Bear Stories

                 Mom’s stories were often about bears. She would tell them to my sisters and me on long car rides or sometimes before we went to bed.

                “I told you about the time your grandfather and Uncle Blake went camping, right?” She would ask. “No? Well, the two of them were in the tent, just about to get up and have their breakfast, when they heard a stick snap outside in the woods. Snap! They froze, but didn’t hear anything else, so they decided it must have been their imagination. Gramps was just opening his backpack to get out some bacon when they heard it again. Snap! And then a thumping outside the tent, and a sort of snuffle. Do you girls know what a snuffle sounds like? It’s the sound of a bear sniffing. Sometimes it blows out with a wuffly, snuffly noise. Bears have very good senses of smell, you know.

                “Well, my dad and Blake stayed very still. They didn’t know what kind of animal was sniffing around outside their tent, but they didn’t want to find out, either. They were hoping it would just go away, but suddenly they saw the tent flap move! A black, shiny nose appeared at the tent’s entrance. Dad and Blake looked at each other, horrified, as the bear’s snout pushed itself closer to them, still snuffling all the time, just like I told you. It wanted their bacon. Bears love bacon. Well, Dad looked at Blake, and Blake looked at Dad for a long minute as they watched the bear’s nose. Then Blake whispered, ‘I’ll be dessert.’”

                The car would fill up with my family's laughter.

                Bear stories weren’t always funny, but they were always exciting. “Tell us about Nanna’s chicken soup!” we would wheedle during moments when we could get our mom’s attention.

                “Bears love chicken soup,” she would begin. “Once the smell of my mom’s chicken soup was so strong it woke a bear up from hibernation. The scent of hot savory soup wafted up the mountain, all the way to the bear’s cave where it tickled his nose. The bear got up and started trundling down the mountain after the soup, even though it was only March and they don’t usually wake up until April or May. Your grandmother didn’t even realize what had happened until she heard a scratching at the kitchen door. The bear scratched and pawed at the door for an hour trying to get in. He left deep scratches on that door; you’ve seen them. Ask Nanna. She’ll tell you that now she always checks where the wind is coming from before she cooks chicken soup.”

                The next time we visited our grandparents, the three of us would stare at the scratches on the door in awe. We would explore up the mountain, wearing red during hunting season and shouting and singing to ward off the bears. Sometimes we played near an old bear cave where my cousins had built a fort, but I never saw a bear up close.