By Hilary Herrick Woodward
I was born and raised in the heart of Southampton Village, where my family has lived since the 17th century. We had beloved pets, dogs mainly. Wildlife were the ducks at Agawam Park or the deer and box turtles occasionally spotted on a Sunday walk to Split Rock in North Sea or Camps Pond farther east.
In 1977, I was a college graduate, home just long enough to earn the money for a permanent move to California. Then, I met my husband-to-be, Eric, a newcomer to Southampton, just starting his career on the East End. After marrying, we did “move away” — barely two miles north of the village — but our surroundings differ wildly from my upbringing on North Main.
We have a large front “yard” comprising mostly moss and untamed wild grasses, a large beech grove, and many oaks. It took me a while to embrace Eric’s vision of keeping it wild; I wanted to mow and manicure like the houses in the village. I am so glad Eric “won,” because the changing landscape over seasons and years reminds me that nature is fully at work. Our once-grassy meadow is morphing into moss as the trees grow big enough to fully shade the east side.
The property extends north into oak forest. Directly below the house is a small seasonal woodland pond that fills up through fall and winter. Mallards arrive in the early spring and vacation for a few weeks before continuing north. A glee club of peepers herald early summer.
Deer wander through daily. In winter, wild turkeys congregate at our bird feeder every morning to scope out seed falling to the ground as other wild birds fly in and out for their share. Should there be no seed, a bold turkey or two stand at our side door and stare hopefully into our strange human life.
During spring mating season, the male turkeys strut royally around with their magnificent feathers completely extended. Their goal is to win female attention, a kind of prize, but the girls peck away at the ground, ignoring the pageant.
For us, the rare sighting of a box turtle is magical. Their prehistoric physique lumbering through the tall grass warrants a salute for sheer tenacity. And to think they carry their home. Marvelous!
Twice this summer, I encountered box turtles crossing the road. That is a call to action! In the case of a spotting, I stop without pulling over, flip on hazard lights, jump out of the car and pick the turtle up by its shell. If cars approach, I hold my hand up and hope the drivers take note, in case they, too, spot a turtle someday.
Then I place the turtle well into the landscape in the direction it was headed. By then, it is usually all pulled into its shell for defense. Occasionally, a rowdy one will rebound and hustle along, but more often than not they remain shut tight.
The other day, I set off on my regular bicycle route through North Sea. Straightaway, I came upon a young woman leaning over something on the grassy embankment. I glanced down at the spot in front of her and saw that it was a box turtle. I put on my brakes, set my feet on the ground and asked what happened.
“I don’t know, but he is injured.” She looked up with worry.
Years ago, I had run over a box turtle. It was heartbreaking, especially, because I had developed a special fondness for them via my husband, Eric, and his pet childhood pet, Turtle.
Turtles as pets was an annual event during the 1950s. Early spring brought small turtles to Gould’s or Schulman’s five-and-dime on Main Street in Southampton. They occupied a holding container by the cash register. I liked to watch them lumber over each other. How did they manage with that shell in the way?
One year, I bought one with my allowance. I had been going into the store to observe over days and finally picked a lively one who showed promise. My pet turtle didn’t last long under my care, and we honored it with a grave site in the garden.
Eric had a vastly different experience with his turtle from the five-and-10 in Boston. He named it “Turtle,” a name that exemplifies simple languor on his part.
When it came to caring for Turtle, however, Eric deserves a medal. Turtle lived in a spacious bathtub. He was “walked” outside in their yard. Turtle lived with Eric for 13 years!
That’s how I knew Eric was a keeper.
The young woman on the side of the road looked worried. I suggested she call the Evelyn Alexander Wildlife Rescue Center in Hampton Bays. A few years ago, while cycling, I came upon a dead possum on Hill Street. Several new babies stumbled around her. I called the rescue center, then stood guard in road directing traffic around the scene.
Babies are adorable, and such were these orphaned possums. Their tiny gray bodies still shone with birthing newness as they stumbled about their dead mother.
The rescue team arrived within 20 minutes, scooped everyone one up, including the deceased mother, and headed back, their work for the afternoon ensured.
I assumed the young woman was headed to work and suggested she bring the turtle to our house nearby, where Eric was doing some yard work. “We will make sure it gets help.”
I cycled off around Little Fresh Pond and then north along The Nature Conservancy property bordering the bay, by Conscience Point, and then home again via Majors Path.
Not long after I returned, the young woman pulled up, hopped out of her truck and offered me a box in which lay the turtle on a bed of dried grass. His head and front legs were pulled into the shell, and his back legs were out. I gently touched one, which jerked mildly, indicating he was alive.
Immediately, I called animal rescue: “I have a turtle that has been injured and wondered if I brought it to you, would you be able to get it to Turtle Rescue?”
The woman on the other line hesitated for a minute and then asked if I could take it to Turtle Rescue in Jamesport, explaining that, otherwise, they would have to come Hampton Bays to retrieve the turtle. “Of course I can drive him over.”
I hadn’t intended the day to take me to the North Fork. However, I could make the time. The patient and I were on the road within five minutes.
Traffic was flowing easily over to Jamesport. All the farm stands full of fresh North Fork produce tempted me, but I had a mission.
Pulling into the driveway at Turtle Rescue, a young woman stepped out of the facility to take the injured patient from me. I stood outside at the screen door, where I could watch them at work in the examination area. The same woman brought me a clipboard with a form to be filled with information about where and when the turtle had been found.
I saw them lean over our patient but couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Within minutes, the young woman returned. “The turtle has a head wound and needs to be euthanized,” she explained. “We are giving him injections to relieve pain. Would you be able to take him to Wildlife Rescue of the Hamptons to be euthanized? We do not do it at this facility.”
Of course I could. I started to cry, my heart breaking for this innocent being. He or she was simply trying to cross the road.
I drove directly to the center in Hampton Bays, all the while thinking about this wild creature and its demise.
In these times of COVID-19 losses, the instability of life has my heart half broken much of the time. Every sad thing these days feels so very heavy. At the heart of it all is rampant uncertainty, from the current national leadership mess, to an unsuspecting turtle crossing the road.
Hilary Herrick Woodward is a resident of North Sea.
More Posts from Viewpoint
