I have always loved stuffed animals, of any kind. I was not a huge fan of dolls as a kid, but I have very fond memories of a big white stuffed poodle and a wonderfully squishy, flop-eared dog I named Poochie. As an adult, I have tried very hard to keep this passion in check, as I have seen what can happen when you tell your friends you collect something. For too many years I had a never-ending supply of hippos arriving on birthdays, Mothers' Day, Christmas, and any other time when one was found. I was fond of hippos at the time, but very particular about the ones I felt I needed around me at all times. Many have gone the way of the Garage Sale.
I have a few seals, and a manatee here and there, and some bunnies and mice (I do not include the real live ones we occasionally have as visitors). Once in a while I may come upon a dragon that catches my fancy, but I let no one know of these joys so that the numbers remain manageable. I have actually made some bears as baby gifts for friends and relatives, and for years I have featured bears in the illustrations for my annual Christmas Card. Only one or two bears, however, had come into my house to stay. That was until 1995.
It was my daughter's senior year in high school, and her school requires 40+ hours of community service during senior year for graduation (an idea I think should be copied everywhere!). She had been doing some volunteer work at a local nursing home, and helping out neighbors with projects, but wasn't really sure she was getting as much as she needed, both in hours and in appreciation for duties done. Then we were hit with a double disaster. The Oklahoma City bombing happened on a Wednesday, and that Friday she lost a friend in a car accident on the girl's way to school.
Saturday morning we were all just reeling, and she wondered aloud what we could possibly do to turn these horrible events into something positive. I'm not sure which one of us thought of it first, but an idea began to take shape. We would find a way to do something for the children in Oklahoma City, and do it in her friend's honor. By the end of that day the Oklahoma City Children's Comfort Project was born.
By that evening we had a donation of a dozen or more moving cartons from a local moving and storage company. We had ten drop-off sites set up, two newspaper articles written, and three TV stations scheduled to come to her school Monday morning for a story. We were going to collect as many new stuffed animals as we could, and deliver them to wherever the greatest need might be. Through the Mayor's office in Oklahoma City we learned that the police department had run out of it's "comfort bears" that sit in police cars in case a child might need a soft friend. We found out that a residential home for mentally-impaired young adults would love to have some comforting, and the mood at other day care facilities in the city would be lightened by the arrival of some stuffed travelers.
People all over our area jumped at the chance to do something to help, and within a few weeks we had well over 600 beautiful new stuffed animals to go to Oklahoma. UPS made sure they would get there by waiving almost all of their charges, and ten large moving cartons were soon on their way. The thank you letters we received helped my daughter tremendously in her grieving for her friend, but that was far from the only thing we got out of this adventure.
When given a chance to do something good, we found that people from all areas, and all walks of life couldn't wait to jump in and help. I got one phone call from a gal in a distant part of our nearby city that had collected around her neighborhood, and had three large trash bags full of bears. Could we come and get them please? You bet we could.
Even Russ Berrie, the owner of one of my favorite toy companies, got into the act by sending to my house two large cartons full of delightful, brand-new teddy bears, with soft tan fur and pale pink cheeks. They were beautiful, and I will be a fan of Russ toys for life.
Needless to say my house looked like a bear convention. Though there were a few other animals and even a couple of rag dolls, bears were by far the chosen creatures. There is something about a soft, gentle-faced teddy bear looking at you and being hugged, that melts the heart of any but the most hardened folks. After that wonderful life-affirming experience with the snuggly fellows, I was hooked. I started seeing an occasional bear that just had a certain look to it, I guess wistful is the adjective I would use - a carefully crafted, soft and loving little friend who could not be ignored.
Yes, my friends and relatives know I collect bears, but they are smart enough to know I am fussy. My bears must have character and personality, and must look at you in way that asks for a special amount of loving. My house has them everywhere, and I appreciate my husband's tolerance. My son, in his late 20's at the time, even got me a Build-a-Bear gift certificate for Christmas one recent year, and came with me to help design the fuzzy fellow. That was the best part of the present!
So, after all that, I am what you would call a bear afficionado, even a bit of a bear freak. In fact, as a lover of bears and a lover of things artful, I am toying with the idea of taking this thing one step further. I am in the process of developing a series of bear-based prints, paintings, and illustrations to put into a line of art prints and/or stationery. I have the name copyrighted = "Nothing is UnBEARable".
I assume you will agree.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
What's white and fluffy, cold and beautiful, and a pain in the neck to remove?
Happy New Year everyone! According to the Farmers' Almanac, this winter is supposed to be mild and dry. Usually the Farmers' Almanac is better informed and makes better predictions than most, including the folks on the Weather Channel. This year, however, the weather guys win, hands down. At an average of two storms per week, we have had snow on the ground for the past two months, and it shows no sign of letting up.
Usually I like following weather patterns, and I do watch the Weather Channel occasionally, looking for some explanations of what the heck is going on in our part of the country, which is the northeast. This year I find myself purposely channel surfing past #119, the Weather Channel according to our local channel provider.There has been a pattern of lousy weather on Tuesdays going back to early November. Why do I pick Tuesdays to bellyache over? Because every Tuesday night since early November I have been teaching a course in a satellite campus of my college, 28 miles away.
Normally when it snows I like sitting quietly in my living room and watching the flakes gathering in my neighborhood. There is something about old homes, huge shade trees, and snow that is calming and quite beautiful. I actually enjoy bundling up and taking a silent stroll around my block, sometimes with a camera in my pocket, looking at the gentle white clouds forming along the streets and in the yards. The total silence is almost overwhelming, while everything around me becomes coated with a perfect creamy blanket. I have been known to flop down without notice and create a well-placed snow angel in the yard of a friend.
When my children were young, we used to create what we thought were the very best of snowmen, sometimes with a slightly bizarre twist. I remember in particular our "punk" snowman, complete with chains and a Mohawk hairdo. Snow has been fun and creative and challenging. There were years when the neighborhood kids built elaborate igloos, with passages in between where the perfect snowball fights could be planned and carried out. Forts of all shapes and sizes sprung up around the neighborhood, along with huge piles of shoveled snow whose purpose was solely for landing, after jumping as high as possible off the top of a fort, or a wall, or a picnic table left out for the winter.
Now I will admit to getting older and more cautious, appreciative of the beauty of a snowstorm, but full of concern when I have to travel through the barely plowed, slippery streets that come between me and my chosen employment. Yes, I am supposed to be retired, but like a moth to a flame, I am drawn to the promise of teaching just one more class. For some reason I cannot fathom, I chose a class this term at our satellite campus. Bad idea.
I love the students, mind you, and the class has been tremendous fun, but there is a weekly anxiety attack when I look at the weather forecast for each allotted Tuesday evening. I have looked with dread toward my 28-mile trek (each way!) up and down hills, around hairpin curves, and under arched overpasses with sharp turns at either opening. I have not hit anything yet, but as each Tuesday and its accompanying forecast looms, I imagine that this will be the week of sliding semis and fellow travelers with bald tires or no knowledge of winter driving techniques.
This Tuesday is the last of the term. The weather forecast has gone from snow, sleet, and freezing rain to mostly cloudy with either a rain/sleet storm or a whopping pile of snow to arrive later. Now, in fact, they are backing away from the most dire of Tuesday predictions, and my friends who will be teaching on Wednesday are in for a bit of trouble. No matter what, I will be on the road Tuesday night, teeth gritted and arms locked in position, with both hands firmly gripping the wheel. I hope the snow is beautiful, and I hope nobody needs to go out in it, and I sincerely hope it waits until Wednesday.
And next year I will not be purchasing the Farmers' Almanac
Usually I like following weather patterns, and I do watch the Weather Channel occasionally, looking for some explanations of what the heck is going on in our part of the country, which is the northeast. This year I find myself purposely channel surfing past #119, the Weather Channel according to our local channel provider.There has been a pattern of lousy weather on Tuesdays going back to early November. Why do I pick Tuesdays to bellyache over? Because every Tuesday night since early November I have been teaching a course in a satellite campus of my college, 28 miles away.
Normally when it snows I like sitting quietly in my living room and watching the flakes gathering in my neighborhood. There is something about old homes, huge shade trees, and snow that is calming and quite beautiful. I actually enjoy bundling up and taking a silent stroll around my block, sometimes with a camera in my pocket, looking at the gentle white clouds forming along the streets and in the yards. The total silence is almost overwhelming, while everything around me becomes coated with a perfect creamy blanket. I have been known to flop down without notice and create a well-placed snow angel in the yard of a friend.
When my children were young, we used to create what we thought were the very best of snowmen, sometimes with a slightly bizarre twist. I remember in particular our "punk" snowman, complete with chains and a Mohawk hairdo. Snow has been fun and creative and challenging. There were years when the neighborhood kids built elaborate igloos, with passages in between where the perfect snowball fights could be planned and carried out. Forts of all shapes and sizes sprung up around the neighborhood, along with huge piles of shoveled snow whose purpose was solely for landing, after jumping as high as possible off the top of a fort, or a wall, or a picnic table left out for the winter.
Now I will admit to getting older and more cautious, appreciative of the beauty of a snowstorm, but full of concern when I have to travel through the barely plowed, slippery streets that come between me and my chosen employment. Yes, I am supposed to be retired, but like a moth to a flame, I am drawn to the promise of teaching just one more class. For some reason I cannot fathom, I chose a class this term at our satellite campus. Bad idea.
I love the students, mind you, and the class has been tremendous fun, but there is a weekly anxiety attack when I look at the weather forecast for each allotted Tuesday evening. I have looked with dread toward my 28-mile trek (each way!) up and down hills, around hairpin curves, and under arched overpasses with sharp turns at either opening. I have not hit anything yet, but as each Tuesday and its accompanying forecast looms, I imagine that this will be the week of sliding semis and fellow travelers with bald tires or no knowledge of winter driving techniques.
This Tuesday is the last of the term. The weather forecast has gone from snow, sleet, and freezing rain to mostly cloudy with either a rain/sleet storm or a whopping pile of snow to arrive later. Now, in fact, they are backing away from the most dire of Tuesday predictions, and my friends who will be teaching on Wednesday are in for a bit of trouble. No matter what, I will be on the road Tuesday night, teeth gritted and arms locked in position, with both hands firmly gripping the wheel. I hope the snow is beautiful, and I hope nobody needs to go out in it, and I sincerely hope it waits until Wednesday.
And next year I will not be purchasing the Farmers' Almanac
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