When I was seven or eight years old, we took a trip to
Newport, Oregon. I remember walking on
the docks at the Bayfront, the reek of fresh fish and the sounds of barking sea
lions, squawking seagulls, laughing tourists, and fishermen unloading the day’s
catch. We had just visited the Undersea
Gardens and Ripley’s Believe It or Not and were heading back to pile into the
station wagon when Mom pulled me aside and handed me a bag. “This is from me and Dad,” she said. “We wanted you to have it.”
Inside the bag was a most glorious polar bear. White and fluffy, his head angled slightly to
the left just perfectly so I could clutch him to my chest. A bear, just for me. A toy that didn't have to be shared with my
siblings. A rare gift!
And that was how my life with My Bear began.
My beautiful polar bear has no name. More often than not, he is just plain
Bear. I attempted to name him over the
years, but nothing suited him. He didn't answer to George or Frank. He definitely wasn't a Pooh. Not even a Snuggles or a Snowball. I would try a new name for a day or even a
week, but no name would do. He was simply
My Bear.
My Bear has seen many things and been many places. He has been packed in suitcases, tossed in
backseats, stuffed into storage bins, crammed into backpacks. He has even been vacuum packed (he did NOT
like this). He has been a front seat
passenger across the country. Twice! He
has seen Mount Rushmore, Custer’s Last Stand, three Great Lakes and TWO oceans. He hated living in Chicago almost as much as I did.
My Bear has seen the darkest moments of my life. He bore witness to the three years of my Deep
Purple Funk, when I could not drag myself out of bed or off the floor, when
ceasing to exist seemed like a viable option. The days when I could do nothing but cry. The days when I couldn't even cry.
My Bear contains the evaporated remnants of an accumulated
30 years of tears. Secret tears that no
one else knows about. When my beautiful calico kitten was flattened in the
street and I stoically stated that one should expect such a demise of a barn
cat, but secretly I was dying inside. At
summer camp in Alaska when I was casually informed over the phone of the death
of Great-Uncle Howard, who I will always remember as a curmudgeonly old cowboy
who was nevertheless always nice to me and who was the very first person I ever
knew who died. He was followed in short
order by a grandfather, a beloved uncle, another grandfather, then several years later and most devastatingly, by
my grandmother. Only My Bear knows how
many tears of despair and grief and whispered sobs of “Grandma, where are you, I need you” haunt me to
this day.
My Bear has nursed more broken hearts than I care to
remember. He knows every tale of cruel lover and false friend, loneliness and
longing. He's endured the ridicule of thoughtless boys, safe in the knowledge that when THEY are long gone, Bear will still remain. Regardless of what happens, My Bear doesn't judge. He never says “I
told you so.” He never offers unwelcome advice nor makes any demands. He doesn't become angry that I ignore him when things are going well and demand his love almost solely when things are going badly. He just IS and he lets me just BE. I hold him
in my left arm and he rests his head on my chest. He holds my hand in his paw
and whatever will be will be.
His fuzz is now matted, worn bare in places. He has faded
from pure white to a mottled mess of off-white and grey. To the objective
observer, he is sad and tired and mangy after 30 years together. But I still cradle him in my arms as I write
this. I live in terror that he may not survive his next encounter with the
washing machine (not even safe inside a pillowcase on the gentle cycle). If the
house were on fire, he is the single possession I would return for.
He is My Bear. And I
love him.
