Polliwog Park, or The Time a Little Turtle Head Really Did Poke Out

Today is Barack Obama's birthday. You can send him a card if you want, or you can just give him your vote. Either way.

Okay anyways, yesterday we Got Out of the House.
And it was a durn good thing we did, because the stagnant, thick, roast-in-hell kind of air we were breathing in the house was doing strange things to all our spirits. Tempers and temperatures ran side-by-side, in a steady race to the top of the hills. As for me, I was content to lay on the bed in an inert stupor, half-heartedly trying to nurse Edie so as not to have to actually play with her, while Kenneth locked himself inside Grand Theft Auto Land with the windows shut and the fan becalmed. Grampa was oblivious behind his studio quality headphones, playing Unreal on his computer, while Grammy made up for us all - washing, ironing, treadmill walking, "The Walton's" watching, baby jiggling, picnic packing, and finally, mercifully, family herding.
"Get in the car, we're going to the park. It'll be GOOD for us."
One by one we dragged our sweaty bodies outside and hefted ourselves into the car. Buckled seatbelts, and waited for the AC to kick in.

Once there, we found shade. There were hundreds of people gathered for a free reggae concert in the park. There were trees here, and they resembled Evergreens. Evergreens. Evergreens. Mmmmmmm.

Evergreens, with their large, triangular patches of shade.

(Let me tell you about the other time we were at an other park, resting in a spiky, palm-tree shaped patch of shade that wouldn't quit sliding away, one jagged tooth at a time, some other time.)

We saw kids and kids and kids. Families celebrating birthdays, weddings, bar mitzvahs, but mostly Sunday. The wedding crowd slinked around wearing long silk dresses and six inch silver heels, carrying plastic wine glasses. Maybe we'll just call them wine plastics. Carrying wine plastics full of ...guess what? Wine.

See what heat does to a brain?

We walked down the hill to the playground/duck pond area, and found children dancing over what looked like steaming sewer grates. We discovered they were misters. By the pond, a gaggle of small boys were dipping a net in the water and pulling out turtles. They mistook our curiosity as Adult Concern.

"Are you guys catching turtles?" (as in "Cool! Turtles!")

The first boy we asked just shrugged and pointed at their spokesboy, taller, tanner, and more serious than the rest. "He is, ask him."

Spokesboy strode over with the confidence of one who is used to diffusing Concerned Adults.

"We're catching turtles, and then we release them. We just catch them and give them names, and then put them back."

Meanwhile Kenneth whispered that if we ever need a pet turtle, this would be the place to find one.

I pulled Edie out of her sling, so she could get a closer look at the turtle crawling out of the net that Spokesboy was holding. He held it closer to her. "You wanna see the turtle?"

What a great kid.

Across the surface of the pond there were dozens upon dozens of little turtle heads poking out of the water, opening their mouths like baby birds, and flipping under the water. There were hundreds. I have never dared to dream that a person could go to the duck pond to feed the turtles. Life is a magical place.