Turtle Races

On a recent trip I was able to take a few moments and drive through my hometown. I turned off the highway and down the main street only to find that it was blocked off. One of my traveling companions asked why the street was blocked off, and I told them it was because of the turtle race. I was given a very funny look after my answer. Apparently not everyone grew up having an annual turtle race.

The turtle race was a big deal when I was growing up. Several weeks before the race you would begin looking for turtles. When you found one you would go downtown to Hensen’s and register for the race. In the time leading up to the race we would feed our turtle, and walk our turtle, to make sure he was at his best for the race. The day of, or sometimes the day before, we would decorate our turtles (so we would know if our turtle was the winner). At race time you would take your turtle out to a wooden square area in the middle on the main intersection of the downtown area. The race began when the judges lifted up the wooden square, releasing the turtles to begin the race. The judges would “rush” to all four sides of the intersection so they could declare the winner.

Thinking about it now, it seems a little silly. But when I was younger for several weeks there was nothing more important. Every year we looked forward to the race day, because race day was really more than just race day. The Turtle Race was part of our communities 4th of July Celebration. There was a parade, a BBQ lunch on the courthouse lawn, crafts and other items for sale everywhere, fundraisers galore (from Cow Patty Bingo to the Cheerleader’s Dunking Booth). There was a rodeo that night, and a dance at the end of the day. It was a day to be with family and friends. It was a day to laugh, a day to remember, a day to enjoy the best of our community.

There are times I miss those times together with family and friends, not so much for myself but for my kids. That was the day we heard the “old stories” from Mom’s friends, stories about the “good ole days.” Those stories helped make sense of the world we lived in, why so and so didn’t get along with someone else, or why something happened…

But those are my memories. My kids would probably not enjoy my hometown’s celebration as much as I used to, but that just means I get to make different memories for my children. I get to find different ways of telling them “old stories,” to do different things to connect with friends and family, and the community we are trying to become a part of. What memories are you helping your kids make? Are they memories of connecting with others, of being a part of the larger community at its best? Or are the memories we are helping them make of isolation, of being disconnected, of being a part of a community at its lowest?

I hope that the memories I help my kids make are as vivid, as special, as important, and at times as emotion invoking as the memories my Mom and my Dad made for me.