This is Ria, welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People.
Our story today is a sweet one, and also a bit of a long one, so we're going to jump right in.
It's called Mr. Turtle's Treat Truck.
Take it away, Abel.
There are no pictures.
You have to imagine them in your mind.
You can imagine it however you want.
Okay, let's go. Um, may I have a fly -cicle with cricket flakes?
Um, may I please have a fly -cicle with mosquito sprinkles, please, Mr.
Turtle, sir? Oh, Mr.
Turtle, can I please have a fly -cicle dipped in chocolate?
Mr. Turtle chuckles.
Alright. One at a time.
It is a beautiful morning by the pond.
The weather is warm enough that it feels like summer, even though it is early autumn, and the leaves are beginning to change.
Mr. Turtle officially stopped serving fly -cicles a week ago in favor of autumn -themed treats, but he has about a dozen left in his truck's cooler, and he just can't resist the young pond creatures blinking sweetly up at him.
Here you go, Molly.
Thank you, Mr. Turtle.
She skitters off to meet up with her dad, who stands waiting by a patch of pond reeds.
And you, Leland. Thank you, Mr.
Turtle. Leland says, and ambles away with his fly -cicle towards a friend by a large weeping willow tree.
And there you are, Froggina.
You're the best, Mr.
Turtle. Oh, Froggina exclaims, searching in her little satchel.
Um, Mr. Turtle, I don't have enough crickets to pay you.
I counted wrong. My teacher says I need to learn to count better, but it's difficult to remember all the numbers.
Froggina looks as if she might cry as she holds out the fly -cicle to Mr.
Turtle, who leans out the little window on the side of his truck.
I'll have to come back another day.
Nonsense, Mr. Turtle says with a gentle smile, it's on me.
But Mr. Turtle. Go, enjoy this beautiful day.
Froggina brushes away a tear from her eye.
Thank you, Mr. Turtle.
He smiles as he watches the little frog hop away.
Twenty years driving his treat truck, and it still never gets old to see the glee on young turtles, frogs, salamanders, and newts faces when they leave with a treat.
Once his customers disappear beyond the tall pond grass, Mr.
Turtle tidies up his truck and wipes down the surfaces.
His truck is old. It was his father's before Mr.
Turtle took over all those years ago.
But it has held up well.
Mr. Turtle realized a few months into running it that he had to learn to repair it himself or he'd never turn a profit.
Now he is as expert a truck mechanic as he is a treat seller.
Today, the truck is running perfectly.
But Mr. Turtle, who has grown old along with it, is not.
He heard his foot yesterday.
He's not even sure how.
One minute, he was fine.
The next, he was limping.
He sighs and thinks, not for the first time.
I'm not sure how long I can keep this up.
By the end of each day, his knees are sore and his back needs a rest.
And now this limp. Mr.
Turtle remembers all too well when his father started slowing down.
On a breezy day in mid fall, before the first frost of winter, he came to his son and said, let's take a walk around the pond.
I'd like to run something by you.
By the end of that walk, that life changing walk, they agreed to gradually transfer the treat truck business from father to son.
Mr. Turtle has thought of that day many times over the years.
For so long, it was one of his fondest memories.
Lately, the memory of that day is not as sweet.
Mr. Turtle is older now than his father was back then.
And because of things that happened over the years that are for a different time, a different story, he does not have anyone to take for a long walk.
He does not have anyone to pass his business to.
What am I going to do?
Mr. Turtle mutters to himself as he rewipes the already clean counter inside his treat truck.
And it strikes him then that he is not the only thing slowing down today.
Business is slow. Hmm, probably a fluke.
He decides to spend his downtime organizing some things in his truck.
An hour later, the sun is high in the sky.
He's had a few more customers, but nowhere near the number he usually does.
Mr. Turtle breathes a sigh of relief when he sees one of his regular customers, a young salamander.
Her mother waves to Mr.
Turtle from a little ways off as she gathers reeds in a basket.
He turns on his usual music to remind the area creatures that he's nearby.
Hello, hello, Francine.
Good to see you. How's your little sister?
Is she feeling better?
She's a bit better, and once I bring her a treat, she'll be much better.
I certainly hope so.
Francine orders a lemon cricket muffin for herself and a marsh mushroom mallow cupcake for her sister.
Do you have any ants to go on top?
Of course. As Mr. Turtle sprinkles brown ants on the cupcake frosting, he glances around, expecting more tiny creatures to be lining up.
But no one else is there.
Francine, Mr. Turtle says, leaning out the little window to give her the treats.
Yes, Mr. Turtle. Where are all your friends today?
Francine cocks her head.
She, too, is a turtle, a box turtle, with a lovely brown and golden patterned shell.
Um, well, Mr. Turtle.
She says nervously, I think they're getting free pumpkin cricket spice cocoa.
Pumpkin cricket spice cocoa, Mr.
Turtle repeats. Um, yes, Mr.
Turtle. Didn't you hear the music?
Oh, great. Mr. Turtle thinks, now my hearing's going too.
But as soon as he clicks off his own truck's music, he hears it clearly.
Coming from around the bend of the pond, it sounds like, well, it sounds like a treat truck.
But that can't be right.
Mr. Turtle's treat truck is the only one around and has been for years.
Treat trucks have territories, after all.
Thank you, Mr. Turtle.
Francine calls as she plods away, balancing the treats on her shell.
You're welcome. Oh, and tell your mom thank you.
The peace lily she gave me is still in bloom.
Will do, Mr. Turtle.
As he waves goodbye, his smile fades.
His truck is parked near the water's edge, which laps gently against the bank of the pond.
Tall reeds circling the pond dance in the breeze.
The sky is clear and blue, not a cloud in sight.
It does not seem like the kind of day for things to fall apart.
Mr. Turtle always loves the drive to his second and final stop of the day.
He has to take a bit of a winding route that goes through an archway of trees that appear to bow to one another.
It is lovely the way the sun comes through the branches at that spot and compared to the typically bustling area on the banks of the pond, it is tranquil.
But today he's agitated.
He keeps his truck's music off as he drives and the music coming from the unknown treat truck grows louder until Mr.
Turtle rounds a bend and sees a long line of young pond creatures trailing away from a brand new shiny treat truck not 50 feet from Mr.
Turtle's usual spot.
It is parked just by the water's edge.
Too close, Mr. Turtle murmurs.
He never parks that close, at least, he never has since that one time many moons ago.
When he did, his tires sank into the pond mud.
It took hours to break free of it.
Mr. Turtle parks and leans out of his little service window to get a look at the other truck.
He grimaces at the writing on the side of it, Pond Treats for You, written with the number four and the letter U.
How tacky. Tacky or not, the line to get free pumpkin cricket spice cocoa stretches longer than any line Mr.
Turtle has seen at his own truck.
He watches a green claw extend from the service window in the side of the truck, handing paper cups to the young creatures in line.
He doesn't recognize the green claw.
He can't quite get a glimpse of whoever owns it, but he recognizes plenty of the children in line.
They are his usual customers, young salamanders, frogs and turtles who purchase treats from his truck at this very spot.
Mr. Turtle watches the green claw stretch downward from the window again and again and the young pond creatures skip away with their treats, smiling and giggling.
Occasionally, a young newt or toad comes over to his service window and Mr.
Turtle serves up a treat along with a smile.
But he can't stop glancing at this new competitor until late in the afternoon on the cusp of twilight when the line at pond treats for you shortens then vanishes altogether.
Mr. Turtle limps over to the truck.
Hello? Excuse me, he says, upon reaching the service window, the green claw appears with a cup.
Mr. Turtle hesitates.
He doesn't want a free cup of pumpkin cricket spice cocoa.
He wants answers to questions, like how can you possibly afford to give away so much free cocoa?
And why are you intruding on my territory?
He wants his parking spot back.
Mr. Turtle stretches his neck to see if he can get a look at the owner of the green claw.
Allow me to introduce myself.
I'm Mr. Turtle, I was hoping we could...
But the music is too loud, drowning out his words.
Mr. Turtle takes the cup.
Thank you, I was just wondering if the claw disappears.
The window slides shut.
The light inside the truck winks out and its engine rumbles.
It drives away, entirely untroubled by the pond mud.
Before it is completely out of sight, Mr.
Turtle takes note of the phone number printed on the back of the truck.
Hello! Ah, finally, I'll get some answers.
Uh, good evening, I'm calling about - You've reached pond treats for you.
We care about your call.
Please hold for the next available amphibian.
Huh? Mr. Turtle pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it in disbelief.
Once he'd arrived home, setting his empty cup of slightly over -sweetened, yet frustratingly okay, pumpkin cricket spice cocoa on his wooden table, he had decided to handle this situation the way he always did, with a civil conversation.
What was it his father used to say?
A good faith, honest conversation can solve 90 % of life's sticky wickets.
All amphibians are busy at this time.
Please remain on the line.
We care about your call.
But perhaps this wicket is stickier than most.
For the next 23 minutes, Mr.
Turtle keeps the phone to his ear, sweeping the floor of his little cottage, and tidying up the kitchen.
Finally, he hears - This is Marge from Pond Treats for You.
How may I help you?
Good evening, Marge.
I'm calling about your truck.
I think there's been a misunderstanding about - Truck number.
Excuse me? I need the truck number and I can look that up for you.
The truck number. You mean you have more than one?
We have 236. Excuse me, 237 trucks in the Southern Region, 135 in the West, 73 in the East.
If you provide me with the number of the truck in question, I'd be overjoyed to assist you.
Mr. Turtle frowns. He'd imagined this was a matter of speaking directly to the creature attached to that green claw.
What kind of operation is this?
Hello, sir? Mr. Turtle slowly lowers the phone.
Sir? Business picks up in the days after the new truck arrives.
Once Pond Treats for You is no longer giving out free cocoa.
Each morning, Mr. Turtle parks in his usual spot.
Hi, Mr. Turtle. Hello.
Ah, I see you got your cast off.
Yup, good as new. What can I get you today?
But business is not what it used to be.
There's a steady trickle of young pond creatures lining up for cupcakes and hot cider and muffins, but it's still a trickle.
Mr. Turtle knows where his customers have gone.
He thinks of that green claw extending from the Pond Treats for You service window.
Who does it belong to?
Mr. Turtle never manages to get a look at anything beyond the claw.
He imagines it's attached to a gigantic ghoulish monster.
His mind goes wild with possibilities.
Over the following week, the leaves turn from green to burnt orange, marigold, sienna, and a rusty red.
On a cool morning when the sky's a brilliant shade of blue and a gossamer clouds drift lazily over the shining sun, Mr.
Turtle stares out from the little window of his truck thinking it might be the most beautiful day he's ever seen.
After lunch, he packs up and drives to his second stop.
He passes under the archway of trees, but instead of the usual calm that washes over him, he gets a pit in his stomach when he sees the leaves on the bowing trees have all turned a chestnut brown if only it were summer again.
Summer when the days are long and he sells hundreds of ice cold flycicles from morning to night.
The seasons are changing too quickly.
He eases his truck into his usual spot, his wheels settling into well worn grooves.
Pond treats for you parked nearby has a line of about 25 young pond creatures trailing away from its window.
Mr. Turtle watches as the green claw appears again and again, delivering treats, collecting payments.
Francine and her little sister approach Mr.
Turtle's window and he's glad for the distraction.
Good afternoon, my ladies.
How may I be of service on this fine day?
The sisters giggle.
Mr. Turtle waves to their mother who smiles from her spot at the water's edge.
Mr. Turtle, may I please have a cricket cookie?
Certainly and for you?
Um, um, say may I, like mother told us, may I give you, no silly, may I please have.
Mr. Turtle chuckles and as he looks down at the girls who whisper to one another, a thought comes so swiftly, he can't push it away.
I will miss this. He scans the area.
It is a beautiful patch of land beside the pond where the grass sways and the tall trees stretch to the sky.
There leaves a flame with autumn colors.
It is lovely and it is also empty.
There's no wine in front of his truck.
There are no potential customers milling about.
And so he sees that his unbidden thought is true.
Because this, his long running business, his life's work is not going to last.
Mr. Turtle, I mean, excuse me, Mr.
Turtle. Francine's darling little sister, he can't remember her name, blinks up at him with big eyes.
I'm sorry. My mind wandered for a moment.
Why three crickets, Mr.
Turtle? Why three? Pond treats for you charges two crickets is what she means, Mr.
Turtle. Francine says helpfully, Mr.
Turtle's stomach does a flip.
Two crickets, two crickets instead of three.
How can I compete with that?
Two crickets today then, Mr.
Turtle says with a sad smile, just two crickets.
The young salamanders head off with their treats, laughing and chatting happily.
Bye, Mr. Turtle. Thank you, Mr.
Turtle. He rests his feet on the ledge of his little service window and looks out at the pond.
The water is still and silent.
Yes, he thinks with a lump in his throat.
I will miss this. After sunset, the moon emerges, a lovely waxing three quarters moon.
Mr. Turtle turns off his music and leaves his truck.
He wanders down to the pond's edge and finds a flat rock on which to sit.
He stretches out his legs and his feet skim the surface of the water.
He and his father used to do this at the end of a long day, sit by the pond and stare out at the moon's reflection, not saying anything, not needing to.
A breeze sweeps through, rippling the water, making the pond grass dance.
And Mr. Turtle hears his father's words clearly in his mind, a good faith, honest conversation can solve 90 % of life's sticky wickets.
Hmm. Mr. Turtle glances at the pond treats for you, truck.
Its light is still on.
Perhaps it's worth a shot.
One more try to get to the bottom of all this.
He gets up from his spot on the rock and limps over to the truck.
The line of customers has dwindled.
Mr. Turtle waits as a few young frogs and newts get treats.
The service window slides shut.
The light inside the truck winks out.
Here goes nothing. Mr.
Turtle thinks, imagining the ghastly hulking creature attached to that green claw.
He strides to the truck and finds a door in the side of it.
He raises a foot to knock and...
Stop with the excuses, Jimmy.
You better double the customers by next week.
But how can I possibly?
Hey, I pulled you out of that swamp and I can send you right back to it.
You'll double the customers or you're fired.
Mr. Turtle's eyes go wide.
He leans against the door, listening.
But Mr. Todington, and stop with the chitchat.
Your job is to give out treats and collect payments, not ask little froggies how their weekends went.
But Mr. Todington, shouldn't I try to get to know?
Get to know. You know the drill.
We come in, we take over, we leave.
There's no getting to know anybody.
Mr. Turtle's whole body goes numb.
The door of the truck flies open and Mr.
Turtle ducks behind it as a large toad wearing a bright red suit, blue bow tie, and a bowler hat waddles out.
Mr. Todington, Mr. Turtle surmises.
The toad hops away into the growing darkness.
Mr. Turtle watches as the green claw, the one he has seen so many times, appears, followed by its owner, Jimmy.
Mr. Turtle nearly gasps upon seeing him.
He is a young green lizard.
Desperately young. Ridiculously young.
And so small. Mr. Todington, Jimmy calls into the dark.
Mr. Todington, please, can we just talk about?
Ugh, it's no use. Mr.
Turtle steps out from behind the door and opens his mouth to say something.
But Jimmy doesn't see him in the dark.
He hops back into the truck and the door shuts behind him.
The truck starts up great.
Mr. Turtle mutters, the engine revs, and the wheels spin, sending a spray of mud into the night air.
The truck does not move.
Young Jimmy has parked too close to the pond's edge.
The wheels are stuck in the mud.
All right, on three.
One, two, three. Together, Mr.
Turtle and Jimmy push all their weight against the truck.
It rocks forward and rolls just enough to free the tires from the mud.
I can't thank you enough, Mr.
Turtle. Right, Mr., wait a second.
You run Mr. Turtle's treat truck, don't you?
Over the next hour, the two reptiles sit by the pond under the moonlight, sipping steaming hot marsh cider from Mr.
Turtle's truck. Jimmy learns about Mr.
Turtle's 20 years of working at the pond.
Mr. Turtle learns Jimmy has worked for Mr.
Todington and pond treats for you for two years and has daydreamed of quitting since the very first afternoon.
I just want to run an honest business.
You know, I do. I know exactly what you mean, Jimmy.
The following day, Jimmy quits.
Mr. Todington is beside himself, of course.
You think I can't replace you?
I can replace you in no time.
That turns out to be easier said than done.
You see, Mr. Todington never appreciated Jimmy's unusually strong work ethic.
It turns out he's a rare lizard, indeed.
His first replacement lasts three days in the truck.
The next lasts five.
After a little over a week, the pond treats for you truck drives away for good.
Jimmy goes to work for Mr.
Turtle, who needs the help after his usual customers come back.
Mr. Turtle teaches Jimmy everything he knows about running the business, from ordering inventory to accounting, to maintaining the truck itself.
Jimmy, for his part, proves himself to be a worthy apprentice.
Business is better than ever.
And on a warm day in mid -spring, during the afternoon lull, Mr.
Turtle wipes down the counter, turns to Jimmy, and says, let's take a walk around the pond.
I'd like to run something by you.
Sure thing, Mr. Turtle.
Jimmy puts a sign on the service window that says, out for lunch, and the two treat sellers head out for a walk.
Who knows? It might even be a life -changing walk.
I hope you enjoyed the story.
Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector.
My in -house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories in the internet for all of you to enjoy.
Thank you to my Little Stories premium subscribers who are making it possible for me to keep doing this.
If you'd like to get more of the stories you love, access to Little Stories for Sleep, an exclusive bedtime podcast, and ad -free listening, visit littlestoriespremium .com to join or to gift a subscription.
Thank you to Abel for the super important reminder message at the beginning.
And thank you as always for listening in.
Thank you.
