–Colorful Bear by Sharon Cummings

Back in the early nineties, my wife and I found an old abandoned hunting shack deep in the Minnesota backwoods of the Mesabi Iron Range, and arranged with the owner to stay there for free, providing we would work at fixing the place up a bit. We had two small children, and this place was so far out in the boondocks, the school bus couldn’t make it down our road, and a suburban was sent instead.

We had a hand pump for water; I still remember it took 145 pumps to fill the washing machine to wash, and another 145 to rinse. We used an outhouse, and only had a woodstove for heat. We were The Walton’s, but the price was right, and after living for a while in L.A., it was paradise. Apparently, we had become co-inhabitants with the local fauna by proxy. There seemed to be garter snakes everywhere, wolves were often seen in the woods, and…a bear. A big, cinnamon female who was hell-bent on getting in the house.

It all started when the kids, age 13 and 10, came screaming across the field, running toward the house with the bear loping after them. They barely made it inside, and she was there, circling the house, looking in the windows, and pushing on the glass. I had a shed full of garbage across the driveway, but she only wanted to get in the house. All I had was a BB gun, so I went out and shot her a few times, and only succeeded in pissing her off more. I jumped in my Firebird, revving it up and laying on the horn, but nothing worked.

Finally, I realized I would have to find a gun to save the day. The wife and kids went upstairs and waited for the bear to appear on the steps, while I drove to my nearest neighbor in hopes of finding a big rifle in time to save them. When I got there, I realized that they had an iron gate chained shut to keep the meandering cows in. So I had to get out of the car, unchain the gate, get back in the car, drive through, then get out of the car, chain the gate shut again, and then get back in the car…all this while imagining my defenseless wife and kids ripped to shreds while “coward father runs away.”

I drove up to the house and knocked on the door. A woman appeared on the other side, but made no move to open it. “Do you have a rifle?” I yelled, “a rogue bear is trying to eat my family!”

“I do,” she answered, “but I’m not allowed to open the door when my husband’s not home.” I couldn’t believe it. There was only one other house on the whole road, a couple of miles away, and I made it through the gate in record time.

A half-deaf old man lived there, and I shouted out my predicament again. He had an old 30.30 on his wall, and he said, “Hasn’t been shot in years, and these shells are ancient. I’m not sure it’ll work.” I grabbed the rifle and shells out of his hands, and tore down the road, my heart in my throat at what I might find.

As I came up the driveway, I could see the bear still circling the house, trying to find a way in. I slipped into the house and loaded the gun with the five shells the old man had given me. I stepped back out, but by now, it was getting dark, and the rifle had a big scope on it, so I couldn’t even aim at close range. I had shot a bear once before with a 30.06 at about 50 yards, and even though the bullet pierced his lungs and liver, he crossed that 50 yards in seconds, and dropped just yards from me. Now with the bear only a few feet away, I had to try another approach.

“Here it comes!” my wife called from her perch, and a second later the darkness before me turned darker. I aimed the gun as best I could at the bear’s nose and pulled the trigger. Just then our cockatiel  went nuts swooping and flapping in the small room with the kids and wife, and they couldn’t see what was going on.

Luckily for me, the bear dropped on the spot with the first shot, but I pumped the other four into her to make sure. Later, my son would tell me that he assumed the additional shots told a different story. I remember the adrenaline coursing through my veins, telling me I was immortal.

 

I tend to agree with Sam Harris in that free will is an illusion. If you don’t know what thought is going to arise next (and you don’t), how can you think you’re the author and not the narrator? Free choice would mean deciding which thought to have ad infinitum. Consider Charles Whitman, The Texas Tower Sniper, who shot and killed several people in 1966. He left a note (he knew he’d be killed) saying that he believed there was something physically wrong in his brain, causing him to have homicidal thoughts. An autopsy revealed a large brain tumor pressing on an area associated with feelings of anger and violence. If your thoughts can be affected by the physical structure of your brain (in fact, some believe it is the changing of the physical structure of the brain that enables memory and consciousness), then free will is tentative, indeed.

I had a dream–’twas so sublime, I lingered in my bed,

The sweet phantasmagoria still swirling in my head,

And when, at length, the sun came up and finally made me perk,

I rubbed my eyes and realized that I was late for work.

The rummage sale clock I’d bought had prompted my dismay,

For twelve o’clock was blinking on its digital display.

My boss would soon discredit my occasion to be late:

An electrical malfunction I could not substantiate!

I called him up and told him–just a week since I’d been hired–

I said that I was sorry, and he said that I was fired.

So now I need a rummage sale to pay the bills and such;

I want five dollars for the clock–I hope it’s not too much.

The late, great Carl Sagan once said, “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent a universe.” I would add to that thought that if you wish to invent a universe, you must first understand that you cannot have the sweetness of apple pie without the sourness of lemon pie. I think that was what the author of Isaiah 45:7 might have meant when he said, “I form the light and create darkness; I make peace and create evil; I the Lord do all these things.” Another way of putting it is, if every day is a sunny day, then what is a sunny day?

 

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were flung on the floor without care,

The tree, once so proud, now stood lifeless and bare.

Little Sue’s dolly was missing her head,

John’s truck had a wreck when the batteries went dead.

There were boxes and ribbons and wrappings galore,

Huge mountains of trash on the pine-needle floor,

And ma in her undies, and me in the buff

Had just settled down–we’d had quite enough!

I’d had too much eggnog and fruitcake with nuts

And the fudge Patty made felt like stone in my guts.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;

Away to the window I managed to trudge,

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the fudge.

The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When, what did my wondering eyes behold then,

But a huge garbage truck and eight garbage men,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a flash it was garbageman Nick.

He was covered with filth from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of trash he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just toting his pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work–

Although when he saw me, he turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

He offered a gesture I cannot disclose.

He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a yell,

And away they all flew like a bat out of hell,

And there I stood naked, and framed by the sash,

With my gut full of pain and my house full of trash,

But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“It’s last call for trash ‘fore we all go on strike!”

 

 

I felt a rotting albatross around my neck was hung

The barrel of my .38 was pungent on my tongue

A deadly glass of poison was lifted to my lips

The suicide solution was at my fingertips

But then I realized in the pit of my despair

That suicide is pointless if there’s no one who would care

I found myself decided on a plan so cold and cruel

I grabbed my automatic and I strolled into the school

And all the while thinking that the world would surely heed

The pain that they’d inflicted to make me do this deed

And when the blood-bath ended it was time to end it all

And so I blew my brains out on the high school classroom wall

And now just like the albatross I’m rotting here in Hell

And yet the world remains unchanged as far as I can tell

 

As I was walking home one night, a thunderstorm blew in,

But I would not be hurried though the rain would soon begin.

Lightning arced across the sky in splendid disarray

And for a moment night became as naked as the day,

And though the wind began to drive the rain against my face,

I challenged heaven’s fury, and I kept my steady pace.

The sky unleashed a deluge as the wind began to roar

And soon the blinding sheets of rain had drenched me to the core.

Eventually, the rain let up, the wind began to die

And soon a warm and gentle breeze began to clear the sky.

The stars came out like shining jewels, adorning heaven’s dome,

The storm had passed and now at last, I ran like hell for home!

 

Thirty-eight years ago today, my young bride and I stood before a preacher in a friends living room in Mission Hills, CA, and exchanged vows. Since then, we’ve had three children and three grand-children, and a great life together. She passed away five years ago. I’m reminded of a little ditty I wrote for her:

My dear, I don’t care if we live on a prayer,

If our silverware’s just stainless steel,

If our diamonds are glass and our gold is but brass,

Just as long as our love is for real.

 

The hands of time stood deathly still,

The winds had ceased to blow,

And silence settled on the land

Like softly falling snow.

It seemed the ancient prophecies

At last had come about:

For all things stood just as they were

The day that time ran out.

And on that final, fateful day,

While at my desk at home,

I banged the keyboard frantically

To end this silly p

 

One day a logical man came to town,

He stopped at the bar and he bought us a round,

We talked all about the upcoming election–

We needed a man with a brand new direction!

He said, “Yes I know, we’re all in the same boat,

But it seems just a waste of my time to go vote.”

We all were appalled, and I asked the man, “Why?”

“Well, my vote doesn’t count, sir, unless there’s a tie,

And the chances of such are exceedingly small,

So you see my one vote doesn’t count after all.”

I jumped to my feet and said, “That may be true,

But tell me then, what if we all thought like you?”

The logical man sipped his beer, cleared his throat,

And shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Then I’d vote!”