"Werner
Erhard: The Transformation Of A Man"
A
biography by W. W. Bartley, III, published by Clarkson N. Potter, Inc. / page 35
In
June 1953 Werner graduated from high school. Almost immediately afterward, he
went to New York City for a holiday. Then he returned home, where for several
weeks he lay brooding about the house, temporizing, marking time. What was he
to do now?
For
a while, he escaped from his thoughts by playing with the children.
“One
of the things that they used to sell in Times Square is turtles,” Werner said. “They
have the Empire State Building painted on the back of them, or the print your
name, or whatever. I got my sister Joan one of these. I had the man write Joan
on the back of the turtle and had it mailed back to the house in Plymouth
Meeting.
“A
few weeks later I went home. I was sitting in the living room and my sister
came in crying. With those great big racking sobs that only a five-year-old is
capable of, giant alligator tears rolling down her cheeks. I put my arms around
her and pulled her up onto my lap and held her. After a while she calmed down a
bit and I asked her what was the matter. And she said, ‘The turtle dies,’ and
started to cry all over again. If you’re five years old you can make a best
friend out of a turtle.
“My
little three-year-old brother, Harry, was standing in front of the chair like a
bird dog honoring the point. It wasn’t his turtle, so the tragedy didn’t really
touch him. But he was solemn for the occasion. Then I said, ‘Well, I guess we’ll
have to bury the turtle.’ Joan stopped crying a little, so I knew I was on the
right track. I kept going. I said, ‘Yeah, we’ll get a matchbox, and we’ll line
the matchbox and we’ll make a gravestone, and we’ll have a whole funeral.’ By
this time there was no more crying. There were matches spilled from the
matchbox all over the kitchen floor, and Harry brought the spade. I led
everybody outside. We lined the casket with tinfoil and dug the grave and made
a headstone. We were ready. I said, ‘Well, Joan, we have to get the turtle.
Where is it?’ She said, ‘It’s in the den.’ So we went back in the house and
into the den, and no turtle was there. I got down on my hands and knees and was
looking around under the furniture for the turtle. Sure enough, under one of
the sofas, there was the turtle, walking along.
“So
I said, ‘Joan, Joan, we don’t have to have the funeral, the turtle’s alive.’
She looked outraged, and said,‘Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!’”
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