A Story From My Childhood

This story took place many, many years ago. I don't actually remember these events myself, but the story was told and retold by those who were there when the family wanted to give an example of my love of animals and championing their cause, or as an example of “don’t mess with Rosemary”.

When I was very young my paternal grandfather lived with us.  He'd lost his right leg to gangrene just after World War II.  He'd been a prisoner of war in a Japanese prison camp and his infected toe went untreated.  When he came to live with us in the late 1950’s he was quite proficient on his crutches.

As I'm sure no-one will be surprised to read I loved animals back then, my family had already acquired a rabbit, a cat and a dog for my sister and I to play with and love.  This collection of pets wasn't enough for me so in my quest to domesticate as many living things as possible, I'd fill a box with grass and then proceed to fill the box with creatures from the garden.  Our garden was mostly populated with snails so the population in my box consisted mostly of snails.   I took my responsibilities seriously even back then (I imagine I was somewhere around three or four). I tended the snails all day long, making sure they were getting enough to eat and dissuading any escape attempts by gently lifting the snail from the side of the box and placing it on a particularly tasty to snails leaf.  At night, the snails not being allowed past the back door of the house and thus forced to sleep outside, were left there to enjoy their grass and new home.  I could never bring myself to close the box's lid on them in case they couldn’t breathe so one by one the captive snails made a slow but determined gaol break.  I imagine now the heavy sighs emitted by the snails who were regularly caught - a "Here we go again," type of sigh.

I'd come out in the morning, discover that once again the box was snail free and empty out the old grass, line the box with new, fresh grass and go round up the former inhabitants of the box once again.  Keeping snails as pets is something I do remember, so my hobby lasted quite a number of years.  

My grandfather had a different, far less tolerant point of view on snails and used one of his crutches to crushed any poor mollusc he encountered.  He was unwise on these occasions to make sure I wasn’t anywhere nearby.  Apparently there were harsh words traded between my grandfather and me with me trying to convince him that snails were good, kind creatures who didn't deserve to be stomped on by a huge crutch and my grandfather taking the stance that snails were a pest and should be stomped on whenever encountered. Thankfully he left my box of refugees alone while he went on his snail eradication program  For a while we left each other to their opinions and actions but I can't imagine a cease fire was declared (I more than likely voiced my disapproval of my grandfather's actions concerning snails at every opportunity - I was that sort of child).

Then one day I apparently had a brainwave.  I can see myself sitting with my snails, telling them that it wasn't fair that my grandfather might crush them one day if I didn't manage to find them before he did and plotting a snails' revenge on their behalf.  How did I exact this revenge?  Simply; I removed my grandfather’s crutches from his room while he had a mid-day nap and hid them.  

This caused some consternation among the adults when my grandfather woke, ready to get back to his day, and looked to where he’d left his crutches only to find no crutches were be seen.  It didn't take long for the frown up members of my family to find the culprit; my sister would have only been about two years old at this time so carry off a pair of crutches was clearly beyond her capabilities.  There was only one suspect left and all eyes turned towards Rosemary.  I was told to return the crutches and, after pleading the snails' case and finding my pleas falling on deaf ears, I reluctantly gave back the crutches.  I'm sure there was some form of punishment meted out but that part never came into the story when my family was retelling my tale.

With crutches returned my grandfather (who I imagine was more than a little peeved with me) upped his snail crushing endeavours and really managed to annoy me.  I was raised to respect my elders and not argue with them, and while I'm sure I usually did as I was told, there were times when arguments had to be - my initial discussion with my grandfather on the rights of snails, previously mentioned here for example.  Clearly when I took those crutches I'd decided that actions speak louder than words and I wasn't above vigilante actions even at this young age. 

Now that the crutches were returned and my grandfather free to resume snail stomping, I needed to step up my guerrilla warfare if the snails in our yard were to live in peace without fear of crutches coming down on them.  It didn't take me long for my second attack.  This time I feel I must have thought along the lines that if my grandfather was to be convinced that snails were people of peace and meant him no harm he had to get close up and personal with them. 

One night when my grandfather went to bed there was a loud roar and my name was bandied about a bit.  My parents went to investigate the reason for the roar and discovered my grandfather’s bed; sheet and blankets turned back ready for him to get into and enjoy a good night's sleep.  There was a slight hitch to this plan and it had my name written all over it – when my grandfather turned back the covers he’d discovered his bed had been filled with snails. 

Once again whatever retribution was brought down on me by the adults in the house was always glossed over when the story was told, but I imagine it was pretty thorough this time.  My grandfather must have forgiven me at some stage because I remember him speaking to me and that I sat on his knees in his wheel chair when he lost his other leg to gangrene as well.  I was convinced to stop my snail rights activism and my grandfather was allowed to live in peace.  

I don't think he trusted me to have learned my lesson though, because not one of my memories of my grandfather is of him killing a snail.