Bear-Bear’S Return Was A Necessity

It was a normal Saturday morning that started with a phone call. I picked it up and heard my mildly hysterical friend’s voice on the other end. Since mild hysteria often goes with the territory of mothering a toddler, I didn’t immediately recognize the gravity of the situation.

“Have you seen Bear-Bear?” she asked, trying to control the rising panic in her voice.

I immediately panicked.

This was no ordinary bear. This was Bear-Bear, beloved friend of Taylor, the Wonder Toddler. Out of all the posh animals in his bedroom menagerie, Taylor had chosen this humble little bear to be his one and only. And now the bear was missing, lost somewhere in Browne’s Addition. Taylor’s mother and I had gone to Artfest on Friday afternoon, our official kick-off to summer. This was the second show Taylor had attended and between hummus globs on his chin and popcorn floating between his 11 teeth, he was in Fat City. Of course, it never hurts to be of an age when thigh dimples and drool are considered assets.

Among the many gifted exhibitors was Donald Clegg, a Spokane artist whose watercolors could best be described as drop-dead gorgeous. We stopped to admire the paintings, both of us trying to finagle a way to buy one of these gems. After some major ogling, we decided on our purchases and agreed to pick them up on Sunday.

Meanwhile, Wonder Toddler was busy with his own finagling, accompanied by drool-matted Bear-Bear. This was the last we saw of the little bruin.

Walking the two blocks to our parking spot, loading the car, stuffing ourselves with the remainders of the popcorn, we never noticed that Bear-Bear was gone. But when bedtime came around that evening and Bear-Bear was found missing, Taylor was inconsolable.

He would not be swayed by the lovely yellow duck, or the wily raccoon or even the peaceful panda. All nice enough companions for daytime, of course, but the evening crib required a one and only presence. And that presence was a small stuffed bear with rather ordinary fur and an uncertain lineage. (Some say he was made in China, a rumor common to ordinary bears.)

Saturday morning’s calls to the Lost and Found Department at Cheney Cowles Museum yielded nothing. No stuffed animals had been found, the woman said. But she was sympathetic to the notion of a lost bear and promised to post a special notice. By Saturday evening, there was still no sign of him.

Sunday morning, Taylor’s dad, a man who works two full-time jobs and still has room enough in his heart to consider the significance of a stuffed bear, drove to Browne’s Addition. He searched the grounds of Artfest and every nook and cranny within a six-block radius. He found no trace of the erstwhile bear.

Returning to ArtFest on Sunday afternoon, the streets of Browne’s Addition were jammed with cars. Block after block was filled to capacity. On my third pass through, a spot opened up. It was the exact location where we had parked on Friday.

Just as I was leaving my car to pick up the paintings, my cell phone rang.

“Could you please look again for Bear-Bear?” my friend asked.

The sadness in her voice told me she was mining the mother lode of guilt on this one. It was time for the awful truth, I thought: The bear was gone. Maybe 20 years ago people found their lost objects fully intact, recovered by some Good Samaritan. But these are crueler times, times when what we lose is not likely to be found again, or if found, be returned damaged or with a finder’s fee attached.

I glanced out my car window, searching for the words to tell my friend the awful truth. And there, under a small, green bush, nestled beside a spray of flowers, sat Bear-Bear.

He was propped up proudly, looking altogether like a dapper bruin sitting down to tea with Paddington and the Queen herself. Someone had placed him with great care, and no small amount of charm, in the very spot he was most likely to be found.

I lurched out of my car like a deranged stuffed animal stalker, clutched the little bear to my chest, lumbered back to the car and screamed into the phone: “I’ve found him!”

Befuddled bystanders grabbed their children and hurried along. I would have done the same.

That night, Taylor slept the dreams of the innocent, nestled around the soft comfort of his one and only. I slept better too, knowing there are Good Samaritans all around us. Those, who among their many graces, understand the importance of a lost bear.