Matt G commented on my last post that I grew up with bears.
Well, not really. Just occasionally.
When I was seven, we went on vacation to Yellowstone National Park. My parents had lectured me exhaustively about not approaching the apparently friendly bears. These were Wild Animals, they said, and unpredictable. They Could Hurt Me. When we saw our first bear on the side of the road, they smiled with pleasure and turned around to ask, "Did you see the bear?" But I had disappeared. I was under the blankets and coats in the back seat, out of sight of any bears, and, perforce, my parents. They laughed about that for YEARS, sigh.
Later on the trip, we stopped with other tourists at one of the geysers or hot springs on the side of the road, and as we headed afterward for our cars, here came two cute bear cubs tumbling across the road. This put us between the cubs and their mama, a grizzly, coming out of the woods on the other side. As my dad hustled us quickly to the car, he laughed as a man called out, "Come on, Myra! Let's get out of here!"
My mother was a very popular seventh grade teacher, and a few years later, we had a surprise visit one night when one of her 12-year-old students and his uncle proudly drove out to the house to show us the black bear the 12-year-old had just shot. At least 300 pounds, it filled the pickup truck bed. I was awed. My parents oohed and aahed enthusiastically as the boy stood there proudly, his uncle's proud hand on his shoulder. Later, they insisted on gifting us with a bear roast, which Mother soaked in vinegar and whatever overnight, then roasted in the oven. I thought it was pretty good.
Skip forward to my teen years, when one of the favorite places to park in the county was the Cloudcroft dump, 29 miles away up the Sacramento Mountains. (We weren't supposed to go up the mountain on the two-lane highway with a very steep grade, but of course, we did.) Nothing was more conducive to having the girl scoot across the bench seat right next to the boy behind the wheel than a 300- or 400-pound bear walking right beside the car on his or her way to the dump. Oh, yeah.
I was a dud, though--I always wanted to watch the bears. (Yes, Matt, really.)
Last possible hearing, if not sighting, was a vacation in October not long after I married. We were at a campsite outside Santa Fe, N.M., the only ones there. We slept in down sleeping bags in a two-man tent, and in the middle of the night, I heard loud crashes and bangs from the metal trash barrel.
"Raccoons," I told myself, and sank deeper in the goose feathers. It probably was.
I never checked.
Black bears are making a comeback in Texas, though, and cougers, too. There's the occasional 8 to 10-foot gator in the rivers and lakes.
Hey, you throw in fire ants, chiggers, and killer bees (not to mention wood asps and mosquitoes) and Texas is challenging Montana for perilous places to camp.
And believe me, I'm not waiting for no black bear to get within four feet before I dash inside.
Showing posts with label 1950s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1950s. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Pedophile I Never Met in 1951
When I was a girl, about seven or eight, there was a flutter among the grownups. Lots of animated conversation I wasn't allowed to listen to. I came upon my mother on the phone, telling someone, "I admire her, I guess. Talk about for better or for worse."
After completing 20 or 30 years in prison, the town's convicted pedophile was coming home.
His wife lived quietly alone in a house with a large yard and garden, where she worked regularly. My daddy was a gardener. I loved pretty flowers and sometimes stopped on the walk just to look at all her beautiful plants. Her home was two houses from the middle school.
She gardened, and worked in her church and shopped, and otherwise stayed to herself. Always a smile and pleasant word. Always a cool dignity. She had earned the town's respect. She was left alone. By now, she and her newly freed husband were elderly, well into their 70's.
So my parents, who had always had some safety rules for me, sat down to reinforce those rules, even as they had taught me how to avoid the rattlesnakes.
It was a given that school children could walk all over town unaccompanied. But, my father said sternly, looking me straight in the eye, he KNEW I sometimes broke the rule about not taking shortcuts through the alley. I dropped my eyes guiltily. Did he know about yesterday? That, he said sternly again, had to stop. There are men who like to hurt little girls, and to do so they have to catch them alone. So I was always to stay on the street. No more cutting through the alley. I nodded, but I remember thinking, "Not even when---" But they went on. They talked about taking candy from a stranger, which sounded far-fetched, or approaching a car to give directions. I was to do neither. I nodded. If a strange man got out of his car, I was to run like the wind for the nearest office/home/store. That sounded exciting, but it had never happened, so it probably wouldn't. When we were out, say, at the county fair, and they told me to stay close, I was not to rebel and go running clear across the fair grounds to "run free." That sounded a little boring, but I agreed. And they said they would point out a sweet-looking, frail old man whom I was never to approach or to speak to. That sounded rude and I was puzzled. My father explained the old man was one of the men who liked to hurt little girls, and a long time ago he had done so. And now he had paid his debt to society, but I wasn't to go near him. And, they finished, if I went to one friend's house to play, we were not to go anywhere else without asking an adult for permission. That was a little harder, because there were about a dozen boys and girls my age in the block where my grandmother lived. We tended to move from yard to yard with only a quick yell to the nearest Mom, "We're going over to Sue's to climb trees." "We're going to play ball in Robin's yard." But I sighed and agreed. My wings were getting clipped a little. But just a little.
I would see the couple from time to time, walking slowly in the grocery store or down the street. He was always in a suit with a starched shirt, she in her slightly formal dresses with her hair in a bun, just as she had always dressed . She always smiled and nodded pleasantly to people she knew, who smilied and nodded back. I never saw them pause to talk to anyone. I never saw anyone be discourteous. They were simply isolated, pariahs. He went to church with her on Sundays. I assume they went for walks, but never when the school children were coming or going. I think I felt a little sorry for them. Nonsense, my parents said briskly. He had acted, and these were consequences. His wife had chosen to stay with him, her choice. And she knew the consequences when she chose.
And life went on. I was growing up, so I was learning about more dangers in the world. It was probably another 10 years before "pedophile" registered with me and I knew what one was. My parents told me there were men who liked to hurt little girls and how to avoid such men.
That's all I needed to know.
After completing 20 or 30 years in prison, the town's convicted pedophile was coming home.
His wife lived quietly alone in a house with a large yard and garden, where she worked regularly. My daddy was a gardener. I loved pretty flowers and sometimes stopped on the walk just to look at all her beautiful plants. Her home was two houses from the middle school.
She gardened, and worked in her church and shopped, and otherwise stayed to herself. Always a smile and pleasant word. Always a cool dignity. She had earned the town's respect. She was left alone. By now, she and her newly freed husband were elderly, well into their 70's.
So my parents, who had always had some safety rules for me, sat down to reinforce those rules, even as they had taught me how to avoid the rattlesnakes.
It was a given that school children could walk all over town unaccompanied. But, my father said sternly, looking me straight in the eye, he KNEW I sometimes broke the rule about not taking shortcuts through the alley. I dropped my eyes guiltily. Did he know about yesterday? That, he said sternly again, had to stop. There are men who like to hurt little girls, and to do so they have to catch them alone. So I was always to stay on the street. No more cutting through the alley. I nodded, but I remember thinking, "Not even when---" But they went on. They talked about taking candy from a stranger, which sounded far-fetched, or approaching a car to give directions. I was to do neither. I nodded. If a strange man got out of his car, I was to run like the wind for the nearest office/home/store. That sounded exciting, but it had never happened, so it probably wouldn't. When we were out, say, at the county fair, and they told me to stay close, I was not to rebel and go running clear across the fair grounds to "run free." That sounded a little boring, but I agreed. And they said they would point out a sweet-looking, frail old man whom I was never to approach or to speak to. That sounded rude and I was puzzled. My father explained the old man was one of the men who liked to hurt little girls, and a long time ago he had done so. And now he had paid his debt to society, but I wasn't to go near him. And, they finished, if I went to one friend's house to play, we were not to go anywhere else without asking an adult for permission. That was a little harder, because there were about a dozen boys and girls my age in the block where my grandmother lived. We tended to move from yard to yard with only a quick yell to the nearest Mom, "We're going over to Sue's to climb trees." "We're going to play ball in Robin's yard." But I sighed and agreed. My wings were getting clipped a little. But just a little.
I would see the couple from time to time, walking slowly in the grocery store or down the street. He was always in a suit with a starched shirt, she in her slightly formal dresses with her hair in a bun, just as she had always dressed . She always smiled and nodded pleasantly to people she knew, who smilied and nodded back. I never saw them pause to talk to anyone. I never saw anyone be discourteous. They were simply isolated, pariahs. He went to church with her on Sundays. I assume they went for walks, but never when the school children were coming or going. I think I felt a little sorry for them. Nonsense, my parents said briskly. He had acted, and these were consequences. His wife had chosen to stay with him, her choice. And she knew the consequences when she chose.
And life went on. I was growing up, so I was learning about more dangers in the world. It was probably another 10 years before "pedophile" registered with me and I knew what one was. My parents told me there were men who liked to hurt little girls and how to avoid such men.
That's all I needed to know.
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