My 0ld man died when I was 15. The thing he loved most in life was hunting snapping turtles. He’d head down to the swamps in New Jersey on the Delaware River. This was when I was a little boy and we lived near Chester, Pennsylvania. (Incidentally, the Wikipedia article about me says that I was born in Chester, England.) He had a big, heavy wooden crate that he would take with him. And he had a rod with a hook on the end to pull the snapping turtles out of their holes. He never did anything with the turtles, he just liked to catch them. He would usually bring a box turtle home for me to play with. If you’ve ever come across a snapping turtle you know that they are about the meanest, nastiest creature on the face of the planet. He would always turn them loose somewhere after he brought them home, probably in the Delaware River. Except once. My mother decided that she would make snapping turtle soup. My old man chopped off the turtle’s head. and that head was still trying to take off your finger the next day. Years after my dad died, and after my mother had passed away, according to his last request, I scattered his ashes in the swamps of New Jersey.