its head and legs remained hidden in the shell, I could see its head burrowed in there and its staring eyes.
“Don’t drop it,” my father said.
“I won’t,” I said, peering into the shell, coaxing, “Come out, turtle.” But it didn’t budge. After a few minutes, my father said to set it back in the grass. Occasionally, we would find another turtle in the yard, each new discovery as thrilling as the last.
From childhood, I’ve been fascinated by box turtles. When I was in high school driver’s education class, I was coupled with a schoolmate for the driving portion. As Susie drove, the instructor seated beside her, I waited my turn in the back seat. We were heading along a stretch of U.S. 70 near the school when suddenly Susie swerved, veering onto the shoulder of the highway. Our instructor yelled, “Don’t ever do that! You could have gotten us killed or killed somebody else.”
Susie replied, “I didn’t want to run over the turtle.”
The instructor, still shaken, explained that we should never swerve to avoid an animal on the road. I wondered if Susie might fail driver’s education because of her turtle-saving action, but she passed. While she and I were offered a driving safety lesson that day, I was glad she missed the turtle.
A couple of summers ago as I walked through my back pasture, I saw a box turtle. I leaned down to admire its colorful shell, getting a good look at its face, its brown eyes, and its clawed toes that had loosened the soil. After seeing that turtle, I researched and learned that female turtles have brown eyes, and males’ eyes are red or orange. The Eastern box turtle, our North Carolina state reptile, can live over 50 years. It has a home range of around 750 feet and a strong homing instinct. It should never be removed from its natural range nor turned around in its path. Such interference confuses the turtle and puts it in danger.
Shortly afterwards, I was driving us home from grocery shopping. As we neared our house on our rural road, Steve abruptly pointed and said, “Watch out!” but his warning came too late. I felt the bump and my heart sank.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Was it a turtle?”
It was. In my rearview mirror, I saw the dark debris on the road. After I parked, I went back to find the crushed shell and mangled body of the box turtle.
I buried the turtle in a shady spot on the side of the road and placed leaves and daisies on its mound. I said a prayer, asking for forgiveness for taking its life. I agonized, thinking the turtle might have been heading home and never made it there because of me.
In the summer of 2024, Steve and I discovered a new box turtle at our pond. We would find him resting near the water’s edge at the base of a maple tree or trudging along a grassy path. Steve nicknamed him Mr. T.
After Helene hit in September, Steve and I went to inspect the flood damage. The pond had overflowed its banks and was filled with mud. While Steve looked to see if any fish had survived, I searched for Mr. T. I went to the maple tree and looked around its base where he had often rested. He was not there. I searched all around the area. Still, I never found him. Even today, I look for him, always hopeful. But, I especially hope that before the flood came, he had found his way home.