Bearing My Soul

 

NOT A REAL BEAR

As a child, I never owned a teddy bear. Instead, I had a stuffed skunk named (surprise!) Stinky. Stinky figured prominently in my imaginative play, the most unusual scenario being his wedding to Barbie (I guess Ken wasn’t wild enough for her). Later, I enjoyed reading the adventures of cuddly Winnie the Pooh—but even then, I knew that was not how a REAL bear rolled. I was terrified of encountering the Genuine Article, even when the bars of a zoo cage were between us.

I was reminded of my fear last week in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Apparently, there are two black bears per square mile in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, so odds of an encounter are fairly good. One early morning during our family reunion, I took a long walk with my sister-in-law Ruth (forgetting the perils of an outdoor stroll for the moment). As we traipsed along, it dawned on me that there were no other people around, and that we might be considered a decent munchie.  

Thankfully, though, we were not attacked by a bruin like the one from Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, who mauled and ate Antigonus, inspiring the most famous Shakespearean stage direction: ‘Exit, pursued by a bear." (Fun tidbit: we don't know if Shakespeare used an actual bear from the London bear-pits, or an actor wearing a bear costume.)

 

Later that evening, word got out that a black bear had just been spotted rummaging in the dumpster out near the condo parking lot. Even if Our Lord and Savior was awaiting us over by our car, you could not have persuaded me to venture forth again. 

 

While I'm making a later-in-life effort to appreciate the wonders of nature, I’m majoring in the small, stingless and toothless variety of critter. Vacations at the shore are my speed (I figure sharks do not usually beach themselves and wriggle up to my safely-distanced sand chair). The worst wildlife I have to deal with are very occasional swarms of green-head flies; at the first sign of them I always decide I’ve had enough sun for the day, and pack up my beach bag. 

 

To give bears credit, however—they don’t try to fool you. Even the young cubs look pretty menacing, and the moms and dads are the stuff of nightmares. I’m glad they are easily identifiable as musts-to-avoid, the way I appreciate burglars, who helpfully wear those black eye masks and striped shirts, and carry those burlap loot bags (they do, right? I get my info from cartoons). 

 

I recently read that the original Germanic word for the hellish beasts was “arkto.” Out of superstition, the euphemism “bear” was used instead (saying the animal’s true name might cause it to appear), and the new moniker caught on. I’m wondering if the reverse might now be true, since saying “bear” doesn’t seem to deter them a bit anymore.

 

If I ever do another mountain trek, don’t try to chat with me. I’ll be busy shouting “Arkto!” 

Welcome to the Smoky Mountains!

Call and Response

Photo by Filip Andrejevic on Unsplash

Few kinds of songs have the rich and varied history as the “call and response.” From African-American spirituals, to beloved children’s songs, the concept of one line of music echoing the one before has been popular for ages. I love the call and response because it keeps everyone engaged—listening, coming in on cue, having a musical conversation. For the convict gangs toiling on the roads, a call and response set a rhythm for their efforts, and (I’m sure) helped pass the endless, grueling hours. In the military service, call-and-response (especially shouted responses) kept morale high on long marches. In spirituals, members of the gospel choir would interact, and underscore the beauty and power of the words. Little ones singing “Frère Jacques” and “Down By the Bay” repeat the previous line, which adds to the fun of the music. 

Sheridan told me recently about a Bird ID app called Merlin. You record birdsongs, and the name of the bird singing comes up on your phone. I was awake at 4:45 AM (as always), but this time I opened the window, and taped the symphony of sounds in our yard. Thanks to Merlin, I could identify the chorus—cardinal, American robin, white-throated sparrow, Carolina wren. It sounded for all the world as if the birds were listening to one another, and chirping a response (and that response would in turn cause the next bird to trill, and on on.) 

 

As a mom and Nana, I’m always looking for “entertaining” ways to give (loving) reminders, er, orders to my kiddos. If I used “call and response,” instead of grumbling and grousing, maybe they would actually answer! Better yet, maybe they’d actually do what they’re being asked! I can just imagine…

 

To Military Cadence ("I Don't Know But I've Been Told")

 

I don’t know but I’ve been told (I don’t know but I’ve been told)

Eat before your food gets cold (eat before your food gets cold)

All chew (all chew)!

All chew (all chew)!

 

Or…(to "Banana Boat Song")

 

Day-o, Mom say day-o

Daylight come and we wanna go school

Day-o, Mom say day-o

Daylight come and we wanna go school

 

Even…(to "Michael Row the Boat Ashore")

 

Put your laundry in the wash 

It’s so sti-n-ky

Put your laundry in the wash

It’s so sti-n-ky

 

Of course, this tuneful trick could become obnoxious. My tone-deaf dad used to “sing” us out of bed in the mornings. A miserable time was had by all, and we’d get up just to shut him up. 

 

"Annoying" is not my goal; rather, my hope is that “call-and-response” would engender a true, cheery esprit-de-corps in the household. Both Aiden and Peter have really nice voices and can often be heard singing while playing Legos. Maybe they could make up their own ditties! 

 

Example… (to Military Cadence "Everywhere We Go")

 

Every afternoon (every afternoon)

Nana always let us (Nana always lets us)

Watch some TV (watch some TV)

All the TV (all the TV)

 

On second thought, never mind.

 

 

 

 

Dashing--

Me, 1956-?

If you know my writing style at all, you know that I am super fond of using (parentheses), exclamation points!!! and-especially-dashes. Reading a paragraph of mine is an exercise in breathlessness, as you (the reader) zip along from idea to idea—much as you are doing right now!!!  Now, I am probably a wee bit too dependent on these punctuational flourishes, and the taciturn Hemingway no doubt would spin in his grave like a chicken on a rotisserie spit if he read my prose. Though I do try to be disciplined, my faves creep in anyway. Right now, the semicolon is having a moment; I’m pretty sure, however, the dash will eventually win the day.

The dash is also used to separate date of birth and date of death on headstones. When I stroll through a cemetery, I get a chuckle out of family monuments where good old Dad’s name and DOB are pre-carved, with a dash and then nothing (yet). It looks like a macabre version of “Wheel of Fortune,” where passersby might take their best guesses about his expiration date, and maybe win a valuable prize. As for me, I’m currently torn among “donated to science,” “scattered out at sea,” and “used as human mulch”—in any event, pretty sure I will go headstone-less. 

 

But that doesn’t mean I don’t often consider that enigmatic dash, representing the totality of my lifespan. There’s a famous poem, called (surprise!) “The Dash,” which is often read at funerals (including Senator Bob Dole’s service). I’ll spare you a recital, but the gist is that what matters most is “how we spend our dash.” Poetic value aside, “The Dash” serves an important purpose, reminding us to make the most of every minute we have here on earth. 

 

Therefore, I’m announcing ways I will no longer be spending my dash. They include:

 

*Dusting baseboards, ironing, and other super-pointless housekeeping tasks. My motto: if it doesn’t bother me, why bother at all?

*Answering ANY phone call from “unknown number.” I don’t even enjoy hearing from most of the “knowns,” so why subject myself to Mr. or Ms. Robocall?

*Finishing books I dislike. I used to plug along no matter what, which was a huge time-suck. Now, after the first chapter, I flip to the last page, and ask myself, “Do I really care about what happens on pages 10-226?” If the answer isn’t a resounding “yes,” I call it quits.

*Self-checkout, anywhere. I’m terribly slow at this, and I deeply resent having to search for the various barcodes to scan. If I’d wanted to work at Acme, I’d apply.

*Games—board, ball, card. And no, I won’t love them when I get the hang of them.

 

Exotic travel, wonderful theatre, concerts, gourmet meals—all eminently dash-able. I’m noticing, however, that none of these come cheap. So I guess the answer to “how will I spend my dash?” is “I’ll put it on my Amex!” 

 

Until next time, my friends, happy mortality-pondering. Gotta dash!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reunited

Long, long ago Seyfried reunion in Valdosta, GA

Hailing as I do from a small family, and also a family that was not very organized, or celebratory, reunions were not part of my growing-up experience. My aunts, uncles and cousins, while lovely people, were few. If you even mentioned the word “party” to my mom she would flip, because hosting one would be an unthinkable burden; merely attending one would take more energy and focus than Joanie possessed. The only times I recall being in one place with the whole extended fam involved wakes and funerals, and for obvious reasons they are not the happiest memories.

But then I joined the Seyfrieds, and suddenly reunions were an actual THING, not just a vague concept. Steve’s whole childhood could be considered one big family reunion, what with his 65 first cousins, most of whom lived in Indianapolis and environs. They were forever dropping by, having dinner, or going fishing, or playing cards, or other idyllic pastimes.  

 

As if all this familial togetherness wasn’t enough, the Baker branch of the clan has always hosted an annual summer blowout back in Indiana, featuring, as the invitation promised, “beer and brats.” I originally thought that was a rather rude way to refer to the children, until I was informed that “brats” were sausages! We never once attended, but ever-optimistic Cousins Ray and Linda kept us on the list anyway. 

 

Steve's brother Phil and wife Jackie held several Seyfried reunions while our offspring were young, which we did attend. My primary memories of these involved the long drive to Virginia, and little Patrick’s unfortunate tendency to read picture books in the car, then promptly throw up, which made the drives not only long but really smelly as well. After a while, those gala events tapered off, and that was it for decades.

 

I feel the same way about school reunions. As I attended three high schools, I've had my choice of classmate celebrations, and chosen “nope” for every one. I keep up with the friends I have always kept up with, and otherwise feel that a large gathering of half-remembered guys and gals--maybe less than half-remembered, because (unlike me, of course) everyone’s appearance has changed drastically--would be a tad depressing. 

 

At brother-in-law Rod’s funeral last summer, we all made the standard parting comments about “not waiting for the next death to be together,” but then the ever-reunion-minded Phil actually PLANNED something. This one will just be the adult siblings and their spouses, and the happy day is rapidly approaching. There’ll be another significant drive, this time to Tennessee. I promised Steve I will not read in the car, but it’ll be a long haul anyway. 

 

Actually I am looking forward to this. I’m truly fond of everyone, and agree that life is racing by, and seeing each other again on this side of the grave would be nice. 

 

And if all goes well, my 50th St. Pius High reunion is coming up next year. Might be fun! Hope there’ll be brats!