Learning to Live Among the Bears

If you attended Maloy Elementary School in the Sixties, you played Bears at recess.  I've never encountered anyone outside the environs of the Maloy gym who ever heard of Bears, and I don't know its origin, but we loved to play Bears.

The gist of the game was to run around avoiding the three bears who if they captured you would take you back to their den, situated on one end of the gym.  There was a safe zone, or base, at the opposite end where you could catch your breath, reconnoiter, or wait till recess ended if you were exceedingly slow or mortally afraid of bears.  If you happened to be seized by a bear, hope was not lost.  You could be rescued by anyone fleet of foot .  All someone had to do was grab your hand and you both were granted free passage back to base.

I remember flying around trying to avoid capture, but, being a chubby kid,  I can't imagine I avoided it for long, and I wonder how much time I spent in the safe zone, and I wonder if that's where I learned to play it safe.

My mom was not a woman of extremes.   Her famous line if I or my sisters went to her crying was "You're not bleeding; you're all right."  (I honestly don't remember what she said if we were bleeding.)  Her philosophy, which she wasn't shy about sharing, was that there was always someone worse off than us.  Skinned your knee?  At least you still have your leg.  Lost a leg?  Well, you still have the other one.  Both legs fell off?  You're got your arms, haven't you?  True, we were never hypochondriacs, but I never felt I had the right to feel sad or mad about anything.  If something makes me cry, I apologize profusely.  Nothing makes me mad until I go off like Yosemite Sam, hopping up and down in a rage.

Of course the flip side was just as dangerous.  Never let a joy go unpunished was the unspoken rule around our house.  God had his finger poised over the "smite" button for girls who thought too highly of themselves or were actually skittish with happiness.  Even now when I say the words out loud -- "I'm happy." -- I duck.

It's so cliche to blame your mother for these things, and, quite frankly, I think the fault lies with my grandmother, but I learned these lessons somewhere, and I learned them well.

Life is so much safer at base camp.

But it's a very numb life.

After fifty-odd years and a point in Dave's illness where I thought my head was going to explode, I sought therapy.  "High time too, " I can hear some of you say.  I couldn't agree more.  It's way past time I learned to live, unapologetically, off the flat line.  Both sides of it.  Zany, wild and free or sad, mad or downright mawkish.  The only problem with this philosophy -- it's fucking scary!

It ain't easy trying to change the behavior of a lifetime, but I've got to somehow because I'm tired of standing in the safe zone watching other people fly around, laughing and shouting.  It's time to let my fingertips brush the back gymnasium wall one last time and then step out among the bears.