Meticulously, I followed the directions. Down Route 193 to the hillock with a
busted maple. “You can’t miss it!” they said, just like any other Vermonter’s
instructions.
Suddenly, as I rounded a curve I knew what they meant! I slammed on the brakes
and skidded within inches of a pile of debris — car parts. It gave new meaning
to that old cliche.
Carefully I pulled away from and around the wreckage and turned left as
instructed. Close call.
Sitting in my office last week, I’d received a call from Bo Stevenson asking me
if I was interested in a story on gator rassling. He and his partner, Tyler
Brown, had started the first Vermont gator farm and wanted to spread the word
that anyone with a hankering to rassle a gator could do so at Earl’s Gator
Farm. Okay, Vermont has llama and ostrich farms, why not a gator farm?
Intrigued, I made the appointment.
As most Vermont roads do, this one wound its way back through a forest, then
came curious fence-like structures, very low; then wide open space. It was
beautiful. The little fences surrounded the most colorful collections of
undulating somethings. I couldn’t make them out.
As I parked my car in the indicated spot (signs were everywhere, “Please park
here or else”) I was approached by a shabby older man, thumbs stretching his
suspenders. Just as quickly a well-dressed version scooted after him. Slipping
in front of the shabby fellow, the well-dressed one stuck out his hand, “Hi,
I’m Bo Stevenson and this here is my partner, Tyler Brown. Welcome to Earl’s
Gator Farm.”
The farm looked just like any other Vermont farm, aside from the extremely low
fences. The large red barn, the white farmhouse. “So, where are the gators?” I
asked.
“You want a tour, complete?” Bo swept out arms. “We’ll start here.” He trudged
ahead. It was a bit muddy, being spring thaw.
“I do have a question for you, though. Don’t the gators get a bit cold in this
climate? I always thought gators were cold-blooded and needed a warm climate.”
“Nah, this is a special breed of gator. Grown right here in Vermont. Let me
show you.”
He lead the way to one of the pastures. We stood at a fence that came only as
high as my ankles. Behind the fence were thousands of tortoises. Colored
tortoises at that.
“Yeah, our secret ingredient.” Tyler stretched his suspenders. They snapped
back echoing strangely against his flannel-covered barrel chest.
Bo nudged Tyler quickly. “Hush, now.” Bo turned to me, “See them turtles?
Them’s our specialiality.” He rocked back and forth on his feet.
My head spun at the sight of thousands of red, blue, pink, purple, green,
yellow, orange, white, black and endless variations of colors milling around
behind teeny fences. Most were separated from each other by color. Blues in one
area, reds in another and so on. But the kicker was the myriad purples in
another pen.
“Like them, huh?” Bo turned to me. “Yup. Purple is a hot color this year. So’s
we let the reds and blues mingle and separate out the offspring by purples.
Can’t let the reds and yellows fraternize too much, orange ain’t as popular.”
“These are tortoises, not turtles, yes?” I picked a tuft of purple fur off my
jacket. It was soft and warm between my fingers.
“Tortoises, turtles, smurtles, who cares?” Bo turned around and leaned against
a light pole. A piece of straw hanging out of his mouth wiggled with every word.
“Mind you, come late spring the big event is the shearing.”
Shearing? Shearing turtles? And this is a gator farm?
“Sam! Sam! Come here, boy.” Tyler hollered towards the black turtles’ pen. A
large, lumbering tortoise shifted his body and dragged his way towards us.
“This here, Sam, is a personal friend of mine.”
“Do they all have names?” I brushed tuft of green fur off my leg.
“Yeah, most of them. Over there is Jack, there’s Elliot, that one there is
Patsy,” Bo whirled and flapped his arms in the appropriate directions. I ducked
quickly. He darn near knocked me over with his indicating.
“So where’s Earl?”
Tyler stared at me, shaking his head. “We ain’t got no Earl.”
“Why is place called Earl’s Gator Farm then?”
“Cause we ain’t got one yet.”
No Earl and they shear turtles. Colored turtles at that. Which, of course,
begged the next question. “Where’s the gator rassling?”
“In the barn, of course.” Bo looked at me as if I’d lost my marbles. “It’s too
cold out here yet. Might freeze something important off.”
Slurp, slurp, we sludged through the mud towards the barn. Signs were
everywhere slapped upside the barn walls: “Rassling $5/hr, $3/½ hr.” “Special
all day Rassling—$25.” “Best exercise in town!” “Beats Jane Fonda tapes any
day!” “Start a trend!” “Mingle with the Mighty!” “Any color you choose!”
Personally, I thought they were overdoing it, sign-wise. Gators only come in
nature’s colors, greenish, brownish, whatever. Besides, I hadn’t seen any sign
of gators, alli- or otherwise yet.
Along the back of the barn, in the parking lot were a few mud-splattered
vehicles, Ford and Chevy trucks, a Porsche, a couple of ancient non-descript
things with wheels. The barn gyrated from a pulsating noise. Gator rassling to
music?
As Bo opened the barn door, I admit, my jaw hit bottom. There were people truly
rassling gators.
Bo offered me my choice: today’s special, pink? Or something more manly. “Here,
I’ll be your partner for your first rassle.”
Pink gator? Rassling? Yes. In pairs. Over on the left, dressed in the latest
L.L. Bean specials, a young couple was yanking a purple gator back and forth
between them. Hysterical, they were pulling it back and forth, throwing each
other around, jumping, swinging each other at the end of a neck gator?
“Here, you want a neck gator like them skiers wear? Or you prefer a leg gator.
We have both.” Bo held out one of each, in pink. He grinned, “Great exercise,
ain’t it?”
© 1995 Kitty Werner