Road Apples
July 7, 2008

Where Road Apples came from

By Tim Sanders

Memory is a funny thing. By which I don’t mean HAHA funny, but only TRICKY funny. Within the past week, for example, I’ve been asked by two different people just why it was that I originally chose to call my weekly column "Road Apples." Many years ago I addressed that question in print. My answer involved an incident on County Road 69, between Cedar Bluff Highway and Piney Road. It was a true incident, and my recollections in that column were most likely very accurate. I’m a stickler for accuracy. But that was long ago, and I can’t stickle like I used to. I have no earthly idea what ever happened to that particular column, so to recreate it would be impossible. My memory has clouded a bit over the years.

_Perhaps I should preface this with some background information. When I was a youngster, I had several pets. Like most kids, I had cats and dogs, but I also had pet turtles. You could find turtles sunning themselves on rocks and logs in lakes and rivers, and sometimes just crawling along the road. They cost nothing and made excellent pets, in that they never barked at the neighbors, never hawked up furballs on the porch, and never climbed trees after birds. At least none of mine ever did. All of them, even my snapping turtles, behaved themselves when company came over, were of good moral character, and had excellent personal hygiene. They didn’t molt, or shed, and you never had to brush them or take them to the vet’s for shots. Granted, my turtles couldn’t perform many tricks–although I did have an old tortoise named Lightning who could roll over, halfway, and kick–but that was immaterial to me. The point is that I admired turtles, and was careful, even after I outgrew my pet turtle phase, to avoid running over them when they were crossing the road. In fact, unless I’m really pressed for time, I still stop and take any turtle I find on the roadway out into a nearby woods or field–one in the general direction in which he seems to be headed.

So back to the County Road 69 incident. One day I was driving down that road toward Piney Road when I spied a turtle, or possibly more than one (my memory is not clear on the exact number), making his or their way across the pavement. It was springtime, and it had recently rained. In these parts, after spring rains, box turtles, which local folks refer to as "highland terrapins," leave the woods and cross roads in order to ... well, to get to the woods on the other side of the road before the seasons change again and real estate values go up. The turtle was several yards in front of me when I saw it, and several feet in front of me when I stopped. There were no other cars in sight, so I simply left the car in the middle of the road, turned on my emergency flashers and got out. Again, I don’t remember now if there was one turtle or more, or if it was one or two cars which eventually came around that curve and approached from the rear. What I do remember is that I was aware of the motorists who’d stopped behind my car and were witnessing my noble act of human charity toward one of God’s lowlier yet no less deserving creatures. I also remember that surge of self-congratulatory pride I felt, knowing that perhaps my good example would result in others thinking twice before leaving a poor, defenseless, and pitifully slow turtle parked precariously on the road, oblivious to traffic. I may have even raised my hand ceremoniously toward the people behind me before approaching that turtle; again I don’t remember the details.

Nor do I remember how close I got to that turtle, or those turtles, before I noticed that something was amiss. I’d recently had eye surgery, and my vision wasn’t back to normal yet. What I do remember is that upon closer examination I finally determined that the turtle, or those two turtles, or that small congregation of turtles holding a revival meeting in the middle of County Road 69 was, or were, actually not turtles at all, but brown, roundish, fragrant clumps of horse hockey. And I also distinctly remember realizing immediately that I hadn’t just slowed down for that horse hockey, or driven around it. No, I’d stopped my car, got out, and proudly walked over to look at it and bask in its natural beauty. And there were witnesses. I did not pick the horse hockey up and carry it tenderly across the road to safety, but even if I had, I don’t think it would have fooled anybody.

 I hung my head, slunk back to the car and drove off. Quickly. I have no idea what those people watching my little performance thought, but I can imagine:

"What you reckon that wuz all about, Larry?"

"I ain’t for sure, but I think he musta been one of them state manure inspectors."

"He looked kinda simple-minded to me."

"Didn't I say he prob’ly worked for the state?"

"Oh ... yeah.”

Yes, the term "road apples" refers to horse droppings. Someone, many years ago, obviously felt they resembled apples, at least in shape and size. I suppose I could have called my column "Road Turtles," but that would’ve made no sense at all. And regardless of what the name "Road Apples" may seem to imply, I'm not one of those stinking state manure inspectors. Not me; I'm a fragrant, highly trained, professional journalist.