When my father was a little boy, some bigger boys gave him a bag of turtle eggs. They looked remarkably like chestnuts that grew on some of the trees in their town.
“Take these home and keep them in a warm place. Turtles will hatch,” they told him, probably guffawing to themselves at the naiveté and gullibility of this little boy.
He brought them home and showed them to his father.
“You take good care of those,” his father said.
For days, he checked the bag. Nothing seemed to be happening.
Eventually, he forgot about them, caught up in other little boy activities, like baseball and playing with his dog, Mugsy.
A couple of weeks later, his father said, “Have you checked those turtle eggs lately? I thought I heard something in there.”
He ran to where he had stashed the brown paper bag holding the chestnuts. The bag was moving! Scratchy sounds were coming from it!
Cautiously, he opened the bag to see what was inside.
In the bag were some little turtles, their shells about the size of a silver dollar.
How did his father know they were in there?
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 
Quite something to have had his hands on.
This is the sweetest story I don’t remember ever hearing! A father who gives good gifts to his children … I love it.
Dad told me this story multiple times when I would ask him for stories about when he was a little boy.
The other favorite was how he got Mugsy — his father found him wandering on the dock while waiting for the ferry, so he picked him up, stuck him in his coat pocket, and brought him. Dad usually ended that story saying, “Probably some little girl is still crying because her dog didn’t come home that night,” or something along those lines.
Obviously my problem is I must have never asked Dad to tell me stories from his childhood. I’m ashamed. And I don’t think I heard the Mugsy story either. My bad.
Poor little girl, but lucky father to have such a thoughtful father of his own. He looks so cute in the photo.
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